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Creative Expression

During a trip to Hong Kong to celebrate Chinese New Year, after months of lockdown, I relished the local skatepark near my father’s apartment where I could skate with other like-minded people. Returning to a more remote area of Shanghai where I lived and taught, I conceded that I would have to go downtown to find skate spots. However, on a walk down a street between two universities, I saw remnant telltale signs of skateboarders: a tucked away mobile metal rail; a tall stair set; and a stone platform with a waxed edge. I felt less lonely knowing there were skaters close by.

I returned one weekend on my board and found many other skaters. I would learn that all of them were students from the two universities I taught at or another university nearby. As a beginner without Mandarin, I felt nervous and acted standoffish. However, the skaters were friendly and approached me first, asking at which school I was a student. I replied that my Chinese was not good and I was an English teacher from Canada. They asked around, laughing, as to who among them had the best English. 

Although there were gaps in his English vocabulary, one skater named Jia Yi gave me practical skateboarding advice and we understood each other through context, embodied gestures and movements. Later, sitting on a platform chatting about and comparing life in Canada and China, one skater recounted to me his final essay outline on metaphors in Albert Camus’s The Plague. I tried to help him develop ideas by asking questions. When one skater decided to try to ollie (jump) the nine-stair set, all of us stopped in admiration. I later learnt that it was his first time jumping such a tall obstacle, but in the moment, I noted how we all stopped to observe, celebrate and anticipate one person’s aspirations. Although each attempt was close, we held our breaths for the perfect landing. Jia Yi asked me how I would describe this. Captivating, I said.

After the uproar of the skater landing the nine-stair ollie, Jia Yi showed me the word “captivating” on his phone with the Chinese translation. He had remembered and recalled it. He repeated it again during dinner, commenting that this must have been a high-level word. I was surprised; I took it for granted that everyone knew this word. I asked the others at dinner what their English levels were, and they said, not good and that their English scores were not high (though in my estimation, their spoken English was quite passable). Jia Yi added that he focused more on spoken English rather than written. 

Students in China have to take a national college entrance exam (gaokao) to determine for which schools and majors they are eligible. Each major and university, depending on their popularity and ranking, has a minimum score requirement of which English, math and Chinese are mandatory components. Some secondary schools require students to apply for several universities before knowing their scores as a sort of gamble. Once their scores are released, they choose which major and university combination is most suitable. With such high academic pressure, English becomes no longer a method of communication but a tool to achieve a supposedly brighter future (Li & Baldauf, 2011). 

The skaters I met coming from a lower-ranking Shanghai university with lower gaokao score requirements have less access to authentic resources and communicative opportunities using their second-language, compared to my English major students studying at a moderately prestigious university. This mutual love for skateboarding brought me and these students together as co-learners of language and the sport, flattening the academic hierarchy.  

Captivating

Over various visits to this skate spot, I started to meet more of these students. One, whom I noticed eat spoonfuls of dried chillies when the meat of that dish was gone, assured me that he just really liked spicy. While he sat attentively during my English conversations with other skaters, he did not speak unless spoken to; and I was surprised by his soft-spoken English fluency. I misjudged him as being afraid of speaking. I asked him how I should call him, and he pointed to his shirt; “alexanderwang”, the shirt’s text read. Maybe Alexander, he said, or I like Jimmy. It was his first time considering creating an English-speaking identity.

I also met X-Ray, an RnB-loving skater from Guizhou Province with a wild sense of humour. Using the Socratic method, I helped him discuss whether he should tell his crush his feelings (which he later does, and the feelings were reciprocated). I practiced a similar line of questioning for other skaters seeking advice, trying to get them to formulate their perspectives and feelings into spoken language. 

I met too Tian Qi from a small town in Harbin, Heilongjiang Province, China, who, when asked, would joke that his gaokao score was the bottom line of entry; he had just made it in. However, while others might feel ashamed of this score, he seemed unstoppably optimistic, repeating several times how lucky he was to attend our university and study his major, Navigation. 

He gave me skateboarding advice with the English he had and shared with me stories from his life. Like me, he loved the feeling of long-distance skating while listening to music. Though he often had twelve-hour school days, he rushed lunch just to skate those precious remaining minutes. Every time he spoke, especially in English, he smiled. Discussing music, he asked me if I knew “Blue Moon”, which he said might be a jazz standard. He sang a few of the opening lyrics, and I hummed the melody. Emphatically, he said that was the song and we sang together momentarily. He said aloud, that was so cool. 

As we neared my point of departure, he said, thank you for today. What do you mean? I asked. He had never spoken so much English in his whole life. In Chinese classrooms, teachers tend to task students with rote memorization or recitation rather than open conversation. Tian Qi was only taught enough English to communicate while driving transport ships. My being a skateboarding beginner without functional Mandarin gave Tian Qi and the other skaters an opportunity to practice in the real world. 

Access

As someone living in Shanghai for the past two years, part of me feels guilty for not speaking Mandarin. All that is required of me in the classroom is English. My native-English-speaker status and my lack of Mandarin builds a false credibility around me, making me seem more like a qualified educator, when in reality, I still have much to learn. Even when skateboarding, I ask others to speak my language in their country. At the same time, experiences with Tian Qi and the other skaters show me how English is a language of access to further global experiences, and my presence and questions can positively generate affective connections and a desire to use the language to engage in meaningful conversations where students are in a position of knowing.

My conversations with the skaters are often multilingual. Speaking with a skater from Guangdong Province, from which Cantonese originates (the main language of Hong Kong in which I am conversational) we mixed Cantonese, English and Mandarin to make meaning. I am trying to learn Mandarin as well during our exchanges. At times, I even understand because of my Cantonese background. My desire to communicate becomes an incentive for mutual development.

Reference

Li, M., & Baldauf, R. (2011). Beyond the Curriculum: A Chinese Example of Issues Constraining Effective English Teaching. TESOL Quarterly, 45(4), 793-803. https://www.jstor.org/stable/41307669