4.d 正确对待老师

Make Time Your Friend 4.d: Treating Teachers the Right Way

> By Li Xiaolai · 2008-05-19 · [Original (web archive)](https://web.archive.org/web/20110927235240/http://www.lixiaolai.com/archives/437.html) (Chinese)
> Our translation from the Chinese original.

When I first planned to write a series of articles about time for students to read, I thought carefully about what attitude I should write with. The most important thing was: I absolutely should not take a high-and-mighty attitude, because I don't dare be high and mighty; heaven is somewhere you can go only after you die. Every day I tell myself, "Don't put on airs, never put on airs. You've got nothing to put on airs about anyway."

For teachers, authority is of course very important. Almost all the teachers I know care especially about their authority; they hope their authority will make every word they say hard and shiny, so that thrown at the sky it's like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and dropped on the ground it makes the earth quake and the mountains shake. But dignity and respect, credibility and honor, are all won through action, and shouldn't be obtained through pretense or intimidation. Many teachers actually don't deserve to be teachers, because they obtain the illusion of being high above through pretense. Occasionally I meet teachers who are truly awesome through and through, but more often what I see are teachers who have pretended until they believe it themselves. Some other teachers are really detestable, because they're so insecure that they often win "awe" by means of intimidation, with no regard at all for the widespread, irreparable damage it may do to young minds. These teachers deserve to be spanked; unfortunately, there's no correspondingly sound system that can be used to deal with them.

However, for students, what's more important is avoiding another trap—**don't refuse to learn because you dislike the teacher.** This is one of the most common phenomena. Many students, merely because they dislike their English teacher, start to lose interest in learning English. According to the law of normal distribution, in any one stage you can only ever meet one best teacher, plus many mediocre teachers, and one or two who may even be hateful—believe me, they hate you too, if [Translator's note: the original writes 如 ("as"), standing for 如果 ("if"); translated by the intended sense] you hate them; everyone is very sensitive about this. Should you then study seriously only the course taught by the teacher you consider best? Doing so is obviously absurd. You must remember this sentence—"No matter what, don't and shouldn't punish yourself for others' mistakes; doing so is not only wrong but stupid."

There are also a few phenomena that must be mentioned. Many people's ideas are too distorted when they look for teachers. Many people waste too much time and too many opportunities because there's something wrong with the way they view teachers.

First, **you shouldn't depend on teachers too much.** Sometimes I can tell that some students aren't asking a teacher for help, but actually hoping the teacher is a fairy from a fairy tale, or a matchless master from a martial-arts novel. I don't think this idea comes from reading too many stories—actually there's only one reason: being fragile inside, unable to accept reality yet anxious to escape an awkward situation while actually being unwilling to pay any price. Such a student, in essence, doesn't even want the teacher to explain any principles to him (even if the teacher does, he can only explain principles countless other teachers have long since explained one after another); what he wants is to get a magic pill, gulp it down with a glass of cooled boiled water, and from then on be different from everyone, completely renewed, a new person. Don't depend on teachers too much. Teachers aren't gods. Asking teachers to be dedicated is very reasonable, but asking teachers to be responsible is not right and proper by nature; in fact, even the best teacher can only do the part he can do well—try his best to teach well.

Second, **understand that "doing it best" and "teaching it best" are often not the same thing at all.** Far too many students have excessively high demands of teachers. He hopes his teacher is a top figure, even top in every respect. In my several years of teaching at New Oriental, I often saw an especially amusing phenomenon: the weaker the class's foundation, the higher the students' demands of the teacher. By the TOEFL and GRE classes, a teacher like me, with "terribly" bad pronunciation, could actually be very popular—you should know that teaching New Concept English or a CET-4 exam prep class with an accent like mine could very possibly get me booed off the stage. Can you imagine why this is? The less people have seen, the more they like to use everything they've seen as the basis of judgment, with no regard at all for the limits of what they've seen; in fact, they don't even know that what they've seen has limits.

The teacher who "teaches it best" can surely do it, but is often not the one who "does it best." The person who "does it best" usually may not even necessarily be able to teach, let alone "teach it best." Think about it: did Pavarotti's teacher sing better than Pavarotti?—that teacher didn't necessarily have such a wide natural range, did he? But he could produce a Pavarotti. Could Tyson's coach beat Tyson?—that coach probably didn't have such fast punches, did he? But he could train the boxing champion Tyson. Must Ronaldo's coach have better ball skills than Ronaldo?—not necessarily, right? But he not only taught Ronaldo; many other football stars were also his students.

Finally, **measuring a teacher by your own learning results is often incorrect.** Many people use their own learning results to measure teachers, and the learning methods and content the teachers teach. This seems fairly reasonable. But the problem is that a teacher is to a student often as [Translator's note: the original writes 至于 ("as for"); 之于 ("is to") is meant; translated by the intended sense] a doctor is to a patient. Sometimes the doctor's touch cures the illness at once: but another situation is equally very common: whether the patient's illness can be cured at the root is not something the doctor can decide—the patient may have a terminal illness, or the precondition for the patient's recovery is that he actively cooperate with treatment. So, as a patient, you may perhaps say to the doctor, "Quick, find me some suitable medicine to make my cold symptoms disappear at once!" But a patient certainly won't, and shouldn't, say to the doctor, "If you can't cure my stomach ulcer within three months, you'll not only have to refund my medical fees but also compensate me for emotional distress!"

The misunderstandings mentioned above are absolutely not limited to a few students. In fact, most students are like this. It sounds a bit abstract, but it really is so: the existence and activity of each individual affects and causes the existence and activity of one or more other individuals, or even groups. These misunderstandings of students directly or indirectly provoke responses from a considerable part of the teaching body—some teachers always do everything possible, even resorting to deception, to make students feel they're a cut above, and in the end the victims are still the students themselves—yet what's laughable and lamentable is that on careful observation it turns out to be Zhou Yu flogging Huang Gai [Translator's note: a Three Kingdoms story in which the beating was a ruse both men agreed to; i.e., both sides were willing]. And so teachers are all selfless and morally noble, all keep themselves clean and stick to principle…… But is that possible? Teachers are human too, and especially as a group, all kinds of human nature are bound to show—but under the "superhuman standards" of students, parents, colleagues, leaders and the whole society, the degree of distortion is beyond measure. Many scholars say bluntly that the top three most hypocritical groups in this world are: clergy, teachers, and politicians.

What needs adding is that **any teacher, whoever it is, makes mistakes sometimes.** Many times I tell students, "Please, don't call me Teacher Li; it sounds like Master Li—Li X-zhi." [Translator's note: the name is masked in the original; it points to Li Hongzhi, founder of Falun Gong, whose followers call him "Master Li."] It sounds like a joke, but in fact this sentence contains a wish full of every flavor, bitter, spicy, sour and sweet: could you just judge whether what I'm saying makes sense? If it does, listen; if it doesn't, forget it—of course, I have my own professional ethics; I won't say things that make no sense. If what I say turns out to be wrong, believe me, I really didn't do it on purpose—every day I try everything possible to avoid this kind of thing. But no matter how careful I am, I'll make mistakes—this is something that will never be any different just because I'm a teacher.

I've mispronounced a great many words—I have a notebook recording more than 200 words I've once mispronounced; to give one example at random: facade, which I once read as ['faekeid] (it's actually [f3'sa:d]); a couple of days ago I also met another teacher, one who lectures quite well, who read specific as ['spesifik] (it's actually [sp3'sifik]), but this doesn't mean anything more; this teacher is one of the teachers with the most penetrating thinking I've ever met.

I've mentioned countless times in class that the reason the distance between the rails of American railroads today is 4 feet 8 inches is actually related to the width of the backsides of the Romans' warhorses two thousand years ago—using this as an example to warn students that today's mistakes will inevitably lead to tomorrow's embarrassment. But today, while looking up material for my writing, I happened to discover that this example is purely a case of errors passed on and amplified!

I'll always remember one scene. It was several years ago, when my first book, *Breaking Through Core TOEFL Vocabulary in 21 Days* (《托福核心词汇21天突破》), had been out for less than three months. A little girl with an aggrieved-looking face came up to the lectern holding my book and asked me, "Teacher, are there mistakes in this book?" I didn't hesitate for a second: "Of course!" I clearly remember her look as she was taken aback for a moment, and the way she lowered her head, turned and went back without saying anything. For some complicated reason, I didn't call her back then; I just let her go.

Dictionaries revised countless times by so many top experts still have frequent errors (whether slips of the pen or printing errors); how could something written by an ordinary person like me have no errors? So in the postscript to the reprint of that book I wrote: "Writing a book isn't too hard; what's really hard is writing a book without errors—in fact it's basically impossible. But my luck lies in having enthusiastic readers—which makes me feel that something originally impossible at least has a glimmer of hope." To this day, each time that book is reprinted, it needs revising, and I reckon it will need revising next time too.

The reason I'll always remember that scene is that in that instant I saw the child's disappointment. I understand how much, at her age, she wanted a 100% correct direction and guidance. Perhaps it was my forcefulness on the lectern that gave her hope, and made her feel she had finally found something. Yet later she actually found that my book had errors too! When she came up, somewhat unwillingly, to ask me that question, it was actually a bit of a last struggle, and my blunt answer, "Of course!", who knows how disappointed it made her.

That made me very sad. But I was also rather powerless—I couldn't lie just so as not to hurt her, could I?! Being a genuine person, as far as possible, has long been my wish. What I hate most are people who cover up the truth. Although not every truth must be made public, there are always some truths that should be. Much of the time, not knowing the truth is the ultimate root of all distorted psychology.

Once I saw in the news that some parents thought *The Legend of Red Cat and Blue Rabbit* (《红猫蓝兔七侠传》) [Translator's note: the original writes the first 虹 ("rainbow") as 红 ("red") here; the cartoon's title is 《虹猫蓝兔七侠传》, as given in the next sentence] was too violent and bloody and posted online about it, which eventually led to the cartoon *The Legend of Rainbow Cat and Blue Rabbit* being taken off the air on February 26, 2007. My view is that these parents' thinking and actions are understandable, of course, but what's the use of doing this? Is putting children under a glass dome sure to be fine? American TV shows *Prison Break*, *The Sopranos* and *Big Love* all day long—so is America in chaos? Have the children all been polluted? Have the children failed to grow up healthy? Why be so afraid of children learning the truth about the world? However you cover it up, sooner or later they'll find out. If they don't, it's even worse—because what they'll end up with is only a distorted truth.

I have to admit my talent is ordinary. Many students like me, even like me very much. They give me the highest marks on evaluation forms—so I also often boast that I'm the most popular teacher, and then stress: note, without "one of the." That boast just now is merely a way of amusing myself. In fact, however, I often forcibly warn myself—don't develop illusions! What most students like is not me, but the me they see on the lectern. If a story has at least three versions: yours, mine, and the true one, then I probably have at least three versions too: offstage, onstage, and the one students see. So I have to accept this fact: much of the time, that liking, that evaluation, is actually based only on misunderstanding.

I should even say more frankly that in every respect I acknowledge my aptitude really is average. I'm ugly and not tall; my voice is unpleasant and I sing off key; I've memorized a great many English words, but my pronunciation will probably never be standard or pleasant in my whole life; my intelligence is average; on the TOEFL I haven't always been able to get full marks on the parts other than the essay, and I got full marks on the essay because ETS's question bank is public, so I could prepare fully in advance; I work very conscientiously and do things very diligently, but at 35 I've only escaped poverty for a few years, and to this day I haven't shaken off middle-class status; I even have to admit that my character is average, at least not that noble, and it was only after thirty that I began to have the ability and the means to slowly weed out some despicable thoughts; of course, even today I have to struggle constantly—often needing to quiet down alone and "fiercely combat any flash of selfish thought."

But my average aptitude doesn't affect, at least not entirely, my ability to think. Actually, if you're willing to observe carefully, you'll easily see: IQ and the ability to think don't seem to be entirely linked. Ever since, at 26, I accidentally discovered that I actually didn't know how to think, I've been struggling—struggling every day. So my average aptitude doesn't prevent the results of my thinking from making sense. The reason I write these things is simply that I feel my writing ability can basically put things I've thought through clearly into words correctly.

Finally, what needs stressing is that much of the time, whether a teacher's lecture is wonderful actually has a great deal to do with the students themselves. In *The Road Less Traveled*, the psychologist Scott Peck spends a great deal of ink describing an experience of his own of attending a lecture.

> [Translator's note: quoted by the author: from M. Scott Peck's The Road Less Traveled, as given in Chinese translation; not Li Xiaolai's own words.] ……Not long ago, I went to hear a lecture by a well-known person on a topic I'm especially interested in, one I had long dabbled in and thought about. Not long after the speaker began, I realized he was no ordinary person; everything he said was real insight, and he offered a great many concrete, vivid examples. I listened especially attentively; he spoke for about an hour and a half, and I listened with sweat pouring down my head, taking notes desperately. What he said was rich and profound; I estimated I could absorb at most less than half of it, but I had already benefited greatly.
>
> After the lecture, the audience all went to a tea party. I walked around among the cultured people at the tea party, listening to their impressions and opinions. I found that most people were disappointed in the lecture; they had come because of his reputation, but felt they had gained nothing. They didn't understand most of the lecture and thought the speaker wasn't the kind of first-rate orator they had hoped for. One woman even said, "What on earth did he talk about? He didn't say anything of value!" The people beside her nodded one after another, expressing agreement with her.
>
> I couldn't agree with their view. (The difference may lie in the fact that) I was very interested in his topic and hoped to improve my understanding by listening to the lecture. I was willing to think about the speaker's every word, recognized the effort he had put into the lecture, and was also willing to make an effort for the maturing of my mind……

I have to admit that some teachers really are very low-grade, but just as when we go to a bookstore to buy books, how could every book we bring back be the most wonderful? And even among those wonderful books, how could every word be worth a thousand gold, every word a pearl? In fact, if even one sentence in a book we bring back gives us a pleasant surprise, brings us thought, brings us change, it has already paid for the book. So sometimes you need to pay attention to your own mindset. There's a dialogue about Chan Master Foyin and Su Dongpo sitting in meditation that makes the same point.

> [Translator's note: quoted by the author: a traditional story; not Li Xiaolai's own words.] One day, Chan Master Foyin was teaching Su Dongpo to sit in meditation. The two sat facing each other for a while; then Su Dongpo had an idea and asked Chan Master Foyin:
> "Looking at me sitting here, what do I look like?"
> "Like a Buddha!" Chan Master Foyin answered calmly.
> Just as Su Dongpo was feeling pleased with himself, Chan Master Foyin happened to ask him back:
> "What do you think I look like?"
> Su Dongpo thought he had seized his chance and answered:
> "Like a pile of cow dung."
> After Su Dongpo got home, he told his younger sister, Su Xiaomei, how he had humiliated Foyin.
> But who would have thought [Translator's note: the original writes 那里 ("there"); 哪里 (as in 哪里知道, "who would have thought") is meant; translated by the intended sense] that his sister, on hearing it, would shake her head, sigh, and say to him:
> "Brother! You've lost again! Master Foyin has the Buddha in his heart, so he sees you as a Buddha; you have cow dung in your heart, brother, so you see the master as a pile of cow dung. Out of the master's mouth walked a Buddha; out of your mouth, brother, came a pile of cow dung."

I once mocked certain teachers like this:

> Some people haven't fully evolved. Yet they actually became teachers. I can't imagine such a picture: a big monkey teaching a group of little monkeys—what I can imagine is how much torment those few little monkeys who actually have the potential to evolve into humans in the future must suffer?!

But if you happen to be that tormented little monkey with potential, you must take my advice:

> First, those old monkeys, big monkeys, and little monkeys destined to stay monkeys forever, if they're tormenting you, really aren't doing it on purpose.
>
> Second, those old monkeys, big monkeys, and little monkeys destined to stay monkeys forever actually can't hinder your evolution at all, unless you're willing to be held back by them and end up just like them.
>
> Finally, barring accidents, wherever you are in this life, at whatever level, you're bound to meet countless old monkeys, big monkeys, and little monkeys destined to stay monkeys forever.
>
> Don't be afraid; in the end you'll produce a little monkey of your own too, and then it'll depend on what you yourself really are.

So meeting monkeys isn't frightening; what's frightening is giving up, out of hatred or disgust, the right and the will to evolve yourself, and in the end being nothing but a monkey until you die. Also, be sure to remember: even monkeys are sometimes very right.

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