Meditating With Dumplings, Quantum Physics and Counterfeit Degrees: My Year as an EFL Instructor in China

I still remember the first time I walked into the staff room at my language school in Chengdu and saw a man in a Hawaiian shirt—**not** the festive kind, but the kind that screamed “I’m on vacation and I’ve forgotten where I am”**—**sitting cross-legged on a cushion, meditating with a plate of dumplings balanced precariously on his lap. He introduced himself as “Steve, the yoga enthusiast and accidental language teacher,” and I immediately knew I was in for a wild ride. Teaching English in China is less about curriculum planning and more about navigating the cultural crosscurrents of expat personalities, where the line between “eccentric” and “unhinged” is thinner than the paper used for the HSK exam.

There was also Mei-Ling, a woman who, despite being fluent in English, refused to speak it in public. I once caught her whispering to her students in perfect, almost poetic English while simultaneously rolling her eyes at the pronunciation of my “native” accent. She later confessed, in a hushed tone over tea, that she believed speaking English in China would “invite bad karma.” Her reasoning? “The universe gives you what you ask for. If you speak English, you’ll be taken.” I asked if she’d ever considered that maybe she was already taken—by her own anxiety—and she just stared at me like I’d broken the laws of quantum physics.

Then there was the time I walked into the staff lounge to find two colleagues playing chess—on a tablet—while one was narrating the game in fluent, rapid-fire Mandarin to a visibly confused student who was just trying to ask for a pen. The student looked like he’d been abducted by a foreign language cult. I later discovered that this was “team-building exercise” number 37, and that they’d once tried to teach the entire staff how to “speak Chinese using only hand gestures and interpretive dance.” It was less team-building and more performance art with a side of existential dread.

Let’s not forget the man who believed that the only way to teach grammar was through interpretive dance and interpretive dance alone. His idea of a grammar lesson involved dramatic reenactments of past tense verbs—“I walked to the store”—with wild arm flailing and a dramatic collapse onto the floor. When I asked if anyone was learning anything, he looked at me like I’d asked him to explain gravity. “They’re feeling it,” he said, as if the emotional resonance of a poorly choreographed collapse was more valuable than comprehension. Honestly, I’m still not sure if he was a genius or just really into performance art.

Research from the *Journal of International Education* (2021) suggests that “expatriate teacher burnout is significantly higher in non-English-speaking countries due to social isolation and cultural misunderstandings,” and I can’t help but nod vigorously when I think of my colleague who once tried to explain the concept of “metaphor” by writing “The sky is a blanket” on the whiteboard and then spending 20 minutes staring at it like it was a mystical riddle. We were supposed to be teaching English, not holding a séance.

One day, I found out that one of our “co-teachers” had been running a side business selling counterfeit university degrees to expats. Not just any degrees—“Bachelor of International Relations, awarded by the University of Shangri-La.” I confronted him, and he said, “It’s all about the energy, man.” I asked if he’d ever considered the legal implications, and he just smiled and said, “I’ve never been to court. I’ve only been to the gym and the noodle shop.” It’s moments like these that make you question not just your career path, but whether you’ve ever actually lived a normal life.

There’s a kind of absurd beauty in the chaos, though. Despite the bizarre behavior, the miscommunications, the colleagues who speak English only when they’re alone and terrified, there’s something oddly endearing about the whole mess. We’re all just trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t quite fit our expectations—me teaching grammar, them teaching life through interpretive dance, and everyone just trying to avoid being eaten by a misunderstanding. I’ve learned that sometimes the best lessons aren’t found in textbooks, but in the sheer, unfiltered comedy of a foreign culture clashing with expat ambition.

In the end, the real lesson wasn’t about grammar or pronunciation—it was about patience, humility, and the quiet courage it takes to laugh at yourself when your colleague starts teaching the present continuous tense by miming a cat chasing a ball of yarn. As *The Guardian* reported in 2023, “The most effective expat teachers in China are those who embrace cultural absurdity as part of the journey,” not those who try to fix it. And honestly? After years of surviving office karaoke with a man who insisted on singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” in a mix of Mandarin and English, I’ve finally learned to let go—of the syllabus, of perfection, and of the idea that teaching should be serious.

So here’s to the chaos, the kung fu moves disguised as grammar lessons, the tea-stained lesson plans, and the colleagues who still believe that “bad luck” is the same as “not speaking English in public.” We’re not just teachers—we’re cultural diplomats, therapists, and accidental comedians. And if that’s not a badge of honor, I don’t know what is.

Categories:
Chengdu,  English-speaking,  English,  Dearing,  Education, 

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