Mandarin Orange: In Which Hooray for Women! Now Run.

In the name of honoring women, I was shoved to the starting line and told to run fast. When I tried hinting that I wasn't necessarily built for land speed, there was much tut-tutting and sadly disappointed head shakes. But your legs! They're so long!

Yeah, but...

But nothing. A firm nudge to the back positioned me in the direction I would run. Fast.

This is how International Women's Day is celebrated in China, I guess: by making women run relay races.

That's only part of it, of course. The holiday is a very big deal here, a celebration of the fact that the status of women is slowly but steadily improving in China. At my school, there's the traditional relay race, but there's also a big banquet at the fancy hotel nearby, plus women receive flowers and gifts and time off from work.

First, though, the race. Though I teach third, fourth and eighth grades, I spend most of my time with the third grade teachers. They're my favorite -- loving, funny, bossy women who fluff my hair but ultimately despair of it; who pluck at my tights, insisting they're too thin and maybe I'll freeze; who correct my pronunciation and tease me for how much I say xiexie (thank you -- I'm really good at thank you).

So, the night before the race I was informed I'd be running with the third grade teachers' relay team. This was a surprise. They'd discussed it, I was told.

As usual, I offered a clueless, agreeable nod. It's become my habit.

The next day, when I skulked out to the track after class, I was greeted with a carnival. Dozens and dozens of students -- my students! -- lined the track, as did teachers and school administrators who weren't running. The teachers who were milled around the starting line, looking lithe and swift and small and oh, crap.

Rose, my favorite of the third grade teachers, pulled me over to the three other teachers on my team.

"You're first," she told me.

Oh, crap.

It was bewildering. A giant P.E. teacher was shouting through a bullhorn. I only understood about two words. Students were shrieking and jumping around, being held back by other giant P.E. teachers. Somebody wrapped my fingers around an aluminum baton. The teachers on the inside lanes were sneaking up to positions ahead of me. I heard what I assume was "ready, set," but I couldn't be sure.

Then everybody was running. Wait! What? That was start?

I took off and ran like I've never run before -- like I was on fire, like I was being chased. For the pride of the third grade, for the pride of women, for my own feeble pride, legs and arms pumping, weaving around the teachers ahead of me, two-thirds of a lap, almost within reach of my teammate's outstretched hand.

I slapped the baton in it and slowed to a jittering halt. I'd tied for first in reaching my teammate. Ha! (And, shamefully, I'll admit to a "take that, tiny Chinese women!") Ultimately, we came in third -- a very respectable finish, I think.

As I wandered off the track, Rose met me with an effusive "good job!" Then she tried smoothing my fly-away hair, but had to give up. Hopeless.

The start of the relay race