Upbeat chatter of middle school students fills the dusty air and floats through my open window. Having my bed directly below the only cooling source in the room has its pros and cons. The twelve-hour time zone difference hit me hard, and I was sneaking in a power nap between the last class of the day and dinnertime. The children get about an hour of free period every day during this time to be apart of clubs or exercise. Just as I was about to fall asleep, I heard a familiar sound: the tuning of string instruments.
Having played violin for ten years, I was incredibly excited at the possibility of being able to help the children with more than just English. Music, after all, is a universal language. I hopped out of bed, shook off my fatigue, and wandered out into the courtyard to find the source of the violins. Through the back courtyard and in the abandoned school building, there was a classroom with an open window. Thirteen students ranging from seventh to ninth grade were plucking away at their instruments. I recognized some of the kids from my class and some from the basketball courts during class changes. As I entered the building, I realized that both doors were locked. Confused, I asked a teacher how the children got into the rooms. She informed me that she had lost the keys to the room, and since today was Wednesday, the violin students had to jump through the open window to enter. I followed her back into the courtyard and like the schoolchildren, climbed into the room.
Upon entering, I was greeted with a swarm of violin students. One boy looked significantly older and wasn’t wearing the school uniform. He introduced himself as their volunteer teacher. Dressed in a Polo shirt and pressed khakis with a new Samsung Galaxy S6 in his hand, his tall thin frame towered over the children. As he flashed a smile, I realized that he has braces—a rare sight in China.
“Hi there,” he held out his hand. Pointing to my Duke Crew shirt, he asked, “Are you from Duke University?” His English was incredibly fluent, with barely an accent.
“Yeah, I’m a student there,” I replied.
I explained that violin was a huge part of my upbringing and my involvement in school orchestras was instrumental to my identity. Even though I didn’t have time at college to continue playing the violin, I always pick it up when I’m home. He was incredibly interested in my college application process and asked if I heard about the Stanford Youth Orchestra. He had recently been accepted to the summer program and even though he is only a sophomore in high school in Beijing, he has high hopes of attending Stanford. He’s been to America several times with his parents and he loves American universities. Naturally, his questions were about the SATs, the Common Application essay, the Early Decision process, etc. I didn’t mind telling him about my college application process, but it felt so out of place at Dandelion.
All around us were middle school children of migrant parents whose hopes were of making it to high school. Many of my students have never even considered going to America for college. My own parents have advanced degrees and I have grown up with stories of the top schools. I visited Duke University when I was ten years old and fell in love. Whenever we passed by a top university on road trips, my dad would make sure we visited the campus. It’s always been in my head that one day I could go to my dream school. But in a city of 11.51 million, a city distinctly marked off by five rings, there is a clear disparity between the economic classes.
Dandelion rests on the outskirts of the fifth ring, the outermost ring from Beijing’s city center. I asked how long it takes for the violin-teaching volunteer to get to the school.
“About two hours with traffic,” he replied. “I go to a school inside the third ring. But the commute isn’t that bad. My school even allows me to skip half my classes on Wednesday afternoon to come and teach the children.” He smiles.
It suddenly dawned on me how volunteers help shape Dandelion’s culture. The children are constantly interacting with both international and domestic volunteers of various socioeconomic backgrounds. Because of their migrant status, many of the children are ineligible to attend the public high schools in Beijing. It saddened me that even in the music room, where I had hoped to find a common, universal language, I met such disparity in socioeconomic standards.
Having played violin for ten years, I was incredibly excited at the possibility of being able to help the children with more than just English. Music, after all, is a universal language. I hopped out of bed, shook off my fatigue, and wandered out into the courtyard to find the source of the violins. Through the back courtyard and in the abandoned school building, there was a classroom with an open window. Thirteen students ranging from seventh to ninth grade were plucking away at their instruments. I recognized some of the kids from my class and some from the basketball courts during class changes. As I entered the building, I realized that both doors were locked. Confused, I asked a teacher how the children got into the rooms. She informed me that she had lost the keys to the room, and since today was Wednesday, the violin students had to jump through the open window to enter. I followed her back into the courtyard and like the schoolchildren, climbed into the room.
Upon entering, I was greeted with a swarm of violin students. One boy looked significantly older and wasn’t wearing the school uniform. He introduced himself as their volunteer teacher. Dressed in a Polo shirt and pressed khakis with a new Samsung Galaxy S6 in his hand, his tall thin frame towered over the children. As he flashed a smile, I realized that he has braces—a rare sight in China.
“Hi there,” he held out his hand. Pointing to my Duke Crew shirt, he asked, “Are you from Duke University?” His English was incredibly fluent, with barely an accent.
“Yeah, I’m a student there,” I replied.
I explained that violin was a huge part of my upbringing and my involvement in school orchestras was instrumental to my identity. Even though I didn’t have time at college to continue playing the violin, I always pick it up when I’m home. He was incredibly interested in my college application process and asked if I heard about the Stanford Youth Orchestra. He had recently been accepted to the summer program and even though he is only a sophomore in high school in Beijing, he has high hopes of attending Stanford. He’s been to America several times with his parents and he loves American universities. Naturally, his questions were about the SATs, the Common Application essay, the Early Decision process, etc. I didn’t mind telling him about my college application process, but it felt so out of place at Dandelion.
All around us were middle school children of migrant parents whose hopes were of making it to high school. Many of my students have never even considered going to America for college. My own parents have advanced degrees and I have grown up with stories of the top schools. I visited Duke University when I was ten years old and fell in love. Whenever we passed by a top university on road trips, my dad would make sure we visited the campus. It’s always been in my head that one day I could go to my dream school. But in a city of 11.51 million, a city distinctly marked off by five rings, there is a clear disparity between the economic classes.
Dandelion rests on the outskirts of the fifth ring, the outermost ring from Beijing’s city center. I asked how long it takes for the violin-teaching volunteer to get to the school.
“About two hours with traffic,” he replied. “I go to a school inside the third ring. But the commute isn’t that bad. My school even allows me to skip half my classes on Wednesday afternoon to come and teach the children.” He smiles.
It suddenly dawned on me how volunteers help shape Dandelion’s culture. The children are constantly interacting with both international and domestic volunteers of various socioeconomic backgrounds. Because of their migrant status, many of the children are ineligible to attend the public high schools in Beijing. It saddened me that even in the music room, where I had hoped to find a common, universal language, I met such disparity in socioeconomic standards.