by Charles DeBenedetto
(Our dragon boats looked similar to these. Photo Credit: nsysu.edu.tw)
We are very close to what
would have been the end of the semester, had it not been for, well, you know.
Having delayed the spring semester by two weeks back in February, we are paying
for it now, as we will continue to teach until mid-July.
(Side-note: Having to teach
an extra two weeks is extremely inconsequential, in respect to how disruptive
to normal life the virus has been in other parts of the world. I am fortunate
and lucky.)
Mid-July is the time when
Taiwan gets so hot as to be practically unlivable, and, as a result of that
heat, many Taiwanese would normally travel to places like Japan, Europe,
Canada, or, better yet, wintry places like Australia and New Zealand.
Obviously, though, we will
not be travelling abroad this summer.
Without international travel
as the finish line, it can feel especially daunting to finish the semester.
Already I am counting how many classes left to teach before the summer holiday.
When I clock-in, a robotic voice happily says “thank you,” and I appreciate it,
thanking me for braving the heat and sweating at red lights on my little
scooter to get here. And then the “thank you” at the end of the day is truly a
trumpet fanfare, congratulating me on the successful completion of another work
day. This late in the semester though, the “thank you” loses its potency.
There is a custom in Taiwan
that I have found hard to acclimate to. When there is a long weekend coming up,
you must have class on the Saturday prior, to “make-up” for time lost during
the holiday. Back home, I imagine if schools tried to do this, then students
would riot and the principal would be captured and duct-taped to the monkey
bars, but here it is accepted as normal. But then, being so overworked before
the holiday comes, you almost spitefully don’t want it, until of course you
finally get there, and you triumphantly clock-out and ride your scooter into
the sunset, singing “Vacation all I ever wanted” by the Go-Go’s.
That’s the backstory, anyway.
So, after working nine out of the past ten days, I clock-in, get my “thank
you,” and walk in with a slightly lighter step at the thought of the upcoming
holiday. My temperature is taken, and one of my students giddily sprays
disinfectant into my awaiting hands. As I walk in, I notice a strange sight.
Sprawled across the green
field, four long, inflated yellow dragons, each with eight pairs of handles for
people to grip while they straddle them. Complete with long black mustaches
and googly eyes, they look cartoonish, and, laying on their sides, they look
tired. Beside them, there are smaller, inflated orange caterpillars with six
sets of handles.
The school bell rings, and
the students slowly coalesce on the quad.
“Attention!” The booming
voice of the student affairs administrator quiets all chatter among the
students.
He explains that there will
be four teams, comprised of students from grades one to five, and that all
grades will use the caterpillar, except grade five, who will use the big
dragon. The goal? Get your dragon (or caterpillar) across the quad, get off so
the next grade can begin, back and forth until all the grades in your team have
completed the relay.
The students get in position
and the first graders straddle their caterpillars.
“Ready…go!”
Hopping desperately, they
bounce up and down, but do not move forward. I encourage my team. “Don’t sit!
Stand up and walk!” But their little legs cannot touch the ground! Quickly
thinking, myself and the other teachers on our team help lift the caterpillar
so they can move. One teacher pulls the caterpillar's head so hard that I am
afraid it is going to pop off. Finally, they make it across, but the second
graders are equally unable to move.
By the time it’s the third
graders’ turn, we are so tired that we can barely cheer them on. Third and
fourth grade goes by fine, until finally it’s time for the fifth graders to
ride the enormous dragon. The dragon is designed for adults, so again the
teachers move in to help. Summoning Herculean strength, one teacher pulls on
the dragon mustache so hard that one half of it pops off! “Oh no, I think we
rented these,” was my first thought. Finally, we bring them across the finish
line.
After the students are done, the teacher’s
race is announced. Apprehensively, I straddle the caterpillar (yes, we decided
the ride the caterpillar), sitting at the second position. In front of me, a
Taiwanese homeroom teacher, a muscular man with a large straw hat to block the
Sun. As the race begins, nobody keeps count for us, so we find our rhythm
slowly, awkwardly. I scramble, and struggle to keep in-sync with the teachers
in front and behind me. We go torpedo-fast, and I am terrified of falling out
of step and tumbling off the damn thing. We make it across the quad, turn
around and charge back toward the school as if we are invaders trying to break
in with a battering ram. Passing the cone that symbolizes the finish line, we
collapse on the ground. I didn’t even see who won, but I laughed at the
absurdity of it all, and felt camaraderie with my team for sharing this
ridiculous experience together.
Sprawled out on the grass, we
have already expended all of the precious energy that we normally ration
throughout the working day.
Winners are announced, prizes
are distributed, and, the event being formally over, the first graders begin to
pile on the big dragon, unable to contain their excitement. Sitting on the
front half of the dragon now, and feeling mischievous, myself and some of the
other teachers jump high into the sky. Upon landing, the force of our butts
shoots the little first graders off of the tail end, followed by high-pitched
shrieks and giggles. It’s a wonderful moment, but soon the bell rings again,
the kids obediently shuffle into their classrooms, the dragons and caterpillars
are deflated and rolled up, and a normal school day commences.
* * *
Even though the day was
normal after that, it did energize me to get through the last day of classes
before the long holiday. More importantly, it made me feel connected to my coworkers
and my students. All of this to celebrate the beginning of the Dragon Boat
Festival, a Chinese tradition dating back thousands of years where
traditionally people will race dragon boats, which are long and can seat many
rowers, and are painted ornately to look like dragons.
The inflatable dragon boats
that we used are not part of mainstream Taiwanese culture, but merely something
fun that my school chose to do. Perhaps they will catch on in the future, but
for now the actual dragon boats in the water are still the dominant culture.
That being said, if the ancient Chinese are looking down, and if they can see
the inflatable dragon/caterpillar shenanigans at my school, they might faint
and fall off their clouds. But all cultures change in subtle ways over time,
the most ancient perhaps being the most susceptible to change.
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