It was, however, a different story when I was with my students. They and I were good friends. When I taught freshman Chinese as a required course, I used a textbook of classical prose. The freshmen were mostly young boys and girls aged between 17 and 20. Freshman Chinese was taught in five classes, each consisting of 30 to 40 students hailing from various places of China. Those from Fujian and Guangdong had difficulty in understanding the heavily accented speech of teachers like Ma Jian (Dean), Zhou Zuoren, Shen Yinmo, Gu Shui and Guo Shaoyu who all came from places south of the Yangtse River. Consequently, some of these students were transferred to my class through the arrangements of the Dean’s Office. Looking down from the rostrum, I was delighted by a multitude of rosy-faced naïve young students smiling and staring curiously at me — the little teacher. Their smiles were by no means unfamiliar to me, being similar to those I often saw on the faces of my younger brothers and younger female cousins. Often, when I opened the roll-call book and asked them each to give their own names, I corrected their accents one by one. Thus, between laughter and chat, we came to know each other better and were soon on friendly terms. The first composition they did was “My Autobiography”. I let them write on this subject because, firstly, everybody always had got something to say on it and, secondly, it would afford me a good opportunity to understand each student’s family background, habit, disposition, etc. I only put marks but never gave comments on the papers after reading them. Instead I laid emphasis on holding outside-class individual talks with them lasting not more than 30 minutes. They would tell me how they had done the composition, and I would express my opinion on it. And we would both feel pleased with the frank exchange of views.
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