Clash and coherence

Living in Taiwan has been an interesting mixture of things that seem totally normal and things that seem totally insane.

This afternoon at Qing-Shan, I helped administer our students' oral midterm exams. It fell in the insane category.

When Patty and I talked about it last week, she gave me the general structure and plan: we would each take half of the class and, one by one, ask them questions from the "self introduction" worksheet they filled out earlier in the term. Things like "What's your name?" "How old are you?" "What's your favorite color?" in addition to harder ones like "When is your birthday?" and "What's your constellation?" We decided on a grading rubric and were, so far as I knew, set.

So today in the first class of the day, after calling roll (which does, incidentally, involve the students replying "My name is..." when I call their name, which I thought would make that question awfully easy), I settled into my chair in the corner with my notebook, pen and class list and waited for the students to come to me.

And they did. In droves. Patty had told them they could come in groups of three, but almost as soon as students number 2, 4, and 6 (I was doing the even numbers, Patty was doing the odd) dropped onto their stools, Jack began hovering behind them. I told him, politely but firmly, that he couldn't come until it was his turn (he's number 20, so he had a while to wait), but no sooner had he left than Michael and two or three other boys took his place. I drove them off, and Jack was back with a few friends. I was no longer feeling quite so patient now, having had to interrupt my interview with the poor girl whose turn it was several times already to drive off the gawkers, and yet even as Jack and co "left"--that is, took a good two or maybe three steps back--a flood of newcomers filled their places.

Add to this the fact that I had inadvertently positioned myself directly across from the microphone speaker, and the fact that nervous 6th grade kids are not exactly known for speaking loudly, any more than rowdy 6th grade kids are known for being quiet, and you have an extremely frustrated Teacher Bekah. By the end of class, I was practically yelling at the kids who kept coming back, no matter what I did.

"JACK. I HAVE TOLD YOU SIX TIMES NOW THAT YOU CAN'T BE HERE UNTIL IT'S YOUR TURN. GO WAIT SOMEWHERE ELSE." Turn back to the student I'm testing, and seconds later he's at her elbow again, making it impossible for me to hear whether or not she can actually say the sentence "I like to play table tennis."

That class period ended up running into, and then entirely through, the 10 minute inter-class break, and I was still finishing up with the last few students as the next class came pouring in, chorusing "May I come in?" at the door.

The second and third classes went a little better, after I asked Patty to announce that only two people at a time were allowed to come to where I was testing people and the kids, for the most part, followed this new rule. She told me that the kids wanted to hear what their classmates were saying, which I understand, and maybe it's just a 6th grade thing, but it seemed utterly bizarre to me that it would be normal to be allowed to sit in with--and sometimes, give massive help to--other students who are in the middle of a test. I do understand the cultural norm to see school achievement as a public feat--test scores posted, etc--but even so, this seemed like a wild stretch to me. Oh, the joys of assimilating American values with Taiwanese ones.

But this clash was nicely offset for me with what happened after school: I got my first non-American haircut. Evelyn recommended a salon to me, and Fonda was gracious enough to make me an appointment and come along with me so we could tell the hair dresser what I did--and, more importantly, what I didn't--want. Before I came here, my hairdresser in Seattle (who I absolutely love) warned me not to let them thin my hair too much--I have thin hair to begin with, and in the context of a nation of people whose hair tends to be the exact opposite, I could easily envision disaster happening.

This foreboding was not exactly assuaged when a fellow Marist alum who lives in Taipei noticed my Facebook status calling for haircut help and told me " [It] doesn't matter if your Chinese is superb or their English is spot on; i hate to be the messenger, but you are in for an interesting conclusion to hair. i've never asked for a "mo-hawk", yet I still receive. the secret is learning to cope and adapt..."

When Fonda and I arrived at the hair salon, however, I was instantly struck by how an up-class salon is an up-class salon no matter where you are.The prices, however, are pleasantly different. (Haircuts have been my favorite splurge for the past two years in Seattle.) 

Just like at home, upon sitting down I was offered tea and coffee, then taken to another room where they washed my hair and massaged my head. And on this, they outperformed Seattle on every single level. The wash/massage must have lasted at least a half hour, and I never wanted it to stop. I'm actually considering seeing how much it costs just for this service alone...


Aherm. Anyway, the lady who washed my hair/gave me the best head massage of my life then took me back to my chair--and left. Turns out, here in Taiwan they don't multitask, they delegate. So the lady who greeted me and washed my hair did only that. Then the hair dresser--the guy with the actual scissors--came over, and as I handed over the hair photos I kept from my favorite haircut thus far, Fonda explained it and told him that my hair was thin and didn't need to be made more so. "I know," he said in English, sounding slightly offended at the implication, which actually did wonders for my confidence in his abilities.

And, in fashion, he fit the young-urban-male-hairdresser style seen everywhere. (Not pictured: his tight low cut tank top with a cardigan layered over it.)

Over the course of the haircut, I discovered that A Len (pronounced like the more ordinary "Allen" but spelled this way because...it's cool, I guess?) does actually speak some passable English, and he laughed at me for not wanting to change my hair style--just like I've had multiple hairdressers in the US do. Love the continuity of derision!


After the cut there was more delegation--another lady whose job it is to blow dry and style hair, and another who brings the bill--and then the hair dresser was back to finish up his clips, hand me his business card(s, in case I have friends who need haircuts :) ) and send me on my way.


All in all, a successful encounter, and all for the low price of $600 NT! So, you know, FANTASTIC salon experience for $20US. Take THAT, Super Cuts!

Final results--sorry for the crappy webcam/florescent lighting combo

Whenever you spend an extensive period of time in a different culture, you're bound to uncover things between them that don't quite add up--that is, after all, why they call it a cultural exchange: each side has something different to give! But the more exciting, and more prevalent, thing you discover are how similar all people are to all other people.

Today did an excellent job of summing up the experience of living in another culture: insanity and familiarity, clash and coherence.