This morning I saw ajummas cleaning cabbage in preparation for the quarterly kimchi making.  It was really cold outside, and their rubber-gloved hands rinsing off cabbage heads must have been freezing.  A pile of cabbage equivalent to a chord of wood lay stacked up against the house, waiting to be cleaned.

Supposedly the torrential rains this summer washed out much of Korea’s cabbage patches.  Heads were going for about $10 U.S. a piece (from about $1.50) and the government decided to lower tariffs on Chinese produce in an effort to lower the prices.  So I guess if you really want to hurt Korea, take away their cabbage.  There was something about cabbage not being available until the end of November, but something must have broken, as evidenced by the ajummas having cabbage to process this morning.

I still have over 3 months left to my contract here, but five weeks of that is my vacation, a week is some sort of teacher prep for the following year, and the rest of that is basically a waste of everyone’s time.  This week the 3rd graders are doing nothing but studying/cramming for the National University Entrance Exam, so I’ve got no classes with seniors all week and everyone has afternoon of the entrance exam off, and the following day is our school’s festival.  And the following week my students will be taking their oral English examinations, so this week is mostly review.  After that is a week of review in preparation for their Final exams, where I will be warming my seat, and the following week is the exams, where I will be warming my seat.  I guess that’s a good time to work on TRACK stuff.  After that school is pointless, because the finals are finished and there’s less than a month left until school closes for the winter.  (Their long break is in the winter instead of the summer)  Last year they would cry and moan if you tried to teach them anything, and they’d beg for movies and candy.  Totally annoying, seeing young adults whine and beg like first graders.  Anyway, I can’t believe it, but my 2nd year teaching in Korea is almost finished.  Really.  This is a decent gig, once you get used to it.  I just wish there were resources for me nearby or that I had money, or better yet both.

Today I signed up for a meetup for people over 35.  This kind of distinction is really important in Korea – I’da laughed if I’d seen something like that in Seattle.  I’d previously joined a meetup group that never organized anything.  So today I took it upon myself to organize something.   God damn it.  This is why I can never join anything – because I have to be the one to organize it.  I can see history repeating itself.  If this comes to fruition, then I must hand the baton to someone straight away.  All the other interesting events, classes, etc. happen during the week and are in Seoul, so I can’t participate.  :(  They are also very pricey.

As much as this sucks, I’m just happy I have a job, after that last fiasco.   In one month I may or may not be able to fly home on vacation.  I’m hoping my trip home will soothe me.  I’m hoping it won’t make coming back harder.   It will be kind of like the college kid who comes home and their bedroom has been redecorated.  Had to let the cabin in the woods go.  Had to let all my belongings go.  Both my children have moved since I left, I’ve never seen where they live, and they live in towns I’ve never lived in.  Other people my age get more stable each year, and I get more unstable each year.  If I were a man I’d take my end of year severance pay and Kerouack it across America.  Before it disappears.  Funny, that was the same dream I had when I was 16.  Little Korean girl.  Run away orphan.  Hitch-hiking across America.

On weekends I either forget to eat or I eat only as an excuse to get up from my constant sitting position.  Sometimes I will make a trip to the convenience store for a snack I don’t want, simply to have a destination.  I can’t go for a long walk because I have too much work to do.  I am too poor to do anything else, even if I wanted to.

I finally found Korean crackers that aren’t sugared or made into frosting sandwiches.  The crackers are tasteless.  My adoptive mother’s remedy for this was butter, but the Korean butter is tasteless.  My cupboards are typically bare and my refrigerator is empty, because I live at school and I have only one day a week spent like this:  too much time on my hands, while at the same time snowed under with unfinished work.

“You look like you think too much,” a young Korean adoptee I’d never met told me at this Saturday’s function.  Later I saw him talking to a fellow sullen adoptee half my age.  I realize that being sullen is only something the young can get away with.  Being sullen at my age is held against me.  She’s got a chance.  I seem to have lost mine.

I talk to men and I turn men off.  Not on purpose, of course.  I’m just sullen and honest and forthright.  Not mysterious.  Not playful.  Who can play games?  Who can play when there’s so much oppressive work to do?  All men I’ve talked to here are in love with Jane.  That gets old.  Everyone talking about Jane.  I wonder if she’s ever felt lonely.  If yes, then not like this.  I look back on my past spinster acquaintances and remember how important community was to them.  I have no community here.  Not even Jane.  I can’t relate to the adoptees here.  I am in a different place entirely.  I’ve already been everywhere they are heading.  We’ve nothing in common except this work.  I don’t get it.  They all seem angrier and more obsessed than me.  Yet they all have relationships.  They all have community.  Maybe I should be angrier.  I think the real issue is I am two decades older than them.  The adoptees here with children – their children are in elementary school.  Mine are in college.  Everyone my age is married.  Everyone is two decades younger, unmarried, and clubbing and mixing with Koreans over drinks.  There really isn’t anyone here like me:  real Korean or fake Korean.  And to be honest, there’s no one here interesting.  If they are interesting, they aren’t available.  The pairing has all been done.  There seems to be only one door to heaven, and I missed it.

My white friend has been rejected in favor of a generic Korean barbie doll.  It seems she busted his chops about relationship insensitivity.  And it’s much easier to deal with petty high maintenance Korean barbie dolls than it is with a foreigner who wants respect.  I haven’t heard back from the boy for the same reason.  That’s the thing about young people, you can’t bust their chops or work out issues because they can move on – they don’t have to bother.  Emotional responsibility is something they will work on later, when there aren’t easy ways to opt out.  Plus, I’ve got nothing to offer.  Not being a trophy, not able to give babies, nor connections, nor anything but an example of what not to do.  And the things I have are not something anybody wants to know.  Not my zen.  Not my satisfaction with practically nothing.  Nobody sticks around long enough to see that.

I got a text from another American friend.  “omg!  your life is on display!”  Sure enough, it’s part of an installation about adoption back in Anyang, put up by the hagwon we’re working with.  It’s kind of disturbing, put that way.  My life.  This life.  On display.  What kind of life is this? My life is an education for others.  But there’s no personal rewards.

Wednesday I went to Gapyeong Ministry of Education to judge middle school students in an English poetry contest.  On the way the co-teacher told me she’d learned a lot in my classroom this year, and that it was a welcome change from the tedious handouts the last foreign teacher gave out.  So that was something.  The poetry was surprisingly good.  These middle school students, the creme de la creme from all over the county, were much better at English than my high school students.  One of the schools is a famous international school, where all subjects are taught in English.  It was explained that their students come from all over Korea, mostly Seoul.  Do they commute every day?  I ask.  No.  It is a public boarding school.  What kind of life is that?  To be boarded out in middle school.  I shake my head.  The (I believe) winning entry was a poem by a boy.  The topic was dream for the future. He spoke of his mother’s worn hands and his mother’s crooked back and his mother’s unfailing telephone calls to his grandmother.  His dream for the future was to mother her.  To hold her hands, massage her back, and to never fail to comfort her.  His delivery was a little melodramatic, but I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house.  Afterward, we were supposed to eat dinner with the rest of the panel and the administrators, but the Korean English teachers wanted to go home.  My co-teacher said she hated Ja Ja myeon and asked me if I hated it to.  I told her it was okay, so-so, nothing special.  I hadn’t realized it was code for:  I want to go home.  Obviously this is the case, as I’ve seen her eat it at lunch with no complaints.  And so they put us foreigners on the spot, saying we didn’t really want to stay.  And the senior person asked us if we really didn’t want to eat with them and we uncomfortably did as our Korean English co-teachers wanted, as it was explained that the foreigners don’t like ja ja myeon.  Yet another example of where younger people hate obligation and will do anything to get out of it.  I still can’t decide what was worse, having to stay, or leaving abruptly.  It felt terrible being forced to be the rude foreigner, though.

Thursday I watched file footage of Australian women who’d been coerced out of their children.  Three and four decades ago, they were sent away without recourse to hide their pregnancies and denied access to their babies unless they signed relinquishment forms.  The homes were run by Christians and hospitals acted on behalf of adoption agencies.  They signed, but it was not informed consent.  Because the situation then so closely parallels the situation in Korea, I decided women needed to know their rights and be given contact information for support networks, resources, and which unwed mother’s homes are NOT run by adoption agencies.  So that’s my latest project, which I proposed to Jane and which I presented a few days later and for which we’re immediately taking action on.

The mihonmo here all kind of adore me.  There is even affection there.  I wish we could live together.  They could nurture me and I could babysit.  There is one child especially who is not a spoiled terror, like most Korean children are.  Jane says its not possible, that they would lose what little benefits they get.

Yeonah the director wants to get together and have a long conversation.  She thinks I am an artist, though I always tell her I’m not.  Who has time for art with all this adoption reform work /school work?

Actually, lots of adoptees want to talk to me.  But it is short lived.  I comfort.  But there’s no one who can comfort me.  There is no one who can comfort me.  Only MyungSook can comfort me.  If I am lucky, there will be acknowledgment that yes, I have the trifecta of pain here:  adopted, older/undatable, the only foreigner, no one to communicate with, living alone, living in the country, well – I guess that’s more than a trifecta…

It sounds like I do so much:  meet so many.  It’s more like I pump a lot of hands.  Some are regular faces.  A couple stop to talk.  But they don’t really care, and even if they did – I am here and they are there.  We live in two different worlds.  How I’d love to tell everyone everything is lovely:  that I’m having the time of my life.

“City vil” I tell the taxi driver.  (not my apartment, but the only apartment nearby anyone recognizes exists)  I am late for the Paella event at Koroot, where our benefactor is making everyone Paella, and where I will tell the mihonmo about Australia and helping inform other mihonmo about their rights.  The taxi driver on the other end can’t understand me.  CI – TI – VILLA.  He starts to yell.  SEE TEE BIL.  He’s swearing now.  CITI BIL  He’s yelling for someone else to deal with me.  Citi vil, jusayo.  He can’t understand me.  CI TEE BILLA!  He’s yelling at me.  City vil.  See Tee Ville. City bil. Oh for God’s sake.  I hang up.  I walk.  All that and the train is not due for quite awhile.  The schedule has changed, but of course a foreigner wouldn’t know that.  I could have saved myself the frustration had I known.  On the return trip I also take a taxi due to the weight of my bags.  “City vil, jusayo.”  He can’t understand me.  See Tee Bil.  He can’t understand me.  I take him to the bank, then I have to instruct left here, straight up here, here, left, etc.  I point to the sign.  Citi bil?  Huh?  See tee bil? Yea, he says. see tee bil.  I want to whack my head into a brick wall repeatedly until it’s mush, until I’m totally disfigured and unrecognizable.  In fact, I’d like someone to physically smack me.  It would at least be something.  Some feeling.  Some passion.  Something other than nothing.  It’s too hard to feel so pent up about something without shape or physical form.  I’d like an opportunity to let loose this growing rage in me. I want to strike back, but nobody will hit me.  Nobody will give me license.

I hate being so strong.  I hate that I can’t get drunk.  I hate that I can’t just descend into an opium stupor.  I hate that I can’t just pop pills and walk around numb.  I hate being so god damned aware.  I hate being so responsible.  I hate…I hate being in this place.  Not this place physically.  Being in this situation in this climate.  I can’t even tell you about meeting Greg and his wife and child from France, because it just makes me realize how empty my life is.  I can’t even stand writing anymore.

Last month I was given a huge budget and told I could choose whatever teaching aids I thought I needed.   Pretty awesome:  large white boards for groups to DRAW on!  (since large paper is seemingly non-existent) many board games, a pen tablet so I can mark-up power point presentations and draw free-hand, a giant connex set that can be used for kinesthetic learning, and even a complete western dinner service for four – along with serving dishes, several beverage glasses, serving utensils, cloth napkins, and enough extra plates to mock up a six course meal.  (I figured maybe once in their lifetime the students will get to go to a fancy restaurant, and they should learn how to behave and eat continental)

I’d found last year, just before I came to Cheongpyeong, two amazing books for teaching speaking with and they have been absolute gold-mines.  I make up power points from the lessons and put my own spin on them, and they are actually improving the children’s speech noticeably.  I only use them on the high level first graders.  (My school is actually transitioning to an academic school from a technical school, and this is the first year.  So the 1st graders coming in are far ahead of the 2nd & 3rd grade students)

I’ve also found that short t.v. shows are the perfect length to be able to give a lesson AND a break that just also happens to be cultural exposure.  The kids are enjoying the first episode of “The Wonder Years.” right now.  To the entire school I am continuing to throw in my episodes of traveling through America.  We just hit Kentucky last week, where the kids got to see a jug band, clogging, learn about hillbilly stereotypes, moonshine, and the source of Appalachian folk songs.  As well as learn about poverty in America, the constant fight against corporate exploitation, and the horrible devastation of mountain-top removal.  In all of these video clips I’d assembled was a little bit of Korea.  I swear these are the same mountains sometimes, with the same people, sitting together cleaning vegetables, jawing and singing.  Not surprising since the topography is the same and that dictates a lot about what people can and can’t do.

Funny, I ran into a Korean speaking perfect English at one of those clubs over the weekend and it turned out she was a gyopo from North Carolina.  And then we were talking to each other in Southern  (as in below the Mason-Dixon but not deep south) accents, and she heard me and pinpointed my accent to Kentucky.  Ha ha ha!  They didn’t call my redneck town “Taylor-tucky” for nothing!  Listening to those videos brought it right back…It’s so weird this Korean can imitate hillbillies but not Koreans…

***********

For some reason (I think I was looking for something someone had commented on somewhere else) I had to look up girl4708 on google and it was disturbing.  It’s just disturbing to see how many adoptees and adoptive parents discount everything I have to say because I was abused.  So I just want to clarify for everyone that I was treated extremely well.  I was well fed, clothed, housed, and  had everything I asked for.  I never experienced violence or was even yelled at.  No.  I was loved.  I was loved TOO MUCH.  I was treated just as emotionally distant as the rest of my siblings (well, actually I was treated better than them) and was given all the same rights, privileges and disadvantages as all of my siblings, yet regarded differently and told it was the same.  And you know what?  The real “abuse” was not the molestation.  It was the manipulation.  Being told I was the same.  Being regarded differently.

I don’t doubt one bit that many adoptive parents love their adopted children just as much as their biological children.  But I think they are liars if they say they love them the same.  Because we are not and never can be the same.  This is something all of us adoptees know.  Being made to swallow that lie is manipulative.

In all aspects my adoption was just as privileged, just as ambiguous, just as socially challenging and just as successful and troubled as most any other adoptee’s adoption.  I just happened to get this extra complication.  Being assimilated without choice was one continuous manipulation.   Putting up with molestation was also without choice and one continuous manipulation.  They were parallel experiences.  Except the adoption came first, priming me for the second experience.  Figuring out the more obvious manipulation and power politics of my molester father helped me figure out the parallel manipulations of adoption.  So I don’t hate adoption just because I had a hellish childhood, (which I didn’t).  No.   I criticize international adoption because I can see clearly.  That analysis is a skill.  It takes practice.  I just have more practice is all.  And it’s just infuriating for all those rationalizing I-could-never-do-anything-self-serving-or-manipulative people to say that I am incapable of being able to do any deductive reasoning about adoption because I was abused.   (because of course abuse means you can not be like their adoptees)  So there they are, discounting everything I say.  Because that’s easier than admitting they are self-serving and manipulating.

Because even though she says not to discount  the value of her abused voice, I’m sure if she’d had a normal adoption she wouldn’t feel that way.

And then they admit that they hope their adopted children don’t think the same of them when they grow up.  At the same time they refuse to recognize the deceit they impose upon their children.

I had a typical adoption.  More similar to everyone else’s adoptions than anyone cares to believe.  Similar to Jane’s adoption.  Similar to every adoptee I talk to.  But these information-age latter day adopters don’t really care.  Their adoptions will be different.   And you know what?  They are probably right.  Because their little charges have parents who spend their lives on adoption bulletin boards getting ever more sophisticated about manipulating their adopted children into swallowing their adoption dogma.  They no longer tell their children, “Oh!  We just wanted to help/save a child who needed a family!”  (well, some still do…)  Now, they say.  We wanted a child and you needed a family so we thought we could help each other out.  (never mind that they already had a family and that the need was giving the families viable options to stay together – never mind that these AP’s would take any child, from practically anywhere)  Etc. etc.  They can ignore the growing body of evidence and narratives of adoptees because their wants are pure so any collateral damage is better than the alternative: the alternative of having ones own identity, own culture, own language.  Living with them is always better than than living there with them.  They even say they wish their mothers could keep them, but they couldn’t, so they might as well benefit from that awful situation.  Lies.  It seems the more we talk to AP’s about our experiences, we merely train the parents to be better manipulators.  But really, nothing changes:  the AP’s want what they want and they get everything they ask for.  And the children must swallow it.  And shut up.  The more sophisticated this debate gets, the less the children are able to discern the manipulation.

Also researching something else, I ran across the annoying Youtube series on Losiah’s adoption from Korea again.  Annoying because the parents are such privileged, shallow, immature twits.  Over 20,000 hits.  20,000 people who’d like to also be immature privileged twits with babies.  Then go to TRACK’s channel and the videos only have about 800 hits.  See what western-marginalized countries are up against?  See what family preservation is up against?  The pressure to exploit other countries for babies is shockingly disproportionate.  And Korea, btw, is the number 1 country in the world from which to get babies under 1 year old.  Still.  After 56 years in business.

***********

Bankrupt of ideas and games for my small discussion class, I decided to just do a generic survey.  I asked the students to brainstorm what they wouldn’t change about Korea, and what they thought needed changing.  Then, I asked them to fill out a third column explaining how they could fix the problems.  The first class had a huge list of things they loved about Korea – a few of them quite dogmatic (like Dokdo island) – and a small list of things they wanted changing.  In general, the answers on both sides were all pretty superficial:  I think their lower English level was impairing the level of conversation they could get to, but that doesn’t bother me – its more important they find ways to figure out how to express themselves, so the interested ones will reach for dictionaries, etc., and they managed to get to something substantive a couple of times.

The second class was just the opposite – everything was substantive and the two columns were about equal.  I was surprised and delighted to have Winnie add first adoption, then the lack of social services, and then unwed mothers to the mix.  (and I’ve never as yet spoken to any of the students about my views on any of that)  I’m guessing Winnie’s mom is super cool.  When filling in the third column, almost all their solutions meant higher taxes (which also totally surprised me) and their solution for this was to raise the taxes to the rich as well as raise the cost of cigarettes.  “I HATE rich people.” said one of the boys.  And the other students were finding words to use like, ostentatious. (except for Tiffany, who was practicing come-backs to being hit on,  like “In your dreams.” )

There is such a huge difference between where I am now and where I was last year.  I definitely prefer honest working folk to the miserably wanting to attain more crowd in the suburbs.

Tonight the census will come by to give me the English survey.  I hope adoptee is on the form.

***********

The census was shocking.  It only recorded nationality, not ethnicity.  Most of the questions were about buildings and infrastructure.  What a wasted opportunity.  I think I might have skewed the results a bit, as the census taker kept wanting me to call the kitchen a living room, even though there were a bedroom, a living room, and a dining room as options.

***********

Tonight I have to write a lesson plan for an open classroom. My co-teacher weakly hinted around how she wasn’t comfortable in an only supporting role.  I told her I was against doing things we don’t normally do, and that I had to answer questions afterward about my teaching philosophy.  She says she is required to speak and that she needs a script to follow.  Argh!  Anyway, I told her we could practice if she wanted to, but I didn’t let her turn this into a dog and pony show.

It’s just not okay to let the Korean school system proceed with unsustainable, showpiece lessons that don’t accomplish real learning.  She gave me a link to videos of other open classroom shows and I haven’t watched them, as I’ve seen my share of these charades already.  Edutainment might be appropriate for elementary classes, but it’s too late for these high school students.  We need to correct the wrong directions of the past methods and use real pedagogy used by EFL professionals the world over.

Launched the new group project, Transracial Eyes

It’s a collection of some questions that have been asked by various people and that we are collectively answering.   If you know of anyone who would like to submit questions to transracial adoptees, there’s a link at the site.  Also, if you are an expressive transracial adoptee writer, please contact me there.  We hope to be a diverse place and represent both domestic and international adoptees of all races.

Re-edited the A Collection of One video.

This time it has a more fitting song, recommended by my friend Miwha, and is meant for Korean audiences.  Better edited, it is also a minute longer and individually features all 76 of the adoptees who sent us their referral photos.

Here is Miwha’s translation of the song, lightly copy edited by myself:

거리에서 On the street / by 김광석

 

거리에- 가로등 불이 하나 둘씩 꺼지고

One by one the street lights go off

검붉은 노을만이 나의 곁을 스치면

The sunset glow is spread out by myself

왠지 모든 것이 꿈결 같아요-

Everything seems to me like a dream

유리에- 비친 내 모습은 무얼 찾고 있는지

what is my own reflection off the shop window looking for?

무얼 말하려 해도 기억하려하여도

I don’t know how to put it and I should remember

허한 시간만이 되돌아와요–

Empty times return (this is where we came in)

그리운- 그대 아름다운 모습으로

I miss you my love, you are so beautiful !

마치 아무 일도 없던 것처럼–

As if nothing had happened

내가 알지 못하는 머나먼 그것으로 떠나버린 후-

You are  gone far away;   I don’t know where you went

사랑의 슬픈 추억은 소리 없이 흩어져

The sad memory disperses no sound

이젠 그대 모습도 함께 나누 시간도 더딘 시간 속에 잊혀져가요–

Increasingly the event recedes into the dim past (your face and the time of you with me)

 

My understanding is that this isn’t about han like the last song, but about deeply irretrievable personal loss.

 

This weekend saw two live acoustic sets until 10 pm (one was really good! – kinda like that 10cm group)  and then danced  to some awful mixes until about 4 a.m. until a friend got hustled for money by wanna-be gigolos.   En route to being hustled, I danced with a Cuban in the streets of Seoul.  Around 4:30 am ran into the Cubano again with all his gyopo friends, and, upon finding out I was an adoptee, one really nice gyopo’s  first words were: “Oh man.  I really respect you. ”  Did the planets shift alignment or something?  Is the world possibly getting better / catching a clue?  He gave me his digits.  Will definitely follow up.  Gyopos are the best.

Too hurting to make it to Gayageum, slept until 1pm and then met the TRACK crew for their annual board dinner.   Since there’s only two more lessons until performance, I’m wondering if I’ve handicapped myself too much to continue…Anyway, after the dinner went out dancing salsa with our main benefactor flown in from Provence, Greg.  Met his wife and daughter the previous Wednesday, and they were awesome.  Was a treat to see a well-behaved kid for a change.  More dining out with Greg & Jane and then back to Cheongpyeong by nightfall.  Greg couldn’t decide if he liked Makkolli or not, but I think it grew on him by the end of the evening.  Greg left after visiting my school in the morning and sitting through morning broadcast, after which I walked him to the bus stop for a day of hiking.

Tonight I gotta mock up a planner, do some copy editing, and create a few days worth of morning broadcasts.  For some reason I feel like I’ve been gone two weeks this weekend, and I saw my students today and was so happy to see them.  It was so amazing to have human contact this weekend.  I fear crashing hard over the next week.  Because you know, the work helps but it’s just no substitute for people.  And I’ve got a lifetime of people void to fill.

Today I finally went and purchased a traditional Korean bed!  Been here a year and a half and only just now getting around to it.  Last year I just made do with some seat cushions that folded out, which is fine if you don’t thrash around, but a little thin, and laying on woven straw really isn’t ideal…

I never really wanted a western bed here because a)it takes up too much space in these tiny apartments and b)the western mattresses here aren’t really mattresses at all, but just box springs over which you put a “pad” which isn’t really anything but a quilt.  So actually, a cushy Korean mattress on the floor is more comfortable, if you don’t mind the long distance from standing position.

The mattress sets I love all cost $300 – $600, which is another reason I haven’t purchased one.  This mattress, cover, duvet, two pillows and pillow cases was half the price, so lacking in all those gorgeous traditional bedding features (framed border, hand embroidered embellishments, little neckroll/armrests – and maybe silk tassels, etc.)  yet it also isn’t one of the cheapest ensembles, so it’s still quite nice looking.  The thing I don’t like is these mattresses are made of foam, so they don’t fold up quite as cleanly as the traditional ticking does, which is more like a quadruple thick quilt vs. the foam futon.

I feel really good about the purchase, too, ’cause I went to three bedding stores and found the one I could live with at the store with the least amount of business and the nicest ajumma. I’ll not sleep in it until after my company from France gets to break it in.  (our wonderful friend and benefactor from Provence is coming to visit me in the country one day next week!)

The ajumma wrapped the mattress in plastic and made a lovely carrying handle for me out of tape.   (Koreans have figured out a dozen ingenious ways to carry just about every load under the sun in the most convenient manner possible)  I must have looked like an ant walking down the street, but it worked just great!

******

Today was like the first day of winter.  High of 50 degrees Fahrenheit, low of 28 degrees Fahrenheit. (5 degrees colder than Seoul) Frigid cold.  It’s not even November yet!  Everyone was walking around with their coats on, shivering, and muttering choowha (or whatever it is meaning “freezing cold”)

I tend to think Korea really has six seasons:  Spring, summer, monsoon, fall, winter, and arctic freeze.  Because there are two parts to summer and two parts to winter.  The first part is when you take the cold without turning on the heat as long as you can humanly stand it.  So inside is almost as cold as outside and you wear your long johns and coat ALL DAY, everywhere.  And then the second part of winter is when you finally break down and turn on the heat.  Well, maybe there are seven seasons, because between the arctic freeze and spring is yet another time like now when it’s flirting with the 30’s and the heat is not turned on.  The classrooms manage to stay a little warm, just from all the warm bodies, but the hallways are just like being outside, with a little wind break.  And the bathrooms…(shudder)…maybe this is why they don’t bother with providing soap.  There’s no hot water, so washing your hands after using the bathroom is painful.

The rice in the paddies disappeared about two weeks ago.  One day it was there, and the next day it wasn’t.  Because I’m getting home so late now, I can’t really monitor the changes taking place.  This weekend the farmer in the tully building outside my window was finally dealing with some of the fallen trees from the hurricane.  But he didn’t really make much of a dent in it.  Yesterday the halmoni had hand cut all the unkempt whatever-it-was she’d planted down.  Their garden is so unlike all the other gardens:  everyone else’s are in neat little rows, but theirs just appeared to be randomly scattered infill.  I wonder if it’s a traditional method, (since their wood shingled roof is one of the traditional but rarely seen house forms here) or an alternative method, or maybe they are just too broke down and lazy to bother with being neat.  Which is really anathema to me, as one of the great joys of gardening to me is the zen of weeding, and with haphazard broadcasting of seed then weeding is really difficult to do.  Anyway, today I’ve noticed the rest of the crops all over town are mostly cut down and the stalks are laying in piles.  I’m hoping they won’t burn them all…

Got to get back to lesson plans for tomorrow.  Coming up with things for older students at the lowest levels is really difficult for me.  The more advanced students are no problem, but the low level students have the attention span of gnats and any low level material out there is not appealing to high school students.  It’s always a huge challenge.  The weird thing is even if I lose my temper when they’re rude – they KNOW they’re being rude and always apologize – and yet still they like me.  I don’t know why, really, since there’s not any communication going on.  I think it’s just because they know it could be much much worse and that they know I’m trying to not bore them to tears.

Oh yeah, and here’s something fun for you:  (sometimes I find the most hilarious things while searching for visuals for my classes)

But god, it’s a struggle.  And liking me still doesn’t mean they are going to participate.  I can’t imagine any other place on the planet where you can nicely and silently put your finger to your mouth and smile, and instead of stopping the talking and paying attention their response is to put their head down and sleep.  If I can’t goof off then I’m shutting you out.  And this is acceptable to the Korean teachers.  It’s absolutely maddening.  It’s no wonder so many foreign teachers resort to worksheets and grammar reinforcement and other non communicative speech methods – it’s the only thing that gives the teacher immediate satisfactory respectful responses.  But I still think that’s a lame and easy way out.  But it’s such a trial if you do anything expansive.  It makes them giddy or it makes them afraid or they try to take advantage of it.  Whoever the idiot was who decided English should be MANDATORY I’d like to sock them in the face.  That alone is what makes my job almost impossible.  These kids who tune out should just not be in the class.  Period.  All it does is detract from the lessons for those who are interested.  And if Korea subtracted all the time their students sleep or tune out, then their 12 hour school day would be cut down to about 6 hours.

And another thing is that it’s taking me these two years to figure out where the deficits are and what direction I need to take with these kids, and it will take another year or two to build up a proper arsenal of tailored lesson plans.  So I’m not sure the revolving door of Native English Speakers as amateur teachers is all that efficient.  The only benefit I can see is if the students realize that English doesn’t have to be the enemy.  But the irony of getting no respect in the land of respect makes you feel embattled.  And it’s hard to be inspiring under those conditions.

Gave my lecture about why Americans eat the way they do again today.

There’s an Open Classroom coming up, and the Korean English teacher wanted me to use this lecture for that because she found it so interesting.  I had to veto that though, as we’re also supposed to explain our teaching methods and philosophy, and our purpose here is to get the kids to speak – but this is a straight lecture with video examples, so it really wouldn’t provide much of an example of what I do or much content for discussion on teaching kids to speak.

Anyway, I really enjoy giving this presentation to the kids when Miss 이 is translating.  She’s really excited about the information, and never misses an opportunity to challenge the kids’ or increase their vocabulary or understanding.  Her class is always expectant and for the most part well behaved.

And then I get to the other class with the other teacher and, just like always, she starts the class off swapping pleasantries with the kids as one of the kids and not asserting when (if ever) they should begin to be present for learning.  As they goof off, she jokes along with them and participates in their insubordination.  And then gets frustrated that they don’t do what she asks/pleads/begs them to do when she finally decides she wants to be their teacher.  During the lecture she’s obviously often not present and therefore doesn’t pay attention, misses much of what I’m saying for interpretation, or (which drives me bat shit) assumes she knows what I”m going to say and just gives the lecture herself in Korean, rendering me totally pointless up there;  words stolen.  There’s no teeth behind any expectations to listen respectfully when it’s time to listen and speak when it’s time to speak.  The chaos and din are often so bad I just have to put the whole lesson on hold until the class notices the foreign teacher is silent.   Which I hate doing because it wastes sooo much valuable time.   But the sick thing is, is that half of the time I’m waiting for the co-teacher to stop contributing to or, by her actions, condoning the lack of respect for the teacher.  Lately I have to stop and call out her name to snap her out of her daydreaming and give me a translation.  And then two paragraphs worth of content (which the other teacher things is really valuable) is relayed to her students in about six words…Most of the class is chaos, with pods of conversations going continuously, each almost as loud as my lecture, and the teacher does either nothing about it, or admonishes them and then two minutes later is contributing to their conversations.

Today I watched in horror as the students were playing keep away with her insulated coffee cup, as she just stood limply by and let them and then tried to be cool and ignore it.  I intercepted the cup, took it, put it on the desk in front of me, and continued.   The words that come to mind are apathy and defeat.  And those aren’t to describe the students.  I’d probably steal her coffee cup if I was them, too…

It’s just such a contrast to the other teacher’s classroom, which is controlled yet exciting, and where the students have real respect for their teacher.  Now don’t get me wrong, even the weak teacher here is 1,000 times better than what went on at Baekyoung.  It was clear they wanted to control classroom management from the beginning, and I was happy to let them after last year’s trauma, but if I’d known how irritating it would be with the weak teacher, I would have insisted to take it on myself.  So every day I have this pendulum swing from a great experience to where I’m near hyperventilating out of frustration.  The contrast is so huge.

Today I walked to the cafeteria and got hit with an incredibly rank smell.  It smelled like rotten cheese, or moldy mildewed dirty socks that had been worn for weeks.   Walking past everyone’s lunch trays, it didn’t appear so bad.  Dishing up, I was still wondering where the rank smell was coming from and then, at the end of the line I got ladled into my tray the source – the soup.

I remember sniffing it and making a face and everyone laughing.  Turns out it’s called Chung Gook Jang, and it’s fermented soy bean stew.   I told them it reminded me of natto, and they said it was similar.  I was told this is a Korean specialty and very delicious.  Anyway, I couldn’t eat it.  The smell you can sort of – almost – get used to when you’re surrounded by it, but it was just too thick with flavor, texture, and salt for my tastes.

The lunch ladies get a big kick out of my foreign reactions to their food and I’m always the entertainment for the evening.  But one in particular always worries I won’t eat enough, so if there’s something I don’t like, she’ll show up at my seat with a serving of something extra of what I do like.  The jury wasn’t even out on the Chung Gook Jang, and she was already there with extra meat patties.  So cute.  I love the lunch ladies.  The weird thing is they’re probably my age and so much more matronly than I am.   I guess I’m still in adoptee mode because I often wonder if I would have been them had I stayed here.  They have good humor and are kind.  Worse fates could have happened, for sure.

My head feels like the size of Charlie Brown’s.  Normally I love getting sick because I have no appetite and I love that not being hungry needing food being vapor feeling.  But for some reason I’m buying lots of expensive fruit and filling up on it the entire time I’m home.  Must be vitamin deficiency or something.   I haven’t had any tylenol or vitamins or any medical attention since I’ve gotten here.  It’s so weird how I hit the pharmacy several times in Thailand but never here.  I think the language and the judgement here just feels like a beating, so I avoid it to a stupid degree.