As I was attempting to eat a new dish at the duck restaurant, yet only able to order a fish hae jang guk due to being a single person, I knew something crazy was up by the repeat news footage of something burning somewhere off the coast called Yeonpyeong-do.

Sure enough, it was North Korea artillery being fired on a South Korean island.  Of course, I’ve no idea whether or not there were casualties, or what the status is.  But I was just issued a state department alert.   It’s not a good time to be in the Navy in South Korea, since most of the tension seems to be in that arena.

*******

Two military dead, fifteen civilians injured.

http://english.yonhapnews.co.kr/national/2010/11/23/95/0301000000AEN20101123011500315F.HTML

On a scale of 10, the lowest I am allowed to grade any student is a 7.

Nobody in Korea is allowed to fail.  But the ludicrous thing about this system is there is always someone at the bottom and someone at the top, right?  And everyone knows who is at the bottom, because everything is relative.  And, unless the student is mentally deficient, there is no end to the taunting the bottom receives.  Who’s kidding who?  What kindness is this, when that person at the bottom always progresses to the next level yet never gets their needs met because they haven’t been officially identified as having any needs? It is the greatest disservice, this being sentenced to a life without hope of improvement and cruel charity.

And then it is the last month of school.  And I have no classes with the third year high school students anymore.  Why?  Because the seniors have completed their university entrance exam, and nobody bothers to teach them anything now, even though they have another month left in school.  They have already fulfilled their sole function in life and can now become vegetables from here on in.  They are spent and rendered worthless.  In another month, they will be free:  free to sow wild oats a moment before they put the yoke around their necks forever.  The test has already determined their fate for the rest of their lives, and there’s not much more they can do now.  Except concentrate on mating:  attracting, catching, and procreating.  Get a secure job. Push out another, repeat from across.  There’s something so drone-like about this cycle.  Something so self-limiting and short-sighted.

It would be so easy to manipulate this mob.  It doesn’t surprise me in the least why communism attracted half the population, and why capitalism is held onto with a white knuckle grip here in the South.  They’ll eagerly listen to overly idealistic promises, or to empty promises of unimaginable wealth.  They just seem to all want a way out/off of this merry go round, but lack the imagination or chutzpah to leap.  There is no invention, no DIY.  There is only applying the old way over foreign ways.

And you know, every time I criticize like this I hate myself.  I hate how I refer to Korean people as they.  The almost, could have been, should have been, was, uri nara.

I really don’t belong anywhere.  Swimming with dolphins would be nice, in a viscous liquid free of borders, cultures, ideologies, money, and babies for sale.

Right now my co-teacher and other teachers are giggling over some video at her desk.  No one bothers to share with me.  It’s okay, I probably wouldn’t find it funny anyway…

At lunch I’ve caused a minor scandal the past two days, simply because I’ve not taken any rice in the lunch line.  It’s really really surprisingly conspicuous for a Korean to not be eating rice, and I must admit my lunch tray looks strangely bare.  But I just. don’t. like. rice.  I’ve tried.  For years.  I’ve tried the past 1 and 3/4 years I’ve been in Korea.

The stuff is just over-rated!  And it’s not the skill of the rice cooking, as I’ve cooked rice for Koreans and they were surprised because it came out better than the rice they’d cooked for me.  It’s just dull stuff.  It’s pointless.  And I do NOT need a filler.  I’m 4′-10″ for God’s sake, I sit on my arse all day, my stomach is tiny;  so are my food needs.

It just got to the point where it was stupid to put it on my plate.  I’d take half as much as everyone else, and then only end up eating half that, and then only if there was some thin kimchi or seaweed to make it more interesting.  I figured, why continue to take and then waste any more of this food?  And SO MUCH FOOD GETS WASTED at these cafeterias every day.  It’s astounding.

I’m sure everyone thinks I am the pickiest eater on the planet – a princess or something.  I also won’t eat SPAM or any mystery meat.  Or octopus, simply because it’s over-cooked until it’s like rubber.  Or ddeok boki.  It, too, is totally pointless.  I don’t mix my bi bim bap.  I tend to eat proteins first, then vegetables, and soup last – this because proteins are the hardest to digest so your body can process them better if you eat them before your digestive fluids have been watered down.

“No bap.  WHY????”  Why? Why?  I don’t know.  Why do you like it so damned much?

To not eat rice.  It’s like anarchy here.

Speaking of anarchy – I often find myself messing with the social order here.  It wasn’t done on purpose, but then I realized it was kind of fun, and now I get some perverse satisfaction out of it.   For example, teachers get to skip ahead of students in the lunch line and take cuts.  Well, most days I have no reason to play my teacher card like that and one time I just elected to wait in line with the kids.  Big deal – and the kids probably need to eat right away, what with all the horsing around and activity they do.  I’m sure they need nourishment much more than us teachers.  Another couple of times doing this, and one teacher was passing by and then rather rudely taking her expected cuts and a student stopped her and then motioned in my direction.  Clearly, the students had noted that if the waygook doesn’t need to take cuts, then why did she?

Another time I explained on the morning broadcast to the whole school that everyone, no matter their age, gets the benefit of the doubt as far as respect  goes in America.  But that everyone of all ages can lose that.  Respect, I told them, has to be earned.

Today my co-teacher wanted to go over my lesson plan for the open classroom.  “I watched the videos of last year’s open classrooms,” she said. “One of the teachers was like an actor,” she said as she looked up expectantly at me.  I told her there were all types of people taking jobs as native English teachers, and all with different teaching styles.  I told her some were like actors,  (and usually do better with the younger students)  and some were like the teacher I replaced, who preferred worksheets and lists, and that I was someplace in the middle.  This is what you got, babe.  I can’t/won’t be a drama major for a day, just so you stand in a more entertaining light.

This is how this dance goes.  I reject.  They reject.  Acceptance is grudging.  I give of myself — way more than is required — but there are some things I won’t compromise.  They give me money.  Each night we go to our separate shoe-boxes and dream of warmer places.

Yayy!

I accomplished absolutely nothing, nada, zilch this weekend.  Put the laundry in the wash and forgot to take it out, didn’t fold up the bed and mop the floor like I’d intended, forgot to bring my school’s laptop home to work on M.S.’s manuscript like I’d intended, didn’t get to any TRACK work like I’d intended.  Did watch another episode of America’s Top Model (why?  why do I do that?) and an old movie with Natalie Wood before leaving late in the afternoon to meet my friend in Seoul.

We have this favorite haunt I happened on a while back, which is a live bar.  This is Konglish for a bar with live music.  I was drawn by the sign outside which said, scrawled across a board posted to a metal pole stuck in a tire, “free consette.”  Only this one’s live music is an aging one man band who loves Eric Clapton.  He wears a cowboy hat and sings along with pre-recorded rhythm tracks or accompanies them with his saxophone, (and that’s what drew in,  as hearing him playing his sax all I could think of was “Bleeding Gums Murphy” on the Simpsons – So of course I had to go in!) all the while images of himself performing play on a screen behind him.  The bar fills up with his contemporaries:  groups of old friends, laughing and singing along.  It’s awesome.  It always picks us both up.  We’re the youngest people there by ten years at least.  Like all bars in Korea, fried chicken is on the menu.  I had her order ahead of my arrival, since my train had been delayed by some major accident.  She was cracking up because she ordered chicken, but saw it arrive delivered – by a different restaurant.

It’s also nice to hang out with her because she actually laughs when I make a dry, sarcastic joke – and her laughing makes me laugh.  It’s nice to know that someone in the world can see my bitching and moaning is often droll.

Afterward, we went and shot pool and I taught them the rules to cutthroat.  Which I always forget one should never play with anyone almost as bad at pool as myself, as we were begging for someone to put us out of our misery and end the game before we turned gray.

In the morning we talked once again about the differences and similarities in our emigration and return.  Gyopos and adoptees get it.  We wish the rest of the world could appreciate not having access to what is assumed we already know.

The rest of my day was spent in search of a new pair of jeans.  I have several pair here, but because I didn’t try them on (didn’t think I could or thought it would be too horrible an experience – I got them at Dongdaemmun) they are all too big but one pair, and it’s embarrassing how much I wear the same pants day in and day out.   So I went to the Express Bus Terminal’s Gangnam Underground Shopping Mall.  Miwha told me it was the place to go for bargain clothes, and she wasn’t kidding.  The cheapest clothes in Korea  – the same cheap clothes sold everywhere, but for some reason a little cheaper there.  Only jeans are actually hard to find there.  I got waylaid at Vin Prime second-hand clothes store and bought three sweaters for about $10 each.  Got lost (three subway lines from two different rail companies converge there on three levels of platforms, so it’s huge) and stupidly exited and entered and exited again.  I love paying fare again and again…Anyway, the shops extend in a grid for what seems like forever.  I think I’ve told you about it before.  The bulk of it is clothing and shoes, but there’s also a huge home decorating and flower arrangement area.

Later I went to another level and found – ANOTHER Vin Prime – and found one more sweater, and a real wool flannel shirt and two scarves.  So much for the thin layers idea.  A fight broke out between a disgruntled customer and one of the storekeepers.  I am still enamored with the description of Koreans as the Latins of Asia – it was  loud – percussive – almost violent!  So much passion over such a minor thing!  Thankfully, by the time I checked out all was calm.  The saleslady at Vin Prime II was SO NICE to me.  “Did you try these on?  Do they fit good?”  I do so appreciate when people are nice to me.  It’s such a welcome contrast to the cold indifference I usually get or the nastiness I sometimes I get.

On the way home, I decided to check out Lotte Dept. Store, which is right at the Cheongyangni Bus Terminal.  It felt more like shopping in the states.  “Do you want a fitting room?  Can I do anything for you?”  It also had astronomical prices.  The clothes were very nice, but not THAT nice.  Bennetton, Bean Pole, DKNY, etc. are the kinds of goods and prices you’ll find there.  And I’m not sure, but I think the prices for those foreign-made brand names are higher here in Korea.   No purchases for me.  Shoulda gone to UNI QLO which is the Japanese equivalent of the GAP, back when it was transitioning from inexpensive jeans in all shapes and sizes in cubby-holes and wardrobe basics everyone should have to something more upscale.

On my way home, I waved to the fruit vendor as always.  He’s the single most happiest person I’ve ever met in my life.  Right now, the building his store was in has been stripped down to its metal frame and is totally gutted.  And for the last month he’s been selling fruit out the back of his truck, poor guy.  But still he stands and greets everybody with a smile, even though he’s cold and miserable outside all day.  I also saw Power Pizza holding hands with Super girl. They were both dressed up.  How cute is this, 10th and 11th graders out on a date with each other, all dressed up, holding hands walking home.  This is a new event – what a great couple!  She’s got a raspy loud voice, is vivacious and always smiling, is not a girly-girl and is really down-to-earth. What a score for Power Pizza, as Super girl is a year older than him.  What a score for Super girl, as Power Pizza is now the star of the school after his beat-box performance.  I imagine they’ll get married and be together happily ever after.

Stopped at the cow-head soup restaurant again and ordered kim chi chiggae.  It’s so spicy one can hardly stand it.  And all the banchan accompanying it is also really spicy.  Much spicier than in Seoul, I’d say, so I can’t order it very often.  I’d ordered it once before there and the cook had waitresses were all sitting and eating a treat of toasted rice scrapings from the bottom of a pot.  And they brought over a whole hunk of the crispy goodness to me.  The guy who took my order was saying something about the chiggae and it appeared I was out of luck, but then the cook saw me and nodded at me so I knew she was taking care of me even though there was some problem.  So I have three restaurants in town that take care of me now, and that’s nice.

Today I was attempting to give the lesson I would be testing the students on for their oral examination.  It was the dreaded Architecture class.  I’d start to talk and nobody would be paying attention, over half the class sleeping;  the rest talking as if I wasn’t there.  I repeated loudly that I would be going over what would be on the test. Nothing.  No response.  After several fitful starts, I slammed my laptop shut and wrote the word apathy on the board, along with its definition, considering taking my first punitive action (which I knew would have serious repercussions) of giving a writing assignment.

Instead, I yelled even louder, “I thought Korean students cared about their test scores!  Doesn’t ANYONE here care about their grade in this class? Raise your hand if you care about your grade!”

One arm shot up.

I told the girl to come with me.  She was confused, bewildered, and hesitant.  I told her it was all right.  And I packed up my shit, while the co-teacher’s jaw dropped and she giggled nervously.  And me and the one girl left the room, where I gave her a private lesson and pointers at my desk.  I helped her mark up her study sheet, and then gave her study sheets to take back to the rest of the class.

Of course, she’s going to get a perfect grade and the rest will suffer.

Of course, the Korean teacher will raise everyone else’s grades so none of them look like the losers they really are.  But hopefully I gave them a more valuable lesson than they’re normally used to.

Just caught the last few minutes of a short on  the indiefilm channel.  It’s a near empty subway train.  There’s casual chit chat between strangers.  A pretty, insecure girl and a kind, goofy guy.  You watch as their connection  develops.  And then it’s time to get off the train.  They try to extend the conversation, but it’s awkward.  The girl gets in a taxi.  The guy yells for/gets another taxi.  Dinah Washington’s Our Love is Here to Stay is playing.

These are the kinds of moments a Korean-looking foreigner can never have in Korea.  Casual chit-chat without intention that just develops into something more.

Our Love is Here to Stay reminds me of the wonderful Cuban devil talking about how the perfect love was the crush that never became a reality.  Here, there are a thousand fantasy loves that must be nipped in the bud, because one person is too small to bear so many perfect loves.

It makes me wonder.  It makes me wonder if there is an I Saw You column here in a weekly alternative magazine, like there was in Seattle.

I will never know.

*******

Today it was payday and I saw one of the two other female foreigners I’ve spotted before and never been able to talk to.  One is a pretty young African American woman and another appears to be a mid 30’s aquiline woman who looks very British, Australian, or Africaner.

The African American woman was finishing up a cell phone conversation prior to hitting the ATM.  So I waited until she was finished talking and caught her before she put her card in the machine.  I explained how it was obvious she was a foreigner, but maybe not so obvious I was a foreigner, and how I’d seen her in passing before but was unable to stop and introduce myself.

Turns out she lives in Citi Bil Apartments, just two buildings away.  So we exchanged numbers.  It’s nothing short of a miracle:  There’s another female foreigner who speaks my language two minutes outside my door.  Just knowing she’s on my phone is a comfort, even if we never connect again.

*******

Today my phone rang and it was a number I didn’t recognize, so I didn’t answer it as I never answer unknown numbers.  (Korea is full of phone spammers)  A minute later there was a text. “Is this Leanne?”  I asked who it was, and it turned out to be a student from my last school.  She’d seen me in Nine Stone’s book of poetry and was reminded of me.  “I miss you!” she said.  (Koreans use this phrase a lot – it means more like, “I was thinking of you.” It’s one of those mis-used expressions that are really too precious to correct) I was really surprised she still had my number.

Today I texted one of my former students to wish him well on the National College Entrance Exam tomorrow.  He said he was  nervous.  I told him he was going to do great.  In the past he has told me, “I miss you.”  He told me I had the most warm, kind face he had ever met. How can you not keep in touch with sentiments like that?

*******

Some women I saw on youtube have agreed to come to Korea and speak for TRACK.  Just goes to show, when you see something  that really moves you, you should take the time to contact the author and let them know you were paying attention.

Jane and I have our groove back.  We feed off each other’s big thinking.  Making things happen is what sets us apart.  It’s much better than when we tackle words on virtual paper alone at our screens.