Why Can't They Be Like Me?

Hang it all, let me come right out with it: Why can't the Chinese be more like us?

Yes! Why can't the Chinese be more like us? We are so honest, so thoroughly square; eternally noble, historically fair; why can't the Chinese be like that? Why does every one do what the others do? Why can't they learn to use their heads? Why do they do everything their parents do? Why don't they grow up like Westerners instead? We are so pleasant, so easy to please; whenever you're with us, you're always at ease....

Pickering!!!

Why can't a woman be more like a man?

[Music swells....]

Yes. Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so honest, so thoroughly square;
Eternally noble, historically fair;
Who when you win will always give your back a pat.
Why can't a woman be like that?
Why does ev'ryone do what the others do?
Can't a woman learn to use her head?
Why do they do everything their mothers do?
Why don't they grow up like their father instead?
Why can't a woman take after a man?
Men are so pleasant, so easy to please;
Whenever you're with them, you're always at ease.
Would you be slighted if I didn't speak for hours?

Pickering: Of course not.

Higgins: Would you be livid if I had a drink or two?

Pickering: Nonsense.

Higgins: Would you be wounded if I never sent you flowers?

Pickering: Never.

Higgins: Well, why can't a woman be like you?
One man in a million may shout a bit.
Now and then there's one with slight defects.
One perhaps whose truthfulness you doubt a bit.
But by and large we are a marvelous sex!
Why can't a woman behave like a man?
Men are so friendly, good-natured and kind;
A better companion you never will find.
If I were hours late for dinner, would you bellow?

Pickering: Of course not.

Higgins: If I forgot your silly birthday, would you fuss?

Pickering: Nonsense.

Higgins: Would you complain if I took out another fellow?

Pickering: Never.

Higgins: Well, why can't a woman be like us?
Mrs. Pearce? You're a woman,
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
Men are so decent, such regular chaps.
Ready to help you through any mishaps.
Ready to buck you up whenever you are glum.
Why can't a woman be a chum?
Why is thinking something women never do?
Why is logic never even tried?
Straightening up their hair is all they ever do.
Why don't they straighten up the mess that's inside?
Why can't a woman be more like a man?
If I was a woman who'd been to a ball,
Been hailed as a princess by one and by all;
Would I start weeping like a bathtub overflowing?
Carry on as if my home were in a tree?
Would I run off and never tell me where I'm going?
Why can't a woman be like me?

["A Hymn to Him," from My Fair Lady by Alan Jay Lerner, based on Pygmalion by George Bernard Shaw. http://www.bestweb.net/~foosie/lady.htm]

"It's not the girl at all," I announced to Mr. Meng. "It's Z, isn't it? He's the problem here."

I'd been mystified. Why had this minuscule student discipline issue become such a big deal? Why had the dean made special trips to the campus and spent hours on this silly affair?

The explanation was actually quite simple, though none of you exactly guessed it. (One correspondent, in a blaze of potential insight, proposed: "Mr. Meng has a family with dependent children.") It's just that it was a surprise when the answer finally hit because I'd been searching in the wrong place. It fit so perfectly, everything was suddenly crystal clear.

I had just knocked on Mr. Meng's door to subject my new theory to the test of reality. It was later, that same night, and we were again seated in my room, discussing the affair.

Mr. Meng seemed unprepared to bare his soul, even after seeing me pin the tail on the donkey, but it did emerge that in fact, Z is not just the bottle man but the man in charge at this campus.

"You never told me that," I told Mr. Meng. "You never suggested it."

"My mistake," he acknowledged.

Still, surely Z didn't make decisions about what went on in my classroom? He had no idea what was going on in there.

But Mr. Meng was disinclined to seize this bull by the horns. He implied endorsement of my authority in the classroom (it only made sense), but he had the politician's aversion to abstract principle. His problem was the here and now. Absurdity notwithstanding, Z was convinced of something it was impossible for him to know -- that he'd heard me agree to his decision ("not decision," corrected Mr. Meng -- "opinion") about having the girl in class, pending resolution. And he was intent on having this upheld Wednesday, the next day of class.

If only he'd been there to prevent the misunderstanding between Z and me, Mr. Meng lamented.

Mr. Meng had striven to placate everyone -- giving Z his Wednesday, giving me the girl's head on a platter. But it was the Wednesday that I cared about. To my mind, it was as simple as 1+1=2: I'd told the girl, in front of the class, to either talk to me after class or not come back next time. She had chosen, and I had made my resolution.

Was I too unsympathetic to Mr. Meng's dilemma? No. This was the man who'd set me up for disillusionment when I first arrived by telling me I'd be treated like a king. I don't need people kowtowing before me, but we were now at the opposite extreme, with the school proposing that I retreat from a student's public affronts.

The heart of the problem here, I told Mr. Meng, was really his own propensity for overselling reality and telling people whatever they want to hear: "You have two people, each of whom believes he is in authority. This makes an eventual conflict inevitable. Now you have the predictable problem."

But it was impossible to get him to acknowledge this. Maybe it was too abstract, or maybe it wasn't relevant enough to him for him to listen. We never did explicitly resolve whether Z has authority over how my class is conducted. Mr. Meng was still hung up on Z's conviction that I'd agreed to his decision/opinion.

To give Z what he wants, you're asking me to lose face in front of students, I told him.

Mr. Meng was getting weary. It had gotten late. He got up to leave, saying he would not be afraid to make a hard decision.

"Don't try to make everyone happy," I suggested. "Think about what's right."

He said goodnight and left. No doubt he weighed my excellent advice for all of a microsecond before deciding what to do with it.

I was resolved, naturally, to respect his authority. As long as he made the right decision.

Mr. Meng had intended to communicate his decision the next day, Tuesday, but our discussion was postponed a few times and we didn't end up connecting at all. That gave me a fair idea what the decision was.

Wednesday morning, Jim, my "assistant," materialized as I was starting breakfast (I had another out-of-date Tribune with me). Actually, there has been a clarification. Jim is not my "assistant," but rather someone who, among other duties, is supposed to assist both me and another teacher, who has just arrived from England, with language issues. (Good luck!)

So, Jim asked as he joined me, what was going to happen with the class after breakfast?

Well, it was simple. I'd teach if she wasn't in the room. "It's your job," I told him, "to get her out."

Jim gave me his pained smile and said Mr. Meng wanted to discuss this with me. Could I call him after breakfast?

I rang Mr. Meng's cellphone a short time later and we greeted each other, warmly as always. But about the girl ... he wanted to suggest, he said, that I let her attend class this morning.

It was unfortunate, I responded, that we'd come to this just at the very point that he'd finally obtained a work visa for me.

The significance of this comment was lost on Mr. Meng. But, indeed, he had just met with a senior official of the Public Security Bureau (PSB) a few days earlier and arranged everything in record time. He was scheduled, coincidentally, to pick up my passport and work visa that very day.

And now he was demanding the unacceptable.

I remonstrated for a couple of minutes, but he was insistent. So I told him: "Alright, you want the girl in the classroom? Fine. I quit."

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Wait, he told me. Carry on with your teaching. Toffee's group is first or second this morning? (Luckily it was second.) OK, he said, I'll be back in touch.

When the first group's lesson was finished, later that morning, I was advised that Dean Q had come to the campus to speak with me. Of course, our school does not have only one dean, that would be too simple. It apparently has three. I was unable to ascertain whether Q is above, below or coequal with Mr. Meng; coequal, I think. Mr. Meng later explained that he'd asked Q to deal with the matter because he was sick. (I hope I had nothing to do with that.)

I entered the dean's office, together with Jim, and greeted Q, a courteous lady. Jim was translating, since Q does not speak English. It was put to me that perhaps Toffee could attend the class today.

My response to this was concise. But I stressed -- in short, measured phrases with pauses for translation after each -- that what we had here was in no way a problem for the school. It was a problem with a solitary student.

Q then said she would discuss the problem with Toffee while I taught the class. This resolved the impasse neatly. And she wished to have a follow-up discussion with me afterwards. We agreed to meet the next day, and I went off to teach.

The next morning, I was handed my passport and work visa. Mr. Meng had picked them up the day before, as expected, and they'd just been delivered to this campus. The visa problem, at least, was history.

My meeting with Q, in the early afternoon, was brief and friendly. Jim and Toffee were also present. The problem was solved, Q told me. She said she'd criticized Toffee and told her she was wrong. She added that Toffee had said I was a good teacher, and I'd said she was a good student. Toffee sat, wordless and expressionless, a small, artfully placed green leaf noticeable in her hair. I offered that it was always a good idea to communicate to resolve conflict. In the international context, I said, when nations refuse to communicate, war was often the result. This produced a short burst of laughter from Q. (I don't know why -- excessive loftiness? More likely misunderstanding.)

So, was it over now, I was asked.

Yes, it's settled. (Given how excruciating this had been, I jettisoned my other stipulations.) Toffee can return to class. I thanked Q for her assistance, and the meeting ended.

Mr. Meng and I spoke later on the phone. He mentioned that he'd asked Z to look at it from my point of view. Z was needed at the other campus and was spending a couple of days there.

Now that I've conquered China, there don't seem to be any real challenges left. Oh, except your respect.

I'm sure many or most of my faithful readers will think it was mind-bogglingly stupid of me to be so intransigent. But in such situations, someone has to yield. Why should it be the guy who's right?

I realize the outcome is ambiguous. Maybe I've lost respect rather than preserving it. Maybe great things that awaited me have now been walled off by resentful foes. Maybe Mr. Meng will never invite me for dinner again. Probably our book collaboration is dead (though the project was already looking questionable before).

As for the students, classes with Toffee's group have appeared to be kind of screwed up ever since the resolution, a week ago. The class has seemed unable, or resolutely unwilling, to concentrate on the material or volunteer answers to the simplest questions. Another teacher has also commented that there seems to be something wrong with the A group, while the B's are fine. As always, reasons are unclear. Can it be that this event has psychologically disrupted the entire group? I don't know if there is any connection. One of the students in that group with whom I'm friendly insists there is no connection. But who can say? The thing is, most of these kids are not terribly energetic at the best of times.

If there is a connection, maybe being confronted with this experience will be a worthwhile component of their education.

I was told in yesterday's class that one of Toffee's close friends, who'd been attending classes intermittently since the resolution, is in hospital with a stomach ailment. I've seen Toffee herself on campus, seemingly healthy, but she hasn't set foot in any of the four classes I've taught her group since the resolution, even though I've sent word through intermediaries that she's welcome to return. Yesterday morning I inquired of another of her friends and was told she has a "headache."

The B group has been normal, friendly and fun, and we have been making our usual progress. Yesterday we had another test. An excerpt:

"Look my lad, I've had just about enough of this. That parrot is definitely deceased, and when I bought it not half an hour ago, you assured me that its total lack of movement was due to it being tired and shagged out after a long squawk."

This refers to an explanation that A) the pet shop owner gave to the customer; B) the customer gave to the owner.

This is an attempt (an effort) to explain A) a long squawk; B) the lack of movement; C) that the parrot is deceased; D) why the parrot will never squawk again.

The owner nailed the parrot to its perch to A) stop it from talking too much; B) stop it from flying away; C) make it appear to be alive; D) save its lovely plumage.

The following pronouncement by the customer marks a turning point in the sketch, as it makes it clear to the owner that his efforts to argue that the bird is alive are doomed:

Mr. Praline : It's not pinin,' it's passed on! This parrot is no more! It has ceased to be! It's expired and gone to meet its maker! This is a late parrot! It's a stiff! Bereft of life, it rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed him to the perch he would be pushing up the daisies! Its metabolical processes are of interest only to historians! It's hopped the twig! It's shuffled off this mortal coil! It's run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible! This.... is an EX-PARROT!

It'd be a shame to leave the allusion unexplained. I distributed the following yesterday; we discuss it next Monday:

To be, or not to be,--that is the question:--
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?--To die,--to sleep,--
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,--'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die,--to sleep;--
To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,--
The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,--puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

[From Project Gutenberg website -- http://promo.net/pg.]