3-and-a-half months ago, I had never once heard the word "习惯." (xíguàn, pronounced She Goo-ahn) However, after moving to Dayao, the word started appearing in nearly every conversation I had with locals, generally taking the form of "Have you xiguan-ed?" The phrase was used when asking about every aspect of my life, from food, to teaching, to crossing the street. Though the dictionary defines "xíguàn" as 'habit,' I soon realized what the word meant in context: adjustment to the local culture.
Once I realized what was being asked of me, my answer was always "Yes!" even after a short week of living at my placement school. "Yes, I've adjusted to the spicy food." "Yes, I've adjusted to buying vegetables at the open market." "Yes, I've adjusted to teaching at a Chinese school." "Yes, I've adjusted to classes of 55 students that are learning English as their third language."
The crazy thing is, for a while, I believed myself.
Then, as anyone who has ever studied abroad, and has been shown the "cultural adjustment bell curve" knows, I hit culture shock, though not in the traditional sense of the word. Rather, every challenge I faced in my daily life seemed impossible. The "foreign charm" that had kept my students intrigued wore off, and suddenly my classes descended into chatter. Talking to people who only spoke the local dialect, or even standard Mandarin, seemed less like a challenge and more like a brick wall preventing me from having a normal conversation with anyone. Between internet issues and busy schedules, attempts to communicate with friends across the country, and across the world, seemed futile. The wonder and beauty that I had once found in every aspect of the town suddenly disappeared. All this, combined with other small annoyances and tales of a sick relative back home, made for a month of believing that I hadn't "xíguàn-ed" at all.
Suddenly, after a week-long vacation and a few days back in Dayao, things started to change. I had a conversation with a man who only speaks the local dialect, and I understood a good portion of what he was saying. I joined 3 other fellows in my town for a fantastic home-visit. I graded the Unit 1 tests I had given my students, and every class improved. I began to feel less like I was drowning in lesson plans, and more like I could use my lessons to teach students about the world around them. I started having real conversations with local teachers--about home, my classes, my hopes for the future, my struggles adapting to the school system--and as such, I started making friends. The beauty I had found all around me slowly began to reappear. The haze that had marked the last month began to dissipate, as I really, truly, began to adjust.
Now, just over 100 days after moving to China, adjustment is beginning to seem real. I'm finally finding time to study Chinese, read books, learn some new recipes, and catch up on some American Pop Culture (Thank you Spotify Top-100 list!) amid the craziness of being a teacher. Though nothing about Dayao seems as exciting as it did two months ago, nothing seems as frightening as it once did, either. Life is balancing itself out, and I couldn't be more thankful.
Perhaps the biggest part of actually adjusting to living in China, however, is the realization that there are some things that I will just never be able to adjust to. I may never be able to stop saying "just a little" when the cook asks me if he can put in the regular amount of spice. I may never understand every word my students say. I may never stop wishing I was able to participate in American holiday, and football, festivities. There will never be a day that I don't think about how delicious a cup of coffee that isn't made from a packet of powder would taste. I know that I will never fully adjust to the nuances of the Chinese school system. I know, too, that I will never adjust to witnessing corporal punishment. (a blog post for another day) And most of all, I know that I will never, ever, adjust to living so far away from my family.
Adjustment to any new situation is hard, a fact that is often forgotten in the excitement of beginning the journey. However, adjustment also brings wonderful challenges to every day life, leading to the possibility of discovery and miniature-victories with every seemingly mundane task. Xíguàn-ing is certainly proving to be a long process, but then again, nothing in life worth doing is easy.
Once I realized what was being asked of me, my answer was always "Yes!" even after a short week of living at my placement school. "Yes, I've adjusted to the spicy food." "Yes, I've adjusted to buying vegetables at the open market." "Yes, I've adjusted to teaching at a Chinese school." "Yes, I've adjusted to classes of 55 students that are learning English as their third language."
The crazy thing is, for a while, I believed myself.
Then, as anyone who has ever studied abroad, and has been shown the "cultural adjustment bell curve" knows, I hit culture shock, though not in the traditional sense of the word. Rather, every challenge I faced in my daily life seemed impossible. The "foreign charm" that had kept my students intrigued wore off, and suddenly my classes descended into chatter. Talking to people who only spoke the local dialect, or even standard Mandarin, seemed less like a challenge and more like a brick wall preventing me from having a normal conversation with anyone. Between internet issues and busy schedules, attempts to communicate with friends across the country, and across the world, seemed futile. The wonder and beauty that I had once found in every aspect of the town suddenly disappeared. All this, combined with other small annoyances and tales of a sick relative back home, made for a month of believing that I hadn't "xíguàn-ed" at all.
Suddenly, after a week-long vacation and a few days back in Dayao, things started to change. I had a conversation with a man who only speaks the local dialect, and I understood a good portion of what he was saying. I joined 3 other fellows in my town for a fantastic home-visit. I graded the Unit 1 tests I had given my students, and every class improved. I began to feel less like I was drowning in lesson plans, and more like I could use my lessons to teach students about the world around them. I started having real conversations with local teachers--about home, my classes, my hopes for the future, my struggles adapting to the school system--and as such, I started making friends. The beauty I had found all around me slowly began to reappear. The haze that had marked the last month began to dissipate, as I really, truly, began to adjust.
Now, just over 100 days after moving to China, adjustment is beginning to seem real. I'm finally finding time to study Chinese, read books, learn some new recipes, and catch up on some American Pop Culture (Thank you Spotify Top-100 list!) amid the craziness of being a teacher. Though nothing about Dayao seems as exciting as it did two months ago, nothing seems as frightening as it once did, either. Life is balancing itself out, and I couldn't be more thankful.
Perhaps the biggest part of actually adjusting to living in China, however, is the realization that there are some things that I will just never be able to adjust to. I may never be able to stop saying "just a little" when the cook asks me if he can put in the regular amount of spice. I may never understand every word my students say. I may never stop wishing I was able to participate in American holiday, and football, festivities. There will never be a day that I don't think about how delicious a cup of coffee that isn't made from a packet of powder would taste. I know that I will never fully adjust to the nuances of the Chinese school system. I know, too, that I will never adjust to witnessing corporal punishment. (a blog post for another day) And most of all, I know that I will never, ever, adjust to living so far away from my family.
Adjustment to any new situation is hard, a fact that is often forgotten in the excitement of beginning the journey. However, adjustment also brings wonderful challenges to every day life, leading to the possibility of discovery and miniature-victories with every seemingly mundane task. Xíguàn-ing is certainly proving to be a long process, but then again, nothing in life worth doing is easy.