12. A classroom of discovery

In the early days of this millennium, I graduated university in England and set out for a new life in China. Here, I share the quiet stories of my journey, a chronicle of discovery and displacement, woven into the fabric of a land vast and unfathomable.

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My second week of teaching, though marked by the rhythm of daily lessons and the murmur of classroom chatter, felt like a mosaic of surprises. The students, only a few years younger than me, carried with them the unspoken weight of their lives - of a nation still largely untouched by the outside world. To them, I was both a curiosity and a necessity: a foreigner, a guide, a living example of something that, until now, had only existed in the abstract.

My classroom itself was a far cry from what I had imagined before arriving here. The desks, arranged in rigid rows, seemed to multiply the isolation between us rather than bridge it. But beyond the physicality of the space, it was the cultural gaps that stood out most. It didn’t take long for me to feel their presence, sharp and unfamiliar.

The first shock came early in the week. I had written my name on the board, a simple act of self-introduction. But as the chalk met the blackboard, I realised the students were staring at me. No one said anything at first, but a faint gasp spread through the room. It was only when one of the more confident students raised her hand that the silence was broken.

“Teacher,” she said, “you use the left hand?”

I nodded, surprised by the question. It was a simple thing, a characteristic of mine I had never really considered outside of the ordinary. But their reaction was not ordinary at all. There was a collective pause, as if the concept of a left-handed person had just been introduced into their minds like some alien phenomenon. It was hard to mask my confusion.

“Yes, I am left-handed,” I said slowly, wondering if I had somehow misinterpreted their response.

They murmured amongst themselves, the murmur turning into something like disbelief. After a moment, another student spoke up, his English slow but clear. “In China, there are no left-handed people.”

My mind raced, but I held back the questions. Why did they think this? Were they referring to a myth, or was this a cultural reality I knew nothing about? In that moment, the classroom, which had seemed so mundane just moments before, became a place of discovery. The students looked at me as if I were a creature from another planet, an enigma that needed to be decoded. The teacher of English, a man who didn’t fit into the norms they had been taught.

But there was only curiosity in their reaction. It was then that I began to understand that my role here - much more than simply teaching a language - was to be an emissary from a place they could only begin to imagine.

I pressed them further. “Why do you say there are no left-handed people in China?”

One student offered an explanation, though his words were hesitant. “It is... not normal,” he said, a slight hesitation before the word “normal.” I was reminded, in that moment, of the way I had been raised - how my own left-handedness had been celebrated as a mark of individuality. But here, in a culture so deeply rooted in tradition and uniformity, being left-handed seemed an anomaly to be puzzled over, perhaps even avoided.

This small conversation unfolded in front of me like an opening door, revealing the vast space of misunderstanding and cultural difference I had yet to cross. It was not just about teaching English. It was about teaching the world I had come from, a world they had little access to, and trying to make it comprehensible, without forcing it into a shape it couldn’t take.

In another class, I asked my students to write down what they knew about England. It was a simple question, but the answers, written with such earnestness, were surprisingly illuminating. The first two responses were revealing in their simplicity: “England is romantic because it is near France,” and, “England’s king is a girl.” The first, a curious reflection on geography, seemed to suggest that English culture was defined by proximity to another country. And the second - well, it was a reminder of the continued mystique of the British monarchy, Elizabeth II still very much an enigma to these young students. In their minds, “king” and “girl” had clearly collided¹, and in this collision, they found an idea of England that was far removed from reality.

But there was more. They knew of the fog in London, the kind that once coloured the city with an almost mythical mist. They had heard of Tony Blair, perhaps because of the Iraq war, and of Margaret Thatcher, who, in their minds, had “given back” Hong Kong - her legacy reduced to a singular political act. The names of footballers, Michael Owen and Steven Gerrard, were also familiar, though only in their Chinese forms. There were no references to Shakespeare, to the literary wealth of the country, no recognition of the deep historical currents that ran through our culture. Instead, what they knew was scattered, fractured by media portrayals and disconnected events. It made me wonder what I, as an outsider, had been told about China before I arrived. How much of it had been true? How much of it had been myth?

The more they wrote, the more I felt myself slipping into a role I hadn’t anticipated. I was no longer simply a teacher of English, but an ambassador of sorts - an unofficial guide to a world they were still getting to know. It was a heavy mantle, but one I was beginning to understand. I wasn’t just teaching language; I was teaching them how to interact with the broader world outside their own borders.

But, of course, I was learning as much as I was teaching. These students, with their eagerness and their questions, offered me glimpses into lives I would never have known had I remained in England. In their curious gazes, I saw both innocence and a readiness to learn. I saw in them the quiet strength of a generation coming of age in a rapidly changing world, yet one that remained tethered to its past. In this classroom, more than any place I had been, I saw how deeply culture could shape not only the way we live but the way we understand the world.

By the end of the week, I understood something crucial about my place in China. It was not just to teach English. It was to prepare them for the larger world, a world they had little direct access to. And in doing so, I found that I, too, was being prepared - for a world that was as new to me as mine was to them.

A Moment of Gratitude

If the words of Ill Grandeur have resonated with you, consider buying me a cup of tea. In China, tea is more than just a drink - it is a symbol of connection, warmth, and reflection. A one-off tea is a way of sharing in the journey, supporting the story, and keeping the spirit of discovery alive. Every cup helps bring the next chapter to life.

1. I would later learn that the Chinese word for queen was 女王 (nǚwáng) - literally girl king.