Module III Classes

Today concluded the first week of spring semester classes at IUP.  If this week has been in any way representative of what’s in store for this module, the next seven weeks will be a challenge, but in a refreshing and rewarding way.  The topics of my classes have started to turn from issues in every-day life and society to more academic topics.  For example, my main textbook, 学术中文漫步 (A Stroll through Academic Topics in Chinese), is a collection of real lectures given by Chinese professors in a range of fields.  It’s a fun textbook because not only are the lessons interesting in their own right, the vocabulary and sentence structures are also quite useful for discussing abstractions.

What’s even more exciting for me is my cailiao (individualized) class. Twice a week, I select a new article to read from the Chinese translation of Scientific American (“科学美国人”).  It’s a class I always feel motivated to put effort into, because I’m always reading articles that I’ve selected (and, naturally, am interested in). It’s also partly the excitement of reading “real” and up-to-date materials that makes this class so refreshing.  The topics I’ve selected range from chimpanzees and Jane Goodall, to internet freedom, to predictions of how video games will change our lives.  One night while reading the Yale Daily News, I stumbled across an article about New Haven’s recent acquisition of dynamically priced parking meters.  This was essentially the same topic of the article I had read in Scientific American earlier that day in Chinese – complete with references to the same scientists!  It’s no incredible accomplishment, but it still made for an exciting and satisfying realization, nonetheless.  The other aspect of the class I like is that, since my teacher knows I’m interested in math and science, she will frequently seize tangents in our conversation to teach me simple, but highly useful, mathematical or scientific terms, like “inversely proportional,” “multi-dimensional,” or “solid/liquid/gaseous state.”

On another note, I went to Hong Kong a few weeks ago.  I have lots to say about the trip, so I will try to write a post on that in the near future.

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Module II: Adventures in South Korea and Classical Chinese

South Korea

In November, I traveled to Korea with my friend Krystal, a friend from Yale who is studying at Renmin Daxue (just a few subway stops away from me) for the year. In Seoul, we stayed in a cozy hostel run by an adorable middle-aged Korean woman who helped us find our way around. My immediate impression of Seoul was this is China 2.0. In terms of road conditions, traffic moves mostly within marked lanes. The vehicles that occupy the roads are quite similar to those you would find in any American city. There is a notable lack of bicycles, three-wheeled vehicles, motorized bicycles, overloaded carts, and the plethora of other not-pedestrian-yet-not-quite-car traffic that so characterizes Chinese roads. I also found that public restrooms more resemble western bathrooms, with flushing toilet bowls in favor of the squat toilets native to China. The subway, I soon discovered, is mercifully spacious and uncrowded, with an extensive network of lines and stops that boggled my mind. The tap water is drinkable and served at every meal. People don’t spit all over the place as if swallowing their own saliva would somehow harm their health, and sanitation in restaurants, as far as I could tell, is reasonably high. Though poverty certainly exists in Seoul, I rarely came by any evidence of it. I hesitate to bring such subjective and judgmental words as “civilized” and “cultured” into this discussion, but suffice it to say, the most notable difference between Seoul and Beijing, as far as a western visitor is concerned, is the presence (or lack) of those characteristics common to cities in most wealthy and developed countries. (And similarly, the presence or lack of those features common to most cities in developing countries.)

Fortunately, I adjusted to the shock of being in a developed Asian country very quickly. Krystal and I had a great time exploring the city, visiting palaces, meandering bustling commercial alleyways and hopping student neighborhoods, admiring block upon block of gorgeous lit lanterns (for Seoul’s annual lantern festival), and absorbing the general atmosphere of excited preparation in the days before hosting the G20 Summit.

The culinary delights of South Korea were not lost on us either. Although we frequently were forced to order items off menus literally at random, I cannot remember eating a single dish I did not like. Without specific knowledge of ingredients or preparation style (which we were helpless to communicate), it is very difficult to convey the different kinds of foods we encountered, but I will try anyway. On our first night, our random pointing brought us a brothy soup filled with many different large pieces of spongy tofu and fish-flavored chunks, which our waitress promptly cut up with a pair of scissors. We also got large tortilla-esque dish covered in a tuna salad-esque spread, topped with French onion ring-esque flakes. It tasted like none of those. On the street, we ate battered and fried vegetables similar to Japanese tempura, sticky rice cylinders covered in the sweet red sauce universal to Korean cuisine, and a pancake-like dessert with a gooey cinnamon sugar or green tea filling. Of course, we indulged in Korean barbecue (duck and beef bulgogi) which was, unsurprisingly, better than the Korean barbecue restaurants sprinkled throughout Wudaokou (my neighborhood in Beijing). (For the uninitiated, Korean barbecue is kind of like Hibachi, minus the acrobatics.) A friend of Krystal’s living in Seoul introduced us to a kind of curry chicken also cooked at the table, followed by a spicy cheesy fried rice. This was perhaps my favorite of all the foods we tried. We were also happy to discover that the 2010 kimchee shortage seemed to have eased by the time we arrived. (The Koreans swallowed their pride and started importing the cabbage from China.) The most memorable meal, however, was on our last night when we gave in to curiosity and ate at one of the many restaurants in Seoul that proudly display all manner of sea creature in tanks in the front window. Playing it safe, we ordered a squid and an eel, but neglected to specify our preferred form of preparation, falsely assuming the cook would just pick one we’d like well enough. Our order came out very fast. A plate of suspiciously glistening squid tentacles. We slowly realized these tentacles were still moving! I poked one gently with a chopstick and it wiggled. Then Krystal, upping the level of experimentation, took her fork and stabbed a tentacle, which proceeded to writhe as if in pain. The tentacles were fascinating, but neither one of us was quite prepared to eat food that was still protesting as it went down. So we sent the plate back to be cooked, and had a more or less normal dinner from there out.

Of all the activities we did while in South Korea, the one that will stay with me for the rest of my life was our trip to the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), which took us right up to the border with North Korea at Panmunjom, where the 1953 armistice agreement was signed. At the Joint Security Area, where current day talks between the two sides take place, we were technically able to step across the border into North Korean territory. It was an incredibly eerie experience, standing on “the most heavily guarded border in the world.” The fact that busloads of tourists visit the DMZ every day doesn’t make the experience any less real, or necessarily more safe, even. The entire day, at some points more than others, we were under very strict orders. Do not stand on the bus. Do not take pictures. Do not talk. Do not point, lest a North Korean soldier think you are pointing a gun. Do not wave or make exaggerated expressions, lest you become the object of North Korean propaganda. In retrospect, it is terrifying to think that while at the JSA, I could have been shot just for breaking into a dance. (It was probably a wise decision to only inform my parents of the day’s activity once it was over.) It was only a few weeks after our tour that the worst hostilities between the North and South in decades broke out. Nobody knows the future of North and South Korean relations, but it seems likely that, in the distant future, for reasons either good or bad, having straddled the border of these two countries will seem unimaginable.

Before flying to Seoul, I took on the task of learning the Korean writing and phonetic system, with, at best, partial success. The process, though, just hit me over the head with the contrast between the learning curves of Chinese and Korean, at least in the very beginning stages. One could argue about how Korean has more difficult grammar and whatnot, but when it comes to reading, there is no comparison. After just a few days, I could slowly sound out (probably not very accurately) pretty much any written Korean word. Of course, this is not very helpful when one doesn’t know the meaning of the word one is pronouncing, but it wasn’t a complete waste either. Korean has many borrowings from both English and Chinese, so, with a little bit of context, I was able to figure out the meanings of some words I could sound out (Coca Cola, bank, crispy crunch, etc.) I’d like to learn more Korean, but for now, it’s probably wisest for me to just focus on Chinese.

Ever since this trip, I have had a heightened interest in Korean culture, history, and current day affairs. If any readers have recommendations for books relating to any of these aspects of Korea, please leave a comment! (I have a kindle, so I can probably download it.)

Classical Chinese

At the start of IUP’s second module (of four), I elected to study classical Chinese. It’s hard to describe what classical Chinese actually is, since English really has no equivalent. According to Wikipedia (give me a break, it’s my blog), “Classical Chinese is a traditional style of written Chinese based on the grammar and vocabulary of ancient Chinese, making it different from any modern spoken form of Chinese.” In fact, classical Chinese was always different from spoken Chinese, even at the time many of the great classical texts were written. It was only ever used and understood by scholars, but partly for this reason, knowledge of classical texts was able to be passed down even as the spoken language evolved. In spite of its lofty origins, classical Chinese is still highly relevant to anyone who is serious about learning Chinese, or gaining a deeper understanding of Chinese culture, history, and philosophy. Many of the stories we read in this class are stories every Chinese person knows, whether they have studied it formally in school or not. Each story reveals something about Chinese thought, whether Confucian, Daoist, or Legalist. The titles and terms of address are indirectly informative about traditional Chinese social structures and relations. Most importantly, there are vestiges of classical Chinese found all over modern Chinese. Set idioms in Chinese (called chengyu) all derive from classical Chinese. Knowing the grammar of classical Chinese, and the meaning of different characters in their classical context is extremely helpful in interpreting the meanings of different chengyu and understanding formal written Chinese, especially the style of writing found in Chinese newspapers.

Aside from these benefits, I’ve found classical Chinese to just be an enjoyable class on the whole. It really serves to break the monotony of the modern Chinese classes, which all have the same basic structure. With the greater emphasis on grammar, I also get to exercise a different part of my brain. In modern Chinese, besides sentence word order (S-V-O), and memorizing some different sentence structures, there is not much grammar to worry about. In classical Chinese, we focus on a lot of nitty-gritty grammar rules, which can be an analytical challenge and fun change of pace.

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IUP Midterm Report

Disclaimer

This is a midterm report for the Inter-University Program (IUP). I’m writing with potential fall, spring, or academic year applicants in mind. I can’t promise that any of what I say here applies to IUP’s summer module (although I would assume most academic features are the same). I’m also writing with the assumption that the potential fall/spring/academic year IUP applicant has probably studied at least three years and/or already studied in China. I also make lots of comparisons to PiB, just for perspective.

Classes

IUP will tell you – and they are correct – that the most prominent feature of their classes is class size. They are tiny. Really tiny. Most of my Yale Chinese classes probably had about 13 or more students. At PiB, the larger classes had eight students, the smaller four. In comparison, the largest classes at IUP have a maximum of three. Yes, three students. I think in studying foreign language, class size makes a huge difference. I’ve found that in larger classes, your best chance to speak is generally if the teacher is drilling – i.e. everyone forms one sentence using some new sentence structure. With classes of only three students, however, there is more opportunity for a conversational teaching style. Not only is this dynamic more effective and closer to a natural linguistic environment, it is more enjoyable. There’s more opportunity to engage with ideas. The structure of class is pretty flexible, too, but in a positive way. I remember one of my classmates telling me that one day in one of her classes, all three students decided they were not interested in that day’s subject. They asked to talk about a different topic, to which their teacher responded “Sure, as long as we can find a way to incorporate today’s vocabulary.” Because of class size, you’re also placed with classmates who are at a very comparable level. In addition, at least one hour of class every day is completely one-on-one. This is great because, even though your teacher is still presenting a certain set of material, you can ask questions unlimitedly, which I think is a really efficient way to learn.

Placement and Curriculum

IUP is a relatively high level program. Even though the stated minimum requirement is two years of college Chinese, in reality, the vast majority of students have had the equivalent of three years. Most have also spent time in China before, whether at a summer program like PiB, a school year study abroad program, or just living and working.

IUP has a series of core textbooks, and core listening textbooks. The former is intended to improve skills in all areas – reading, writing, listening, and speaking – and the latter is more focused on just listening and speaking. Placements for these two core classes, although strongly correlated, are independent. Thus, there really is no notion of “third year, fourth year, fifth year, etc.” at IUP. Having completed fourth year Chinese at Yale (CHNS 154/155), I placed into the top textbooks of IUP’s “intermediate level,” 思想与社会 (“Thought and Society”) and 实话实说 (“Frankly Speaking”). At the end of each eight week module (there are two modules in fall and spring, each), everyone graduates to the next level of textbooks. Generally speaking, the academic quality of the textbooks is very good, and I enjoy learning from them.

Even though IUP’s textbooks have a set sequence, there is a certain amount of flexibility within the core, especially towards the higher levels. In the first few years of Chinese, everyone studies the same general-purpose vocabulary and grammar. After a certain point, though, the scope of what one can formally study in Chinese opens up really wide, and there’s no longer a clear hierarchy of vocabulary, i.e. the frequency of appearance in Chinese of the words you are learning is sufficiently low that importance is determined by what you are personally interested in and what you want to use Chinese for, rather than frequency. In this sense, the higher level IUP textbooks are somewhat independent of one another. For instance, the core textbook I am studying now, 参与 (“Participation”), is very literary. I’m learning a lot of words that I already know general-purpose synonyms for, but that have a more narrow and subtle usage. Assuming the student already knows words like “big,” this textbook goes on to teach words like “immense,” “colossal,” and “vast.” For some people at IUP, this kind of vocabulary is lower priority than, say, business, law, or economics-related vocabulary. In such cases, students can request to skip this textbook and go straight to the next “level,” which focuses on more direct, academic vocabulary. And some people might choose to skip that textbook in favor of studying some specialized set of vocabulary relevant to their work. The point is that, even within the core set of IUP textbooks, there is a certain degree of flexibility and academic independence IUP is willing to grant students if they seek it.

Apart from the core, all academic year students will get to take a few elective classes, including Chinese newspaper, business Chinese, Chinese 口语 (very informal, spoken Chinese), and two levels of classical Chinese. I had room for my first elective this semester and am taking the first level of classical Chinese (which is excellent and highly recommended, for the record.) In addition to these electives is the option to take another one-on-one class focusing on any topic, material, textbook, or aspect of Chinese one would like to study. I haven’t taken any of these individual electives yet, but I know people who have used them to study anything from vocabulary in their academic field, to reading a Chinese novel, to just focusing on their specific weaknesses in Chinese. Some people might even study something different every week in their individual elective. With these classes, the general agreement is that you get out of them precisely what you put in to them.

The academic structure of IUP seems to work well both for people who have a specific Chinese language agenda and want to direct their own studies, and for those who would just like to achieve all-around advanced abilities in Chinese. The solid and well-planned curriculum works well for the latter, while the flexibility to depart from it enables the former.

Workload

The difference between PiB and IUP is the difference between sprinting and long-distance running. The daily work load is significantly less at IUP, but with good reason. I was surprised by this initially, but gradually came to realize there is no way anyone could possibly maintain the level of focus and energy required from PiB-like programs for an entire year without burning out. With a slower pace, there is also time for review, and I find my retention is generally higher. In the first module, I had about three to four hours of homework per night. With the addition of classical Chinese this semester, it’s closer to five or more hours of homework per night. Some people put in more time, some people less. The immediate incentive to take the work seriously (besides learning Chinese, of course) is not grades, which are neither harsh nor terribly important. Rather, it is being well prepared for class. At IUP, your teachers and classmates are always well-prepared. When classes range in size from one to three people, if you don’t prepare, it shows. It’s a good implicit incentive structure. At the same time, the amount of time and effort it takes to be well prepared for class is very reasonable. Although at IUP, you can and should spend a majority of your time studying and practicing Chinese, there is also enough free time to pursue on your own all the cultural activities you didn’t have enough time for your first time around at PiB (or HBA, ACC, etc).

Social Independence

IUP doesn’t arrange your life outside of class. This might seem unfortunate, but you can really use this fact to your advantage.

For one thing, IUP doesn’t arrange housing. Most people live in apartments off campus. Living on campus is possible, as is living with one of the host families associated with IUP. Finding a place to live can definitely be stressful. The good news is that the IUP Google group connects IUPers, current and future, so there is a network of information and people to help you find a suitable housing arrangement. I’m living with a young IUP teacher (and another Chinese woman who works at Google) who sent out an email to the group looking for a third apartment mate. Other people live in apartments former IUPers have moved out of. Some people find other IUPers to live with through the Google group and then search for an apartment together once in Beijing. There’s really no limit to the possibility of living arrangements, it just takes some extra time and effort to arrange.

Because everyone lives in different places, IUP mostly leaves your life outside of class up to you to determine. There are three or four field trips throughout the year (including one or two overnight weekend trips) that IUP arranges and a social organization that has activities about once a month to foster friendships between IUP students and Tsinghua/Beida students, but apart from that, you are mostly on your own. A lot of other Light Fellowship approved programs seem to take a more active role in students’ free time, arranging field trips on most weekends and providing extracurricular activities, which I think works great for a first-time experience in China. Though IUP differs from these programs in this respect, this is actually a great opportunity to find activities on your own. In Beijing, it is easy to make your own Chinese friends and get involved in whatever activities you would like to. I’ve audited a few Tsinghua courses, participated in a translators’ club at Tsinghua, and been making some Chinese friends in my free time. There are lots of other activities IUPers have dedicated their spare time to, but you have to take the initiative.

Language Pledge

This section really ought to go under “Social Independence.” IUP has a language pledge within the academic building and at all IUP-sponsored activities. Of course, this only amounts to about four hours of your day on weekdays and not at all on weekends. All encompassing language pledges make a lot of sense at all-encompassing programs, like PiB. IUP is a different story. Because everyone lives in different places, and is involved in their own activities outside of IUP, IUP doesn’t try to control what language you speak outside of the program. As with any of the freedoms IUP allows its students, it is up to the student to find a way to speak Chinese outside of class. It is not hard find ways to do so in Beijing, whether through living with Chinese people, making Chinese friends out of class, making your own pledge with IUP friends (probably the hardest), etc. But as always, it is a matter of initiative.

Final Recommendation

For anyone with a similar background and level in Chinese (i.e. previously spent a summer at a language program in China and has studied through third or fourth year Chinese), IUP fall/spring/academic year is a great choice that you really can't go wrong with. I am very happy with my decision to return to Beijing to study at IUP. 

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Uncomfortable Questions

[Note: As with the previous post, I wrote back in October, but never posted it.]

Last week in one of my classes, my teacher brought up the subject of abortion. As all three students in that class are fairly liberal females, we didn’t spend much time discussing whether women ought to have the right basic right to have an abortion or not. Instead, our teacher quickly brought our attention to some striking differences between abortions in American and Chinese society. While I can’t give precise statistics in either case, my impression is that abortion rates in China far exceed those in the United States. The sense my teacher gave is that abortions in China are extremely common, so much so that a high percentage of Chinese women will have one, or even two or more, abortions in their lives.

All this should not be surprising. China’s aggressive one child policy gives pregnant women who already have a child little choice. The policy, combined with the traditional preference for male babies over female babies, still strong in many parts of China, incentivizes the abortion of females (although abortions for these reasons are ostensibly illegal). Add to that lagging sex (and contraception) education, traditional social values condemning pregnancy out of wedlock, and a relative lack of religiously-based objections* to abortion, and the phenomenon begins to make sense.

If it wasn’t this realization that caught me off guard, however, the next two discoveries certainly did. The first is that, in China, according to our teacher, one can get an abortion at any period during an abortion – all nine months are acceptable. The second is that our teacher expressed shock that Americans often knowingly give birth to children with Down Syndrome, or other disabilities and defects, rather than have an abortion. To her, and likely to many Chinese, to not abort such a child is inconceivable.

It was one of those rare moments in which, after slowly discovering my Chinese teachers’ beliefs often have more in common with my own than not, I suddenly stumble upon a glaring cultural difference. It was not so much the fact that these kinds of abortions occur in China, so much as their status (at least in my teacher’s opinion) as commonplace and completely acceptable. There are many reasons why, upon closer inspection, this is understandable. Apart from the high hopes Chinese parents often place in their one child, the prospects of those with disabilities in China are much dimmer than their average American counterpart. The discovery that these kinds of abortions are commonplace in China forced me to reconsider my own (and probably many Americans’) knee-jerk reaction against them. Is there not some utilitarian sense in which society benefits by accepting the abortion of fetuses with known defects or chromosomal diseases? If you can only give birth to one child, why not ensure that child has the best chances for success and social acceptance? These questions are somewhat uncomfortable to ask, especially with an ingrained sense of political correctness. But in China, these issues are reality. I don’t know what the right answer is, but I do know it would be a waste of a study abroad experience if such discoveries didn’t force me to critically re-examine my own views.

I have to add as a disclaimer to this post that these “facts” are mostly based on unscientific impressions. I have not – thus far – carried out any extensive research or interviews relating to abortions in China. All of my commentary and analysis is solely based on general impressions, specifically the conversation last week with this IUP teacher. If anyone is interested in looking at some statistics, I found the following website has a lot of relevant information. (Warning: I can’t vouch for its neutrality.)

http://www.johnstonsarchive.net/policy/abortion/index.html

*Now that I’ve written this, I’m curious what, if anything, traditional Chinese religions and beliefs have to say on these issues of abortion. Do they have any tangible impact on the decisions Chinese people actually make (with respect to abortion) today? Readers feel free to share thoughts! This is something I would like to casually research now.

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Rain and Tsinghua Classes

[Note: I wrote this post a couple months ago but never posted it.]

The past two days have been a reminder that weather won’t be nice for much longer. The rain has turned biking, originally a pleasurable activity, into somewhat of a struggle. The seat is now always wet when I start out, my feet often slip off the pedals, and my bicycle’s tolerance of sharp turns has plummeted. Most importantly, my glasses get completely covered in raindrops, and visibility decreases significantly. Think: Harry Potter in a rainy quidditch match. (If only muggles could use the impervius charm…) Actually, the Harry Potter analogy goes one step further. In Beijing, one can, unsurprisingly, buy a poncho designed for bicyclists – shortened on the sides to avoid entanglement with the gears, but elongated in front and back, to cover the handles, basket, and anything else that might be attached. From a distance, the effect is comical – clusters of caped and hooded figures gliding a few feet above ground, cape tails flowing softly in the wind. I cannot help but think of dementors. Only these dementors wear capes of all colors – blue, green, red, purple, pink – and suspiciously have two large bicycle wheels emerging down below. Since this discovery, I have purchased my own bicycle poncho and joined the ranks.

On a separate note, Tsinghua classes started this week, which means I’ve commenced my own sort of shopping period in search of a class or two to audit. There are lots of reasons why auditing Tsinghua classes appeals to me. Attending lectures on special topics will undoubtedly improve my listening abilities over time, and help familiarize me with specialized terminology I might not otherwise have the opportunity to study formally in Chinese class. From a social and cultural perspective, I get to see first-hand the classroom experience of my Chinese counterparts. I also think, based on my limited experience thus far, it will provide a natural way to meet Tsinghua students, a barrier that might otherwise be challenging to break. Finally, if my listening comprehension is good enough, I might even learn something.

Thus far, I’ve sat in on a lecture on abstract algebra, philosophy and logic, and Marxism and the natural sciences (which I actually stumbled upon quite by accident.) The Marxism and logic classes were surprisingly comprehensible. I wouldn’t say my comprehension was good by any stretch – I would certainly not be able to do well if I were taking the courses for credit – but it was good enough to have a general idea of what was going on. I think there’s a good chance I will stick with the logic course. The class is tiny, the professor and general atmosphere quite welcoming, and, best of all, the material seems interesting and (possibly) understandable. What’s great about the language side of this class is that the translation of technical words in logic and philosophy are either direct and intuitive, or phonetically based. Though the lecture/discussion is in Chinese, the texts are in English, which should give me a good basis for following along in class. I don’t even need to purchase the book - the student who I sat next to, named Bank, has offered to photocopy the text for me. It’s probably too soon to say, but I have a good feeling about this class.

Unfortunately, when it comes to math classes, or at least the one abstract algebra class I audited, all bets are off. Where I was following at least 50% of the other classes I audited, I followed about 2% of this math class. I think a lot of factors came into play, not the least of which is math lectures even in English are hard to follow! At the moment, my hopes for being able to follow technical presentations in Chinese are low – it is much more challenging than I had anticipated. I may, if possible, try to use one of the self-designed courses IUP allows us to take to study some specialized vocabulary relating to math or computer science.

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IUP classes, and a bit of "胡同话"

The first week of class is already over! I am hesitant to draw any firm conclusions about the general workload and difficulty of IUP classes yet, since the first week may not be fully representative. But with that caveat aside, here are my general impressions.

The IUP workload and learning pace is very reasonable. On top of four hours of class per day, I have about four hours of homework per night. This means that, not only do I have a fair amount of free time every day, but I’m also able (so far) to prepare thoroughly for class, and retain a good proportion of the assigned material. I suppose what’s so surprising about this is the marked contrast with PiB, where the strategy seemed to be “let’s cram as much into your brains in eight weeks as humanly possibly.” I think both approaches are valid, but the latter is more appropriate for a year long program.

I also very much like the structure of IUP classes – three of my classes have just three students, and the other class is one-on-one. The 单班课 (individual class) is easily my favorite. The class never moves on until I fully understand everything, and I can ask as many questions as necessary to get to that point. At the same time, the fact that it’s a one-on-one class does not mean it is any less structured or formal than the larger classes. Most importantly, it is easy for me to pay full attention in this class, as there is no temptation to zone out while the teacher is talking to other students – probably my weakest point in larger classes. But even the larger classes, 合班课 (three-on-one classes), are great, too, as three students is still much smaller than the size of Chinese classes I’ve had in the past. I can still ask my own questions in these “larger” classes, but I’m also learning from my classmates’ questions – things I might not have thought to ask on my own. I distinctly prefer all of these classes to PiB’s 大班课 (8 student classes), because it is far less embarrassing to make mistakes in them. The small class sizes also afford finer-grained placement, so I feel more or less on par with my classmates.

Classes aside, I did some exploring yesterday. I took the subway for the first time on this trip, and got off at 鼓楼大街 (Gulou Dajie) to go see the bell and drum towers. I didn’t know for sure that the subway station would be in walking distance of the towers, but I thought it was a good guess, as it shares the name. Once out of the station, I caught sight of some old-looking structures and started walking towards them. Sure enough, I arrived at the Drum and Bell Towers about fifteen minutes later. I was a little annoyed with myself that there was only about 40 minutes left before both closed, but simultaneously pleased to have found them before closing at all. I first ascended the bell tower, which, according to a sign at its base, houses “the most heaviest and biggest ancient bell in China.” More specifically, it was cast under the reign of Emperor Yongle, to announce the time throughout the day. Upon my arrival at the top of the drum tower, I discovered I was just in time for the final drum performance of the day. Given that I had only arrived at a subway station that I was guessing would be in the vicinity of these towers less than an hour prior to their closing, I think I lucked out.

It happens that these towers are in the center of a very old neighborhood in Beijing, consisting of hutongs (胡同), long alleys of courtyard houses dating as far back as the Ming Dynasty. Hutongs and life in hutongs have fascinated me since I first learned about them in my high school Chinese class, since they stand in such stark contrast to the rest of the rapidly developing city of Beijing. There is tremendous economic pressure to destroy these old neighborhoods in favor of shopping malls, business centers, tourist attractions, and other money-making ventures. Accordingly, their presence is in rapid decline. In fact, the problem of their destruction was the topic of one of our lessons at PiB last summer, and was the setting for a great Chinese movie we watched in parallel. (The movie is called Shower – I highly recommend it!) While I have grappled with this problem, and can certainly understand the economic incentives behind their destruction, I think I ultimately come down on the side of sentiment. Culture has an intangible value to society, and the hutongs, once destroyed, can never be replaced. The one criticism of the hutongs that I still have difficulty countering is that the quality of life in them is substandard. Their narrow alleys and walkways are a fire hazard, and modern conveniences, like plumbing and flush toilets, are lacking. Is it hypocritical of me to hope these historic neighborhoods are not destroyed, when I, myself, would be unwilling to be a resident? I’ve read interviews with hutong residents who say living in them is unclean and unpleasant. Then again, a small shopkeeper I talked to yesterday said he liked growing up in the hutongs. (On a completely unrelated note, this shopkeeper also gave me a free booklet with some of Confucius’s teachings. Who knew one of my newly-learned vocabulary words, 孝道 (filial piety), would come in handy so soon!) I am, nonetheless, pleased to see that some effort is being taken to preserve the hutongs (at least the more visible ones). The hutongs I visited yesterday have just recently avoided destruction, at least for the time being, according to this New York Times article (courtesy my friend, Elizabeth): http://www.nytimes.com/2010/09/08/world/asia/08briefs-REDEVELOP.html?ref=china

Here are some pictures from my adventure.

A hutong neighborhood, as seen from the top of the Drum Tower.

Propaganda banner over a sanlunche ("three-wheeled vehicle") in a hutong.

View of a hutong.

The drum performance.

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Potpourri

Yesterday IUP emailed us the results of our placement exams. The textbook for my reading/writing class is called “思想与社会” (“Thought and Society”) and the text for my listening/speaking class is called “实话实说” (“Frankly Speaking”). Though I can’t really tell what, if any, year or level of Chinese these books are intended for, my impression is that they’re the highest of IUP’s intermediate level texts. I asked Song Fang, the IUP teacher I am living with, about the texts, and she said they are IUP’s main textbooks (a plurality of students are assigned to these books), and that they’ll give me a good solid foundation from which I can later branch out in any direction. I haven’t seen the books yet, but this sounds like a good place to start, especially for a year-long program.

I am also pleased about the timing of my classes. My first class isn’t until 9, which, although ungodly early in Yalespeak, is considerably better than starting at 8 am, the earliest classes IUP offers. I have three 50 minute classes with 10 minute breaks in between, an 80 minute lunch break, and one fifty minute class after lunch. This means I have class every day from 9-2. Of course, the schedule will change after the first eight weeks, and I may not be so lucky in later modules.

On a different note, I bought a little Chinese magazine today full of short stories. It’s called “百花故事” (literally, “Hundred Flowers Stories,” although I think the gist of the translation is something like “Potpourri Stories”). It’s more or less like a Chinese version of Reader’s Digest. I read the first couple stories today, and, without a dictionary, I had a decent (but definitely hazy) idea of what was going on. My reading skills could definitely use a lot of improvement, so I’m hoping to use this magazine, and perhaps other Chinese publications, as a measuring stick of my progress this year, external to IUP. Of course, the actual process of reading the publications ought to be beneficial in its own right. I hope I can have the discipline to stick with it.
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