12/08/07
The elevator to my school smells of fish from the fish market in the basement. Some days I have to hold my breath the five flights up to the school. When the elevator doors slide open and the sound of screaming kids reaches my ear (since I only have one), I take a deep breath. I have an hour before my classes to prepare for my day and most of the time I spend staring at the schedule, still trying to make sense of the strange grid system they are fond of using.
My first few days I got into the habit of bringing the wrong books to each class, a faux paus the kids were eager to tell me about. "Teacher, no," they say pointing to the books.
They have a hard time with my name. "What is your name?" they ask with the words they have been practising for the past few months.
"My name is Danielle," I say, tapping my chest. The students cock their heads to the side.
"Daniel?" they ask. Some of the kids begin to giggle. "You are not boy," they say, as if this were news to me. I pronounce it again, and some of them try, but most are content to call me Daniel and those that try pronounce it, Danny-el. For the most part, my name is Teacher.
They love to tell on each. "Teacher, teacher," they yell. "Andy, like this," they say, demonstrating a punching motion. Andy minus one. They are on the sticker system. Kids will kill for stickers. Most of the students have a Korean name and a western name for all us pathetic westerners who can't pronounce their names. Sometimes I ask what their Korean names are and then I butcher it with my pronunciation.
I teach 6 classes, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and 5 classes Tuesday and Thursday. All different classes, all different ages, all different levels. It's a hectic day, but I love it. The school is called a hogwon. It's a place students go after there regular school. Students go to school from 8-3 and then from there they head to their hogwon, which can be anything from sports, music, English, and everything in between. Most students' days end at 11:30 or midnight. Plus they go to school on Saturday. I never hear any complaining. I never hear any whining about the lessons. They are eager to learn, if not a little fidgety.
On Thursday, our school had a staff dinner. "Do you like raw fish?" the Korean teachers asked me. All of the Korean teachers are women, as teaching is still seen as a lower level job. "I love raw fish," I said, dreaming of Yoko's sushi in Portland.
Outside the restaurant, tanks of fish and squid lined the sidewalk, their tentacles waving like arms as they sucked the side of the tank. It was a traditional Korean restaurant, low tables, floor seating, and cushions pushed beneath the table. Soon after we sat, the Koreans began taking shots of Soju, a traditional Korean alcohol, much like vodka but without the bite. "Would you like to try?" Erin asked, a tall, skinny woman with long black hair and a habit of wearing short skirts, leggings, long sweaters and Ugg boots.
"Sure," I said. She poured me a shot glass full and I took a sip.
"Welcome to Korea," she said, clinking my glass with hers.
Food began arriving and when I say food, I actually mean fish. Plates and plates of raw fish, just fish, no rice, no noodles, no seawead, no vegetables, just fish. A bowl of squirming octopus tentacles plopped down in front of me.
"What is that?" I asked, hoping my first guess was wrong.
"Octopus," Erin said, as a long tentacle wrapped itself around her chopstick and she pulled it into her mouth.
"It's alive," I said. She smiled and dipped another piece into sesame oil. After watching everyone at the table elbow their way to the bowl, I armed myself with chopsticks and dove in. After it stopped squirming in my mouth, it was actually quite tasty. I stopped myself at the head, still fully equipped with two blue eyes staring back at me.
When the dinner was over, and all of the Koreans were thoroughly intoxicated (including Mrs. Choi, my boss, who was throwing back shots of Soju like a 21 year old novice), we stumbled our way next door to a kareoke 'bar.' Bar isn't actually the correct word, as technically, there was no bar, just a woman sitting behind a desk and four doors down a long hallway. I followed the entourage through the first door where I realized, it was our own private room. I had heard about these, but never imagined it quite like this. There was a large table, with a horseshoe shaped couch wrapped around it, and in the front was a large tv monitor. As soon as the doors closed, the disco lights started, the tambourines were busted out, and two mics suddenly appeared. Within seconds, someone was singing while everyone else yelled, clapped, and started dancing. The woman from the front suddenly appeared with a tray full of beers, fish flavored cheetos, pringles, bottled water, and vitamin c drinks.
It was amazing to witness: a room full of women, all relatively strangers to each other, singing at the top of their lungs, holding hands, kissing each other on the cheeks, and shaking their bootays. I'm not much of a kareoke singer, unless you count the one time I tried and had the mic taken out of my hands because I didnt' know the words and just started making cawing noises. But, I actually sang. Three songs. It felt great, to just let it all out, unabashed, to a crowd full of cheering women.
Angela, a stocky woman with a sarcastic tongue and a sharp wit, grabbed my hand, pressed her lips firmly to my cheek and kissed me. "You will hang out with me," she said, handing me a piece of dried fish. "Of course," I shouted over the music, my stomach turning from the thought of more fish. "Try it, it is good." I grabbed the fish and put it in my mouth, trying not to gag. I chewed, swallowed, and she handed me another piece. I smiled, and pushed it in the cushions of the couch. It was poking out like a tiny hand as we left.
The next day, as I was staring at the schedule at my desk, Juliana, my Korean supervisor asked to talk to me. My mind raced. Did she know about all of the hangman I'd been letting the kids play because my lessons have been too short? Did she hear me say something about the fact that my apartment is the smallest out of all the foreign teachers? She led me into an empty classroom and sat me down. "How are your classes going so far?" she asked. I told her that I was having a great time and getting settled in, still trying to figure out all of the little details. "I asked Mr. Choi about your time off in June," she said. My sister is getting married at the end of June. When I started applying for jobs in Korea, the one stipulation was that I had to be able to have that time off. Before signing any contracts, I spoke with my recruiter, a company in Canada who specializes in getting foreigners teaching jobs in Korea. I told him that I knew the contract stated that there are designated times when teachers get time off, but I wanted to know if it was possible to take unpaid time off so I could go home for the wedding. No problem, he had said. Just let them know as soon as possible so you can get it covered. I told them the first day.
As I looked at Juliana, I knew something wasn't right. "Mr. Choi said there is no way we can give you that time off." I nodded. "Do you have to go?" I nodded. A lump formed in my throat. "So, what you mean, is if I go, I have to find a new job?" I asked, as tears started forming in the corners of my eyes.
"Yes," she looked down. "If your recruiter had told us, we could have written it into the contract. In order for you to take that time off, we have to hire someone else to cover just for that short time and we just don't have the money right now."
"So, how long do I have?" I asked, brushing away tears. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get angry. I wanted to say it wasn't fair. First the airport and now this. A million details raced through my head. But everything inside was trying not to break down. Trying to hold it together. I looked at the clock. I had ten minutes before my next class.
"60 days. I am so sorry Danielle." She grabbed my hand and the flood gates opened. I tried to think of all the things I needed to do, but I just wanted to crawl under the table.
"Okay," I said, "Okay." It was a mantra running through my head. It's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay. I'm prepared. I already had my moment of clarity in the bathroom stall at Incheon airport. This is going to be okay. But when I got up and walked to bathroom, saw the puffiness of my eyes, the blotchiness of my face, I didn't feel okay. I locked myself in the stall, let out one tiny sob, blew my nose and walked back out to teach my class.
I am going to be okay. There have been signs along the road, telling me not to get settled in, and now I know why I've been reluctant to decorate my apartment or book a vacation in February with Chris or give anyone my telephone number. There is a reason why before I left, I told myself it will be easy to find another job if this one doesn't work out. It's trusting those insights, that feeling in my gut, that gets difficult. I've started looking for jobs and have applied for several already that pay more and start at the end of December. I am hoping I can get all of the paperwork from the states that I might need before the new visa requirements go into effect. There are details I'm working out, that seem greater here than at home, but I am confident the universe is only trying to right itself (or my universe anyway).
Things I've learned since being in Korea: Always hand and accept everything (especially money) with two hands, using one is disrespectful; corporal punishment is used in schools; never ever point at someone, again very disrespectful; left handed people are viewed as evil, to the point where mothers will force their children to use their right hand; the subway is silent and personal space does not exist; Koreans will not only stop and ask if you need help when you look lost, but they will take you exactly where you need to go; and it is possible to laugh genuinely ten minutes after sobbing.
My first few days I got into the habit of bringing the wrong books to each class, a faux paus the kids were eager to tell me about. "Teacher, no," they say pointing to the books.
They have a hard time with my name. "What is your name?" they ask with the words they have been practising for the past few months.
"My name is Danielle," I say, tapping my chest. The students cock their heads to the side.
"Daniel?" they ask. Some of the kids begin to giggle. "You are not boy," they say, as if this were news to me. I pronounce it again, and some of them try, but most are content to call me Daniel and those that try pronounce it, Danny-el. For the most part, my name is Teacher.
They love to tell on each. "Teacher, teacher," they yell. "Andy, like this," they say, demonstrating a punching motion. Andy minus one. They are on the sticker system. Kids will kill for stickers. Most of the students have a Korean name and a western name for all us pathetic westerners who can't pronounce their names. Sometimes I ask what their Korean names are and then I butcher it with my pronunciation.
I teach 6 classes, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and 5 classes Tuesday and Thursday. All different classes, all different ages, all different levels. It's a hectic day, but I love it. The school is called a hogwon. It's a place students go after there regular school. Students go to school from 8-3 and then from there they head to their hogwon, which can be anything from sports, music, English, and everything in between. Most students' days end at 11:30 or midnight. Plus they go to school on Saturday. I never hear any complaining. I never hear any whining about the lessons. They are eager to learn, if not a little fidgety.
On Thursday, our school had a staff dinner. "Do you like raw fish?" the Korean teachers asked me. All of the Korean teachers are women, as teaching is still seen as a lower level job. "I love raw fish," I said, dreaming of Yoko's sushi in Portland.
Outside the restaurant, tanks of fish and squid lined the sidewalk, their tentacles waving like arms as they sucked the side of the tank. It was a traditional Korean restaurant, low tables, floor seating, and cushions pushed beneath the table. Soon after we sat, the Koreans began taking shots of Soju, a traditional Korean alcohol, much like vodka but without the bite. "Would you like to try?" Erin asked, a tall, skinny woman with long black hair and a habit of wearing short skirts, leggings, long sweaters and Ugg boots.
"Sure," I said. She poured me a shot glass full and I took a sip.
"Welcome to Korea," she said, clinking my glass with hers.
Food began arriving and when I say food, I actually mean fish. Plates and plates of raw fish, just fish, no rice, no noodles, no seawead, no vegetables, just fish. A bowl of squirming octopus tentacles plopped down in front of me.
"What is that?" I asked, hoping my first guess was wrong.
"Octopus," Erin said, as a long tentacle wrapped itself around her chopstick and she pulled it into her mouth.
"It's alive," I said. She smiled and dipped another piece into sesame oil. After watching everyone at the table elbow their way to the bowl, I armed myself with chopsticks and dove in. After it stopped squirming in my mouth, it was actually quite tasty. I stopped myself at the head, still fully equipped with two blue eyes staring back at me.
When the dinner was over, and all of the Koreans were thoroughly intoxicated (including Mrs. Choi, my boss, who was throwing back shots of Soju like a 21 year old novice), we stumbled our way next door to a kareoke 'bar.' Bar isn't actually the correct word, as technically, there was no bar, just a woman sitting behind a desk and four doors down a long hallway. I followed the entourage through the first door where I realized, it was our own private room. I had heard about these, but never imagined it quite like this. There was a large table, with a horseshoe shaped couch wrapped around it, and in the front was a large tv monitor. As soon as the doors closed, the disco lights started, the tambourines were busted out, and two mics suddenly appeared. Within seconds, someone was singing while everyone else yelled, clapped, and started dancing. The woman from the front suddenly appeared with a tray full of beers, fish flavored cheetos, pringles, bottled water, and vitamin c drinks.
It was amazing to witness: a room full of women, all relatively strangers to each other, singing at the top of their lungs, holding hands, kissing each other on the cheeks, and shaking their bootays. I'm not much of a kareoke singer, unless you count the one time I tried and had the mic taken out of my hands because I didnt' know the words and just started making cawing noises. But, I actually sang. Three songs. It felt great, to just let it all out, unabashed, to a crowd full of cheering women.
Angela, a stocky woman with a sarcastic tongue and a sharp wit, grabbed my hand, pressed her lips firmly to my cheek and kissed me. "You will hang out with me," she said, handing me a piece of dried fish. "Of course," I shouted over the music, my stomach turning from the thought of more fish. "Try it, it is good." I grabbed the fish and put it in my mouth, trying not to gag. I chewed, swallowed, and she handed me another piece. I smiled, and pushed it in the cushions of the couch. It was poking out like a tiny hand as we left.
The next day, as I was staring at the schedule at my desk, Juliana, my Korean supervisor asked to talk to me. My mind raced. Did she know about all of the hangman I'd been letting the kids play because my lessons have been too short? Did she hear me say something about the fact that my apartment is the smallest out of all the foreign teachers? She led me into an empty classroom and sat me down. "How are your classes going so far?" she asked. I told her that I was having a great time and getting settled in, still trying to figure out all of the little details. "I asked Mr. Choi about your time off in June," she said. My sister is getting married at the end of June. When I started applying for jobs in Korea, the one stipulation was that I had to be able to have that time off. Before signing any contracts, I spoke with my recruiter, a company in Canada who specializes in getting foreigners teaching jobs in Korea. I told him that I knew the contract stated that there are designated times when teachers get time off, but I wanted to know if it was possible to take unpaid time off so I could go home for the wedding. No problem, he had said. Just let them know as soon as possible so you can get it covered. I told them the first day.
As I looked at Juliana, I knew something wasn't right. "Mr. Choi said there is no way we can give you that time off." I nodded. "Do you have to go?" I nodded. A lump formed in my throat. "So, what you mean, is if I go, I have to find a new job?" I asked, as tears started forming in the corners of my eyes.
"Yes," she looked down. "If your recruiter had told us, we could have written it into the contract. In order for you to take that time off, we have to hire someone else to cover just for that short time and we just don't have the money right now."
"So, how long do I have?" I asked, brushing away tears. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get angry. I wanted to say it wasn't fair. First the airport and now this. A million details raced through my head. But everything inside was trying not to break down. Trying to hold it together. I looked at the clock. I had ten minutes before my next class.
"60 days. I am so sorry Danielle." She grabbed my hand and the flood gates opened. I tried to think of all the things I needed to do, but I just wanted to crawl under the table.
"Okay," I said, "Okay." It was a mantra running through my head. It's okay. It's okay. It's going to be okay. I'm prepared. I already had my moment of clarity in the bathroom stall at Incheon airport. This is going to be okay. But when I got up and walked to bathroom, saw the puffiness of my eyes, the blotchiness of my face, I didn't feel okay. I locked myself in the stall, let out one tiny sob, blew my nose and walked back out to teach my class.
I am going to be okay. There have been signs along the road, telling me not to get settled in, and now I know why I've been reluctant to decorate my apartment or book a vacation in February with Chris or give anyone my telephone number. There is a reason why before I left, I told myself it will be easy to find another job if this one doesn't work out. It's trusting those insights, that feeling in my gut, that gets difficult. I've started looking for jobs and have applied for several already that pay more and start at the end of December. I am hoping I can get all of the paperwork from the states that I might need before the new visa requirements go into effect. There are details I'm working out, that seem greater here than at home, but I am confident the universe is only trying to right itself (or my universe anyway).
Things I've learned since being in Korea: Always hand and accept everything (especially money) with two hands, using one is disrespectful; corporal punishment is used in schools; never ever point at someone, again very disrespectful; left handed people are viewed as evil, to the point where mothers will force their children to use their right hand; the subway is silent and personal space does not exist; Koreans will not only stop and ask if you need help when you look lost, but they will take you exactly where you need to go; and it is possible to laugh genuinely ten minutes after sobbing.
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