methinks

The W612

I sat in my bedroom thumbing the defects of my new tripod for the last time. It was junk, a toy, hardly better than a crooked tree branch. The head wasn't level. The mounting bracket was loose. The legs were flimsy and unsteady. Other than holding the camera off the ground, it didn't do anything a tripod should. But I had bought it nonetheless and had been brooding over it for a week since. But the time for brooding was done. It was time for the return.

Pacing in my apartment, I began hardening myself for the battle to come. Faulty tripods are not easily returned. Faulty tripods sold dear to ignorant foreigners are all but impossible to return. I infuriated myself with thoughts of money wasted. One hundred Yuan. That's ten days of food. That's fourteen DVDs. I practiced my squint of sour disgust and warmed up my over-the-head fist shake. When I was certain my rolling-eyes of utter disdain were ready for action, I snatched up the so-called tripod and thundered down the stairs into the dregs of feeble-hearted humanity. They felt my fire and feared it. Victory would surely be mine.

I paused before the camera shop door, masked my rage - this was to be an ambush return - and entered as casually, as problem free as always. I slipped over to the accessories section on the left, the tripod dangling ever so nonchalantly at my side, to speak with the man who sold it to me. Early forties, bald, pudgy, exceedingly effeminate, I knew this man was not my real enemy. He was just a pawn, someone to soil his hands with customers. The real battle would come from the two old witches rooted behind the register in the back, their balloons of hairdos streaked with gaudy highlights. They were the type of women who would haggle over pennies. The type who knew the exact amount in the till at any given moment. The type who don't take returns.

I had no sooner spoken the word "return" to the pudgy man when the witches began slithering secrets to each other. My Chinese is not so good, but it sounded like, "We haves spents his moneys on bat's brains and toad's warts to makes our potions. We can'ts gives hims his moneys. No my lovelys, we cant's." Then with their heads still bent in conspiracy, they shot their gaze at me. They were waiting for me to break, to fold, to show my weakness. But I had come prepared. I thwarted them with my rolling-eyes of utter disdain, grabbing their gaze and casting it aside with my glance. They shuddered at my strength and trilled to the pudgy man, "Stalls him!"

"Perhaps you'd like to look at another model, sir."

"No thanks, I'd like to return this one."

"Perhaps this unit is defective, sir. We'll have someone run to the warehouse and get a new one. Then we'll see."

I would never fall for the upgrade-return, where you "return" something but only after buying something more expensive. Only amateurs would succumb to such a trick, but he had me cornered with the defective-unit argument. I was resolved to not accept a replacement, but I had to wait until the lackey returned from the so-called warehouse. He wasn't willing to discuss the issue further until he did. The pudgy man called out the model number to an underfed young man, the witches said something more to the boy, and he ran out the door at a pace only fear can keep. I tried to stop the charade with my squint of sour disgust, but the wheels were already in motion. I'd have to wait.

They left me to stand alone for nearly fifteen minutes, sizing me up, looking for my weakness, hoping I'd drop my guard when at last the boy returned with a replacement. A quick glance revealed that it was equally flawed; I made my case to the pudgy man and readied my over-the-head fist shake. But I never needed it. The pudgy man smiled - an odd, knowing smile - and conceded. "I am sorry for the trouble, sir. Here is your one hundred Yuan back." My heart wanted to swell with the pride of victory, but my mind told me something was wrong. It was too easy. The witches were silent. The pudgy man smiled still. I knew I must take the money and leave quickly before they had time to work their witchcraft. I shoved the money in my coat pocket and turned to exit. But I was too late, for there he was, directly behind me...The Professional Photographer.

He was not old, but he was worn. Worn by wind, by rain, by war, by a life hunting for honest images. He wore a leather jacket with creases to match his face and a tattered canvas bag over his shoulder, the tools of his trade. He looked at me with his right eye wide open, his left eye squinted nearly shut, as if he was permanently framing his next shot. Maybe it was his squinty eye, or maybe it was his silent, half-cocked grin, but he had the presence of a great pirate captain, that twinkle of the eyes that says, "I know I'm gonna win, but it won't make me enjoy this fight no less."

"This is no good. Too light," he said, picking up the tripod I had just returned.

"I know," I replied.

"It can't stand up to the winds here. We have some big winds around here."

"You're right."

"Plus it's just weak all around. It's junk."

"Yeah, I know. I just returned it."

"So what are you going to get instead?"

"Nothing," I said with faltering confidence.

"Nothing?!" he blasted, "A photographer has to have a tripod. You have to get something."

"No, I don't think I need it. I don't take those kinds of pictures," I said trying to convince us both.

"Don't need it?" He paused for a moment. "Yeah, you're probably right. You don't need it."

With that sentence, I was defeated. If he needed one, of course I needed one too. All respectable photographers have a solid tripod. My brain would struggle for a few more minutes, try to talk myself out of it, but if my heart had hands it would have started forking over the money right then. The witches saw my guard fall and began to writhe with delight in their seats. The pudgy man let out a descending arpeggio of girlish giggles. The photographer went on, "Of course, if you did need one, I'd recommend the W612 here. It's what all the professionals in China use. It's what I use." The pudgy man handed it to me. The W612.

Tubular aluminum, three-way head, geared and braced center column, single action leg locks. Nice. The photographer showed me what she could do. She had durability graced with versatility. It even came with a custom made multi-tool to tightly secure all its moving parts. It's what all the professionals in China use. It even said "Professional Tripod" right there on the tubular aluminum leg. I feebly asked the pudgy man, "How much does this one cost?" "For you, my friend, I can sell it for 250 Yuan." More than twice what I paid for the last one!

That jolt was enough to give my brain a chance to form arguments against buying it.

"It's too heavy," I told the photographer.

"It's not heavy. It's solid."

"I won't want to take it with me because of the weight."

"I carry it all day everyday."

"I am not that strong."

"Eat potatoes. You'll be strong."

That last comment made me start to think this man had been in the darkroom one day too many, but by this point resistance was futile. I had the W612 slung over my shoulder in it's custom nylon sack to see if it would be a burden to carry. I guess it wasn't because I gave back the 100 Yuan that had been returned to me plus another 130 (I talked the pudgy man down 20 Yuan), said goodbye to my photography mentor and walked out of the store the proud owner of the W612 Professional Tripod.

I didn't go straight home. I had to walk around town for a bit, test the bag out, let people know I knew a thing or two about taking pictures. I'd give a glance that said, "You think any old chump would cough up 230 Yuan on a tripod, a professional tripod. Not unless he knew what he was doing, that's for damn sure." I ate some lunch then got my hair cut. I could feel my skill increasing with every moment I carried the W612. After an hour of schlepping the thing around, however, my shoulder started to get tired. I thought about going to the market for some potatoes, but decided a rest at home would be just as effective.

I came into my house and slid the tripod off my shoulder like I'd done it a thousand times before, like it was natural and necessary for me to have such a tripod. I took it into my bed room and propped it up against the wall near my camera case. The sooner they got acquainted the better. They'd be doing lots of work together.

That was over a month ago, and I haven't touched it since. It's kinda heavy, and I just don't take those types of pictures. No sense in returning it though. I'd probably come home with a bigger one and a set of studio lights to go along.

~{f]H;R;Im~}

(To see the Chinese characters, go to: View > Encoding > Chinese > hz-gb2312)

I am now one man alone in the world. David has moved to Chengdu to study, and I remain to finish what I started.

It is both frightening and liberating. When you live so close to someone (across the hall), someone who is also an outsider in a reserved society, it is hard not to pair-off and see each other - as my students like to put it - as partners. You take meals together. You go on holidays together. You isolate and shield each other from challenging social situations. And the community completes the circle by labeling you as 'partners'. Inviting you as a pair. Expecting you to know the whereabouts of the other any time you are apart (which you probably do). So with David's departure, I not only lose a friend, but I lose my excuse. The circle is broken. It is no longer us and them, but just me living in China. I must improve my Chinese. I must make more friends, or I will remain one man alone in the world. It's a scary prospect.

But at the same time it has given me a new freedom. Living with Americans - first Alf, then David - gave me a 'safe' environment. But you can't leave the pavement with your training wheels on. Life will have its bumps, but in the end I hope it's a good ride.

The Great Divide

We say that all men are created equal. But whatever equality God granted men, he did not offer it to students. This is hardly an insight; anyone who has spent any time getting any education can tell you that there are good students and bad students, or as cautious teachers like to say, there are more experienced students and less experienced students. What you might not realize, however, is that this division - the Great Divide, I like to call it - has the potential to be the most detrimental factor in a class and, more seriously, for an entire education system.

On the class level, a teacher must decide where to set the bar. How many pages can a student read per day? How much can they remember? This task becomes easier with experience, but the fundamental ethical issue always remains. Who do you leave behind, and who do you hold back? If you teach to the top of the class, the bottom has no chance. If you teach to the bottom, you are wasting the top's time. You might say, "Teach to the middle. That'd be just right." And I'd agree it is the best compromise for the whole class and would strongly recommend it for fundamental skills like elementary school. But what if you're teaching AP Calculus? Honestly, who is ever going to use calculus later in their life except the top of the class? Shouldn't the teacher cater to them? Or what if you teach American Culture to fifty students in poor, Guizhou, China? I don't know.

This problem doesn't stop at the class level. The educational model we use in America, i.e. mandatory 'education for all' funded primarily though property taxes, dates back to our Puritan roots. And while it might be the perfect system for educating the village children in the four Rs - reading, writing, arithmetic, and religion - it starts to break down in a modern society of millions. You see, in America we think that everyone deserves the chance at a well-rounded high school education. I agree. I think that's ideal. The problem is that we expect everyone to emerge from that system educated. And when they don't, we put more efforts into crafting minimum skills tests and teaching the students how to pass them and less effort into further challenging the students who already have these basic skills.

When money is wasted, everyone points a finger. There are those who argue that it is the nation's worst schools which are bringing down the average. That is just insecure schools trying to stir up enough dust to cover their own faults. There are those who'd blame parental apathy. Are parents today so much different than generations gone by? That seems like insecure parents applying their efforts in the wrong direction. Of course, everyone wants to blame the government for lack of funds in general. Sure, we could do a lot of things with more money, but maybe the problem isn't how much we are given, but where we are asked to spend it.

I am not a real educator. I have no degrees in the field and have only a year and a half's experience and that all in China. But it seems to me that are several underlying conflicts that have caused all the stir.

First, it seems that a greater percentage of the population stays in school for all 13 years. With the bulk of our mindless manual labor jobs moving overseas, what other options does one have but to stay in school. The lure of the steel mill is all but gone. I mean, how many films set circa 1950 have the scene with "Pops" tussling his sons butch-waxed flat top while beaming, "Timmy Ray here is the first Berndale to graduate high school." I think this effect could be skewing the statistics. It's not that high school aged students are scoring lower, just that the lowest scorers are now taking the test. (I have no number to back this; just a theory.)

Second, we are asking schools to simultaneously hold two bars. One the one hand, ever since the Cold War schools have been charged with cranking out the next generation of nuclear physicist. Rote memorization of Latin vocabulary was tossed out the window and the holy grail of critical reasoning was ushered in as the educational panacea of the next millennium. On the other hand, schools must now ensure that the bottom of the class can graduate with whatever has been determined to be 'basic skills'. If you're from a school of means, that's not really a problem. You offer AP and Honor classes for the top, Average for the middle, and Remedial for the bottom. Everyone wins. But what if you can only afford one? You're not going to meet the needs of someone. And that takes us to the marrow of the problem.

As an educational system - a philosophy of education - we are not meeting the needs of our students. It's not that basic reading, writing and math are beyond the students' levels, or that the teachers are not qualified or that schools are too crowded. The problem is that the context in which these skills are presented is useless to these students. High school is preparation for college. The rest of the world (in my limited experience) is very open about this. Chinese students spend their entire senior year of high school preparing for their college entrance exam (if they even make it to high school). Germany has stratified their secondary education system into three levels: college prep, trade school and everyone else. But in America we put on airs and try to convince ourselves that a full four years of high school is necessary for our sophisticated daily life. Reading is essential, true, but is reading The Scarlet Letter (freshman English at my high school)? Math is essential, but is the ability to calculate the number of possible combinations of n digits going to help you solve a unit cost problem (freshman algebra...and by the way, the grocery store gives you the unit cost now, so that whole argument is out the window)? But no matter what the curriculum, English and Math only make up 2 of a possible 6 or 7 classes. What about the 'non-essential' skills? Why do we trap students who'd rather be elsewhere, learning other things, doing other things, within this seemingly irrelevant context? How does a teacer know where to set the bar, when some students won't even jump?

Now is when a good essay should answer some of the questions it has asked. Yeah...I guess this isn't really a good essay. I should read more and write less.

Happy New Year!