This question was submitted by Joel from The Freedonia Post. If you’d like to know more about me, my travels or anything else you’d like to know, feel free to ask me!

Photo by Jabari Bell

Physically: Beijing

I was able to escape the typhoon in Shanghai but the furious intensity of the Artic winds that blew through the Summer Palace was another story. I visited Beijing during the coldest winter day and the wind literally cut through me like butter. Climbing The Great Wall proved to be a challenge too. The higher I climbed, the stronger the winds blew. It stunted my progress and blew the air right out of my lungs.

Emotionally: Shanghai

I went to college in New York City so I commuted to and from school. Studying abroad in Shanghai was the first and only time I lived away from my parents. I didn’t get to ease into living on my own. I was flown half way across the world and dropped there. Splat!

There was language barrier since I knew minimal Mandarin, which left me awfully lonely and terribly confused. I applied to the Chinese Language Program at Fudan University through SUNY Albany. Both schools did a poor job of communicating and advising me while I was abroad. Both schools also chose to blame me for not being responsible enough to figure out the appropriate documents that were required.

Now, I totally understand and can completely accept responsibility for my actions if I was the only one having this issue. But when all of the students I know who are in this program are having the same exact problem, then it’s not me. It’s the universities. Needless to say, it made the beginning of my study abroad experience hell.

Homesick hit quick but it was cured by my wanderlust.

Intellectually: No where

I’ve never gone to a place that was intellectually challenging. They’ve always been intellectually stimulating.

Once a week for five months ten of us, sometimes twelve, were herded into a dark van with tinted windows and ragged carpets. The smallest one of us contorted ourselves into the most uncomfortable positions and driven to the outskirts of Shanghai. The driver dropped us off on the side of the dusty highway and like clockwork, there was always someone waiting there to take us through a dark, narrow alley.

We passed by a middle aged couple who’s brown leather skin was the result of years of toiling in the sun. They baked bread on the side of the highway – salty ones and unsalted ones. Behind them was a dirt road carved between two dug out vegetables fields, which were being tended to by residents in straw hats and hunched backs.

We passed by tattered wood houses battered by the heavy rain and the harsh sun. The women chatted on small wooden stools and gawked as we passed by. Some of them were nursing. They looked tired and lifeless. Dirty toddlers with cracked red cheeks laughed innocently around them, as if they harbored all their mother’s life and energy. The men were no were to be found.

We entered a white two-story building. The children present looked eager, curious and afraid – all at the same time. I was assigned a room on the ground floor. It was a tiny room big enough for only 15 people but it was overcrowded with 50. My hands were tugged along the way as I squeezed to the front of the room. I introduced myself.

“小朋友，你好。我是黄老师。你的英语老师。”(How are you kids? My name is Miss Wong. I’m your English teacher.)

“黄老师好！”(Good morning Miss Wong!)

They shouted in unison.

This was the QiDi Migrant School. These were migrant children. Their families live like nomads, moving from place to place in search of work. Men leave before the sun rises and return long after the sun sets. The children here know nothing of consistency. The people they know and the friends they make always come and go. It’s as fleeting as their education but their desire to learn is stronger than all the children I’ve ever taught back home.

These migrant children were not only hungry for food but they were hungry to learn. They shouted answers with bright eyes and they fought to come to the board. For them, enough was never enough. They always wanted more. At the end of each class they tugged at my hands and asked,

“黄老师，你会回来吗？”(Miss Wong, will you be back?)

I always said yes. They always gleamed with joy but I knew that the more I said yes, the closer it was to saying no. Eventually I had to leave. Just like everyone else in their lives.

Migrant families who live in poverty know that education is the key to economic mobility but their children’s education is hindered when kids are pulled from school to harvest the land and scrounge for scrap metal. My students don’t know it but what they taught me was much more valuable than the English I taught them. Kids in the States say, “I hate school. School sucks. It’s boring.” But many children around the world walk barefoot for miles to attend school. We get driven.

This opportunity I had to teach and travel abroad was all due to the Fudan Foreign Students Volunteering Association. It was the most rewarding experience at Fudan University. The dedicated principal of QiDi Migrant School provided door to door service for us from Fudan’s Foreign Dormitory to the dilapidated school building in the outskirts of Shanghai. He himself was a former migrant student who saw that education was his way out of a migrant lifestyle. He built the school at QiDi for the children, and for the future, of the migrant community. He’s proof that education is the way out of poverty.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

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Studying abroad at Fudan University was less than what I expected. There was a lack of communication and a nonchalance of accurate information. I didn’t expect someone to hold my hand but I did expect direction. I never knew what my next steps were until it was almost too late. Do you know what that can do to a girl who just arrived in a new city and who can bare speak the language? Serious moodswings.

I always contacted the SUNY Albany program director at the very last minute panicking because I didn’t know what to do.  He always referred me to someone else. Why not cut out the middleman? It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. There was no clear advice from him or from the host university. I was misguided almost every step of the way. At the end of the day, they somehow managed to come up with an excuse to make it seem like it was my fault. No surprised though. I’ve been back to China often enough to know that it was protocol – blame others and take no responsibilities. If that doesn’t work, repeat your statement angrily.

I moved into the Foreign Students’ Dormitory two days after I arrived in Shanghai. The adviser at SUNY Albany informed me that students from the Fall semester weren’t able to move in until August 28th. However, that was the not the case. I could have moved in the day I landed but instead, I wasted about ¥500 for a hotel room I didn’t need. Thanks a lot Mr. SUNY Albany advisor. No wonder they told me you were no longer in charge of the program.

The security guards at the dorm were cold and curt and only spoke Mandarin. Class hadn’t started yet so much of my communication was limited to pointing, making awkward gestures and saying “这个。。。这个。。。这个” (This…this…this). The program’s 9AM  “orientation,” which took place a month after I arrived, consisted of a lengthy reading session from a blue booklet I received the previous semester.  Needless to say, it was a waste of time. I didn’t need to be read to. I can read very well on my own. But like they say, every cloud has a silver lining.

I befriended a few students who lived on my floor. We were all in the same program so we were lost and confused together. It made our experiences much more bearable.