Smedals

I've started training for a 5k approximately 394 times since I was in university. Running a 5k has been on my to do list forever, but didn't tell anyone for fear of accountability. It wasn't that running ever really appealed to me. Oh no. It did not. Volleyball is my favorite sport because you don't run after that white striped ball. Nope, you just launch yourself across the floor. I'd rather sacrifice my body screeching across a wooden gym floor than run. See these long legs? Volleyball legs. Meant to be used as a springboard for my arms to block and spike. Running is not my thing. Never. It's not going to happen. And that's what I told myself every time I would fail at the running thing. It was always my excuse for not losing weight too. "If I started running, I'd probably lose so much weight. She started running and now look at her. That could be me." And then I'd sit down and eat chips or chocolate or cookie dough.

But then I came to Korea. Land of lifestyle change. I don't know why, but I tried again for the 395th time to train for a 5k. I downloaded the Couch to 5k running app and started training without telling anybody. Didn't want to fail and have people know! The horror. Then a friend and coworker told me she was running too. We are strictly non-runners. Yet, here we were. Running. Alone.
So we started running together. That was the beginning of September.
We ran our first 5k yesterday.
Booyah.


Night before race meal. Huge bowls of pasta. Mama, please don't judge the  tupperware bowl. I know you raised me better. After eating this, I read online that you're not supposed to have a huge bowl of pasta the night before. And I regret doing it. It sat in my stomach like lead the whole next day. 

Got up at 5:45 am to get the busses to the race location. Next race has GOT  to be closer. 

Pre-race

Pre-race Korean style picture

Finish line

It was extremely cold, and the wind was terrible.

Pre-race everyone stretches together here in Korea. 

No gun was used to signal the start of the race. Just this massive drum.

This was not "I'm in pain face",  just a "victory" face.

After race triumph picture.

We had support! 

And everyone gets a smedal.

Three weeks before the race, my friend and I joked about getting a cold before the race and how much that would suck. The next week we were both in the doctor's office. She had an ear infection and I had a sinus and ear infection. Breathing through my nose was all but impossible and our training halted.

The night before held no sleep for me as it was filled with nightmares of me missing the race. One was so real that I actually got up and sprinted, covers and all, across the room to change only to realize it was 3:30am.

There were only 3 foreigners running the 5k, so we were easily spotted, but people were so encouraging! A group of people were near the halfway point beating drums, waving flags, and cheering complete strangers onwards. It was beautiful. I loved the atmosphere surrounding the stadium  and felt like a minor celebrity because of all the "whoas" we got from Koreans. That's right. I'm running. I'm running past the guys in their Army running uniform, those guys who protect this country. Whoa indeed. 

The day of the race it was the coldest it had been all fall. The wind was brutal and against us in the beginning AND at the half way point it started to rain. I loved it. My first race included storms, wind, a mother of a hill at the end, and I still did it. Ran the whole thing. I didn't meet my original time goal because of the lack of training in the past two weeks. But it doesn't bother me so much because, like I said, I still did it. 

And I got a smedal.

Thank you to my friends who came to the race and supported me, and thanks to all the texts, kakaos, and Facebook love I received. Thank you for recognizing the effort it took to train for months, work really hard, and fight mental battles. It means more than I can say. I am beyond blessed with good friends and family.
I learned so much about myself during my training. I prayed before every run, knowing that I couldn't do it on my own and whatever glory comes has to be returned to the one who gave the strength and courage to do it. I can do nothing without the help of Christ. Every time I go for a run I am reminded of that. I am strongest when I am weak. May I always be weak so the Strongest of all can carry me. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go hang my smedal in my room. 

A Quitter

I used to teach high school. I used to make lesson plans that met state and county curriculum and criteria. I used to stay up late grading papers and projects. I used to make phone calls home when a student was being less than helpful. I used to worry about my students; if they were being abused at home, if they were eating, if they would lose it at school the next day. I used to wake up and wonder if I'd have to break up a fight at school that day.

That's what I used to do. Then I moved to Korea.
Now, I teach university students. I make lesson plans that meet only my criteria. I never stay up late grading papers. I answer kakaos and text messages from worried students. I only worry about my students passing the class. I have never thought about breaking up a fight or wondering if a student is going to harm themselves, others, or me in class.

And you know what?
I feel guilty. Like I gave up. I feel like I cheated somehow.
I know all of these absolutely phenomenal men and women in my home state who do.so.much. And while things only get worse for them (politics in education, pay, student behavior, testing standards, etc.) they still come in everyday ready for battle. They don't slack off. It's balls to the wall with them. They go home and worry about their students. They stay up late worrying about things they can't change. They face some dangerous kids everyday. The same kids who would scream "Don't touch me!" when I would touch their arm to wake them up, or the kid who shoved me out of the way to beat some kid's ass. (Don't worry. I grabbed that kid and had him pinned him to the wall before he could beat up anyone.)

And it wasn't always fight and defeat. There were wins. Big wins. Bigger than anything I've ever experienced in Korea or probably ever will again. Days when girls would come into my room at lunch to talk about boys (they never change), when the kid's grandma sent an email to me and my principals on Teacher Appreciation Day saying nothing but praise about me, and the day I got to tell kids who had never passed a state exam that they had passed, and not barely. Big wins people. Makes me want to run back to the classroom and join the ranks again.

But I know I won't. And I feel like a quitter. I know there are a few expats in Korea who were teachers before, and I wonder if they understand. Do they miss the classroom and those kids who you'd fight for? Do they wonder what happened to their old students; if they are even still in school? Do they walk home from their jobs, which is 5x easier than the one they left, and feel like they could be doing more? Do they think of their old co-workers or mentors and say prayers for them? Do they feel like they gave up?

But all of that everyday stuff that got in the way of teaching, of doing the thing we are so good at, and love to do, I hated it. I wanted to teach without politics. I wanted to travel and experience life outside of the usual. And truthfully, I didn't want to wake up dreading my drive to work everyday. I knew I had to make a change. The job was making me depressed and I absolutely hated teaching by the end of every week. And that wasn't me. I love teaching. I love it. I had to leave and take my skills somewhere else. Does that make me, and others like me, brave? Knowing that we wanted something different, and out of such a flawed system. Or did we quit?

Maybe the only way we could actually be quitters is if we came here to teach and stopped caring. Maybe if we were really quitters we wouldn't really be able to call ourselves teachers. But I'm still pretty proud to call that my profession. It's not what I'm doing for a couple of years abroad to pay off debt. It's what I do and I can't really quit.

Perspective

I love social media. I love it. I love how I can compile this amazing life abroad that viewers can see through Facebook or Instagram. While I create albums filled with pictures of me petting cute monkeys, standing in front of crumbling temples, draped in a hammock, lounging on white shores next to beautiful men, surfing and kayaking. Then to make it even worse, I tell the world, through a Facebook status, that I'm going to New Zealand for three weeks. "The dream," my friends tell me, "you're living the dream." I bask in the glow of their jealousy. For all of three seconds. Because, dear friends, you need some perspective on "the dream"

I don't have a bed frame. When I leave Korea I'll have traveled to ten countries and five continents, but I don't have a bed frame.

I live in a room smaller than my first dorm room. My apartment building is next to the university so it's filled with youths. Filled I tell you. And yes, I said youths. I don't have a dryer, so in the winter if I want to wear something that's dirty, I need to wash it at least four days ahead of time to be sure it's dry. I don't have a trash can. I view it as a space waster (now I feel like a youth). I don't own a car. I walk forever to get anywhere. When I wash my sheets, I have to sleep on my sleeping pad because I only own one set of sheets. Bedding is expensive.
Good cheese? Forget about it.
Good chocolate or coffee? Good luck.

So, while I create my little world of world traveler, remember that this world traveler has no bed frame. Remember that while this world traveler is in New Zealand she will live on pb&j sandwiches and sleep in the back of a rented van.

But she's still going to New Zealand.
Perspective.

Patience, Young Grasshopper

If you've been reading this blog, glancing at this blog, know me personally, are friends with me in real life or Facebook, or talked to me in the last two years then you know I'm an ESL teacher. If you've been reading this blog, know me personally, are friends with me in real life or Facebook, frequent Cafe Antenna on Monday afternoons, or you're my next door neighbor then you would also know that I'm studying a second language. Being the later has brought in some extreme perspective to being the former. An ESL teacher's job is fun. Seeing communication go beyond words, and watching students finally understand a sentence, a phrase, or hell, even a word makes my job pretty cool. However, it's also so. extremely. frustrating. How HOW can they not understand this?! How can they still not know the word for bathroom? Why won't you ask me questions or tell me you don't understand? Nod your head "yes". Shake your head "no". Why haven't you mastered "I AM, you ARE, he IS" yet?

Now, a lot of my frustration is that these kids (university students) have been studying this language in some form or fashion beginning in elementary school. Also, unlike my students, my language study isn't mandatory. It's for my own purposes: grad school, to communicate when I get there, and yeah sure, fun.

So, nearly everyday my coworkers and I would get together and talk about how slow this process is, and ask the "How can you not get this?!" in exasperated tones.

And then I became one of them. I joined the ranks of blank faces, of pleading eyes that hope to God you won't laugh at me when I try a new sentence, phrase, or hell, even a new word. Learning a new language is one of the fastest ways to feel dumb.

When I was at a South African get together a couple of weeks ago, I was surrounded by the language I'm attempting. Afrikaans was in abundance, and more than once (nearly the whole weekend I feel like) I was approached and asked something in Afrikaans or was included in a conversation completely in Afrikaans. During the conversations, I would stand to the side, look interested, understand about %30 of what was being said, and pray no one would ask me anything. If they laughed, I laughed. If someone asked me a direct question then my friends would give me a second to respond then step in for me. I understood more than I spoke. I was too scared to step out and make a mistake, too embarrassed by my lack of fluency. Simple sentences take time for me. My vocabulary is that of a child, and my pronunciation is so badly American. It made me realize I've got to get my sh*t together before next year when I start applying to schools. I might be ok, but I need to be GOOD.

Throughout the weekend, I felt more and more like my students, scared, embarrassed. I understood what they might be thinking. Even with the constant encouragement I give them, they're still surrounded by their peers who have the ability to laugh at them and make them feel stupid. Well guys, scoot over, give me a name card. Hello, my name is Jennifer and I understand your pain. I understand why you don't speak out in class. I understand why if you speak at all it's barely above a whisper. I understand why it's hard to form sentences, and your attempt to use big words so you seem smarter. I get it! When someone asks me how do I feel I want to say more than, "Ek is moeg." I'm not just tired, I'm exhausted because it was cold in my room last night and I couldn't sleep. But, I can't say that. I don't know how.

Being a language learner has taught me to be a better ESL teacher. Patience. Teach a concept. Practice the concept. Go over the concept. Go over it again. And again. And again. Maybe once more for good measure. Encourage the hell out of the kid. Even if his attempt wasn't that great, say it was. Feeling defeated is the next step to actual defeat. But it's also taught me to not the student slide. Push them. Make them speak aloud in front of their friends. I mix up pronouns too! I say hy when I should say hom. I'm with you. I have this connection with you! We make the same panicked faces when someone speaks to us in a different language. I scream inside my head too.  If you make a mistake then you make a mistake. Get used to that. Native speakers make mistakes too. I could write a book about your/you're, there/their/they're, and the to/too/two mistakes I see on Facebook. Sweet Lord.

Another great way to be a good teacher is to practice what I tell them: have confidence, don't be afraid, practice with your friends, speak up, accept encouragement, believe people when they say you're good! So, I go out and make mistakes because I can't be afraid. I know I'll look stupid and simple forming simple sentences: "Ek is bly dat jou is bly. Ek mis haar. Ek is baie moeg van messing up."

So come on second language students, let's gather together and share the fact that we have degrees, love Medieval Literature and Modern British Poetry, have a decent vocabulary in our mother tongues, or whatever else we need to say to each other to make us feel smart again. It's time to sit criss cross applesauce, spread out the brightly colored picture flashcards so we can learn how to say words like bathroom and animal, and then practice speaking really realllly slowly.
Ons is nie dom nie.

UN Korean War Cemetery

Korea is no stranger to war. This poor country has been occupied more times than one thought possible. There are hardly any original temples or historical buildings left from this or that Japanese invasion led by fire. An ancient Buddha carved into the mountainside has iron spikes through it, as well as the mountaintop itself. "The iron spikes kill the spirit that lives inside," is what I was told. She's had an ugly line drawn around her middle, dividing her, keeping her from being a whole. Everywhere you go, there are reminders that Korea might be addicted to kpop and plastic surgery, but it's past is dark and terrible.

A few weeks ago I went to the United Nations Korean War Cemetery in Busan with Zara. I absolutely love graveyards (yeah, yeah, haters gonna hate) and Zara loves history. Combined with a love my father instilled in me for veterans and Zara's brother being a Marine, we were game.

Upon arriving we were saluted by two ROK soldiers. Strapping young men if I might say so myself. *clears throat* We wondered for an hour looking at the different sections of the cemetery, separated by nation. Each grave has a rose bush by it's side, which I thought was impressive. When we wondered by the open plot of land that was marked "Known Only to God" we both lost it. There is absolutely nothing that puts things into perspective like an unknown grave. Men, boys probably, went to some weird freezing cold country to die, and then when no one knew could recognize their face, they were buried without a headstone. I wept.

Towards the end of the cemetery there is a memorial that looks a great deal like the Vietnam Memorial in Washington D.C. I remember visiting and being overwhelmed at the magnitude of names carved into that wall. It was silent there. No one spoke as they approached the wall. People would touch names of people they never knew and be overcome with sadness. Here is much of the same. Names, so many names, spread across the wall in neat uniformed lines. They, like the graves, were organized by nation. The Americans took up the entire second wall and then some as they were organized by state. I found North Carolina, put my hand on the names, and recited "Here's to the Land of the Long Leaf Pine". I walked away thinking of my home filled with mountains, oceans, the scent of pine and camp fires, waterfalls up mountain trails, rows of tobacco, and a Carolina blue sky. I looked to that unknown graves plot and hoped that the North Carolina boys made it home to be buried beneath that sky.

We hated the background to this international monument. How tacky.

United Kingdom 

South Africa

This reminded me of my local Veteran's community. A red poppy for remembrance. Thanks Pine Level American Legion for teaching me that.

North Carolina

North Carolina

North Carolina

The eternal flame. 

When all was said and done, Zara and I weren't too impressed with the cemetery itself. It's grounds weren't as well kept as we thought they should be, which in our opinion shows disrespect. We plan on going to the one in Seoul as well. Here's hoping that one is a bit better.

War Cemeteries and Memorials are a perfect personification of Mr. Yeat's line, "I think it better to be silent,". Words cannot touch what massive amounts of dead men's names can. Words cannot floor me, and move me to cry for the dead, the outcomes of war, and the insanity that still goes on today. But that wall could.

"On Being Asked For a War Poem"

I think it better that in times like these

A poet’s mouth be silent, for in truth

We have no gift to set a statesman right;

He has had enough of meddling who can please

A young girl in the indolence of her youth,

Or an old man upon a winter’s night.

~ W.B. Yeats    

Peter Pan's Hell

Completing a compulsory three week English Language camp brought some harsh realities into the light. I know I've made mention of the Korean education system before, but haven't really explained in detail.  It's one of those cultural oddities that make people gasp, every once in and a while will make international news, and leaves most expats shaking their heads. 

Elementary School:

This is pretty normal. Kids start in first grade. Kids are usually 6-7 years old, and go to school from around 8am-3pm. All very normal. Except for after school programs. It's "the thing" to put your kids into private academies, called hagwons, for the after school hours. Whether your kid needs/wants it or not they will attend music classes, art, tae kwon do, English, Chinese, math, or other academic classes. These usually last an hour long, and the average Korean kid goes to 3-4 hagwons. This means the kid gets home around 6-8pm. Elementary school is grades 1-6.

Middle School:

Things get a bit more intense in middle school. School begins around the same time, but ends around 4:30, then it's hagwon time. Now the students are in academic academies: science, math, English, Chinese, etc. Students get home around 8 or later. Middle school is three years long.

High School/Hell:

School can start anywhere from 7-9am; whenever the student gets there to study or prep for the day. Students no longer attend after school hagwons because they stay in school until 10pm. Yep. 10pm. There are no hobbies, sports teams, or life outside of school. There is an overwhelming amount of stress placed on these teenagers for the three years it takes to complete high school. They are not offered any sort of outlet to relieve stress and society continues to make ridiculous demands of these kids. Many parents hate this system. They see what it does to their children. I asked my adult students last year why they conformed to this. Students aren't forced to stay in school until 10pm. They do it because they're pressured to and realize that if they want good scores and to have a good reputation then they must. The answer was, "it's just the Korean way." Societal pressure skips no one.

Sixty years ago, Korea was one of the poorest countries in the world and now it has one of the best economies. The Korean work ethic is unlike any other, but it comes with a price. Korea has one of highest suicide rates in the world, most of the victims being between the ages of 14-19. Pressure and stress caused by the education system is one of the leading causes. 

So, while I was working my English summer camp for the past three weeks, my students broke my heart. They were 14 years old, one year away from high school, and we would talk about school and how much they hated it. They wanted to play outside, have art classes, play in a band or sing in a choir like they'd seen in American movies. They know they have to put those desires away. Studying is it. Studying is life. So when I would be with some my elementary school students for our drama club time (I know. Me? Drama club?) they would share creative ideas, draw some of the best stuff free handed, and explore in their new found creativity. As the weeks past and bonds were formed, these children would seek me out and their tiny hands would find mine. I melted. 

They're kids. Children who don't really get to be children. South Korea would have been Peter Pan's hell. I could quote my child psychology classes or education theorist I've studied, but these links are so much more interesting and hands on. 

A short documentary on Korean high schools. Watch it. It's truly eye-opening and heart crushing.

A tumblr set up by an English teacher who wanted to give his kids a way to speak their minds. It's wonderfully hilarious. 

 

Fail

I did a post last month on stereotypes and how the consequences reverberate throughout social constructs and ultimately shape a society and it's patterns of thinking. What I failed to do was talk about the stereotypes foreigners have about Koreans. It's super easy, while living here, to observe the society, form opinions, and then create labels. For example, all Koreans are obsessed with beauty and obtaining that perfect and ridiculous standard. All Koreans are selfish and think about themselves first. I've had three different conversations with friends, both living in Korea and back home, about these two topics in the past two days. Without even realizing what I'd done, I'd failed. I had drawn a box around Koreans and labeled it.

My friends and I weren't trying to be hateful or make ourselves be the better of the two. We were expressing frustrations we had experienced in a slew of situations lately, situations that happen over and over again. For example, men peeing in public. I don't even want to count how many times that's happened to me. I cannot unsee this stuff people! Sigh. I digress.

Because I do live here I feel more confident in telling my friends and family back home about the underbelly of Korea; what people wouldn't know unless they lived here. Yeah, Korea has a lot of problems that disturb me: their education system, whitening creams, the suicide rate, their lack of proper cheese. However, even though I live here, I don't know every Korean, and in fact my Korean friends aren't like the mainstream Korean. I dishonor my friends every time I say, "All Koreans...". One of my friends would drop everything the second she heard we were in the hospital or needed something. She hates the Korean education system and mourns for her son's childhood wasted in a school study hall until 10pm every night. Other Korean friends fight the beauty standard and accept their differences (darker skin, no double eyelid).

The moment I realized I failed happened yesterday. I was waiting for the bus wearing shorts and a tank top. Sleeveless shirts are pretty scandalous in Korea and I knew this. I also didn't care. I was uber culturally sensitive last year, but after the man peeing in public last week, I said to hell with it. I figure if the men in this country can show their man bits, I could show my shoulders. I stood there, waiting in my scandalous outfit when an old grandma came up to me. She touched my shoulder, smiled, and said, "이 빠다". Something I didn't understand. I smiled and said ok. She kept talking and all I understood was 외국 사람. Foreigner. My smile disappeared. I'm wearing something that's probably offense to her. She touched my naked shoulder. She just called me a foreigner. All these old people think foreigners are bad news to their blessed country. Did she just call me a slut? She did. I know she did.

When I met my friend later I asked her,  What did this old lady call me? She called me a slut didn't she?"
"No Jennifer. She called you pretty."

Fail.

You are You and I am Me

Enough already. I can't take it anymore.

There are so many things that are challenging in the expat life: culture shock, homesickness, language barriers, clothes don't fit, lack of a good community. But the one thing that I hate, the gut wrenching, fire evoking, seeing red hate (and deal with far too often) is stereotyping. Prejudice, discrimination, whatever. It dips it's toes into all pools of mistrust and hate.

Being from a southern state in the US, I have battled against my share of stereotypes.
"Southerners are ignorant and uneducated. They're all flaming racists too."
Blood boiling I tell you.

If I believed every stereotype I'd ever heard then I would believe all Yankees hate all Southerners (we've already heard about them), Irish are drunks, Germans are Nazis, Australians are partiers and druggies, Afrikaners are racist, Americans are fat, loud, and arrogant, Zulus are violent, Mexicans are dirty, Asians are good at math, Brits are tea drinking snobs, Native Americans are drunk and lazy. The list could fill pages, books, and then libraries. Stereotyping actually causes my heart to ache with anger first and then grief. I know it's inevitable. It will happen. I know that wherever I go I will face ever increasing numbers of stereotypes, and be automatically judged just because of my nationality. The stereotypes are lined up against me. Battles will be fought to prove them inaccurate, and there will be moments of shame when they are proven to be true.

Imagine what our world would be like if we had never heard any of these stereotypes. We went in meeting new people with no preconceived notions or thoughts. A bit more peaceful I believe.

However, just because I know discrimination exists, always has and maybe always will, doesn't mean I won't do anything to fight in hopes of it's defeat. Ask any good friend of mine and they'll tell you that I'm judgmental. I judge people on their actions and their character. That's how I want to be evaluated, my character, and not by my accent or where I come from. I want to raise my children to believe in the goodness of people and the beauty of differences, to not fear what they don't understand. My hope for the future is strong, and it's strong because I believe it can be changed. It makes me unbelievably angry when Americans (my own people!) say, "oh yeah, I thought that all Southerners were really ignorant and racist." But few things make me feel as good as when they say, "until I met you."
So, when I tell people I'm from the States and their face sets as they start to politely put me in box of stereotypes and set notions, I can't wait to shatter it all.

And just because I never want to be too serious on such a weighty subject... enjoy.

People are much deeper than stereotypes. That's the first place our minds go. Then you get to know them and you hear their stories, and you say, 'I'd have never guessed.'

~Carson Kressley

What the Wednesday on a Thursday: Nature Calls

In my travels I have become a connoisseur of bathrooms, or toilets, washrooms, the loo, whatever you may call them. If there is one place that you can learn to truly appreciate a good toilet, it's Asia. I've seen holes dug in the ground, squattys, toilets that smile at you ( who puts a smile on the lid?!), stalls that sing, toilet bowls you have to manually fill up with water and scoop provided once you've flushed, and bidets that I have no idea how to operate it comes with so many buttons. In Japan, almost every toilet I used had a machine mounted on the wall that would provide nature sounds to camouflage your...business.


Below is a step by step tutorial on how to successfully navigate the peculiarities of a Korean public bathroom, don't expect this in your hotel room or restaurant.
These pictures were taken in a bathroom on my university. I swear I was the only one in there. I'm not a creeper. I'm an informant (although that could be dangerous in America right now).

Step one: Grab your toilet paper. Most public bathrooms have a roll of TP mounted on the wall for everyone. This is especially common in small town bus terminals. It sucks when this thing is empty as well as the one on the 2nd floor...and the 3rd. This is why it is wise to always be packing. Your own toilet paper that is.

Step Two: Wave your hand in front of this magical little machine for some causal music. You know, the graduation song, Amazing Grace, God Save the Queen, or Beethoven's 5th Symphony. It is not relaxing to be doing your business when Beethoven is playing, let me tell you. However, the song last for approximately 10 seconds. I personally don't know any lady that can get into a stall and finish in that amount of time. Not a well planned out idea really.

 Step Three: Nature calls. No pictures are necessary here. Ew.





Step Four: Wash your hands. If you have hot water then Glory Be! you're lucky. Then you use...this soap. My parents read this blog, so I won't go into details about how exactly you get this soap on your hands. But if you use your imaginations (you dirty pervs) then you get the general idea. I always feel dirty when I'm manhandling using this...stuff.

Step Five: No paper towels?! "Shocking" said no one ever. No dryer?! Not surprised. If you do have access to a hand dryer then you'll probably have to plug it in yourself. Careful though you man or woman of safety. You've got wet hands there. The most common way of drying your hands? Shaking them. My kingdom for hot water and a hand dryer or paper towels. 

But don't judge every bathroom like the one you see here. Not all are created equal. I squeal with delight when I see toilet paper and hand dryers. When I travel around my expectations are low and my stash of TP is high.

Travel like a Boy Scout, people. 

Always be prepared.

Country Expat Goes to the City

Seoul. I love Seoul. It's one of my favorite places on Earth. Chocked full of goodness. Yeah, sometimes the crowds are too much. The great pushing and shoving, the subway that can seem like the fifth circle of hell, awful smells, enough pollution to ensure that you're coughing for a few days after your visit, but that's all part of it's grit and charm. Seoul also has beauty, some of the most beautiful things I've experienced in this country I've seen in Seoul. Funky styles and beautiful people stroll down the street. It's the only place in Korea I've seen goth kids. The usual fear or over curiosity of foreigners is replaced with acceptance. We're the norm there. No head turning or rock-star status here. And the food. THE FOOD. Words can't describe. My friend can walk down the street and purchase whole blocks of cheddar cheese, while I pine away and have dreams of cheesy potatoes.
So, when I decided that I needed a bit of a break, I bought my train ticket and headed towards the smoggy Emerald City of my Korean Oz. Redemption was there. Opportunity awaited. A Yellow Brick Road. Oh, that was just the yellow dust?

I've been to Seoul more times than I can count, but I had this revelation on this visit. Something that shook me up good. I was sitting at a restaurant looking over the menu, and something was off. I couldn't tell what it was. The waitress came and took our order. After she left, I sat there, wondering what was wrong. I stared at the menu. I looked at my friend. He stared back with a puzzled look of his own although, he was more puzzled by my behavior. I looked at the Korean couple next to us. I looked at the menu. And then I saw what was wrong. The menu was in English. Entirely. No Hangul to be seen. The Korean couple had to get the help of the waitress to decipher the menu. Everywhere I looked I saw English, and not the Konglish or Engrish I see everywhere else in Korea. Honest to goodness proper English.

It'd been happening all weekend, this feeling like I'd stepped out of Korea and just walked into Korea Town in LA or Atlanta. Many Seoul expats that I've met barely know any Korean. And why should they? Seoul is extremely accommodating when it comes to English speakers. The older woman helping us at the bakery spoke to us in English, the guy at the 7-11 seemed surprised when I showed off my tiny Korean skills and said," 친차? "

When I went to my friend's new church I met loads of new people. We did the usual, "where are you from, where do you live?" routine. Usually, when I'm asked where I live in Korea I don't say the city name. Nobody has ever heard of Naju, so I usually go with the province name, Jeollonamdo. This time, people just assumed I was from Seoul.

-What neighborhood do you live in?
-Oh, I don't live in Seoul.
-Really?!
(shocking that any foreigner lives outside of Seoul?) -Ha, yeah, I live in Jeollanamdo. Near Gwangju.
-Sorry, where is that?
My friend would step in here and tell them it was in the south. A long ways away. And that was that.
But I'm always a bit thrown off when foreigners only know the 7 major cities in Korea. Some of these people have been here much longer than I have, and they can't name or recognize any of the nine provinces here. Same goes for natives too. My hairdresser had no idea where Jeollanamdo was. It's like a New Yorker not knowing where North Dakota is. 흩. A lot of the people I've met who live in Seoul have only been to Busan or stayed in Seoul the entire time they live in Korea. It's so sad! There's so much Korea has to offer, yet those lights, sights, and vibrant pulse of city life keep people there.

Now, let's be clear. This does not encompass EVERY foreigner living in Seoul, so, calm down you who are fluent in Korean and offended by my words. Also, this does not necessarily mean that life is easier in Seoul. I'm know it has it's difficulties as well.
But, I for one, wouldn't trade living in my country province or small town. I feel like I can handle Korea because I'm in up to my neck all the time. People know zero English here. Especially my students. (Sigh. That's another post.) My menu's are in 한늘 and my Korean country accent is understood here. (Remind me to tell you the story of how I confused the hell out of the taxi driver this weekend. Poor guy. Jeollanamdo is known for having a terrible dialect.) In America, they say if you can make it in New York City, you can make it anywhere. I feel it's the opposite in Korea. If you can make it in the sticks, you can make it anywhere. 

So, I wouldn't want to live in your concrete jungle, but I will drool over your food, your endless list of entertainment options, your hairdressers that speak English, your bookstores that sell more than five English books, and the corner stores that sell cheese.
Cheese. I miss you.

But Seoul, I love you.

What the Wednesday: The Naked Edition

This “WTW” is probably going to be my favorite. People, get ready. It’s going to be such a read, stretching what you thought you knew about the world to the outer limits. What you will learn today forces your perceived thoughts to shatter and bends your cognition to a higher power’s will. You thought it was only in tales, some folklore passed down by the mystics. It can’t possibly be real. 

Have I completely reeled you in?
Excellent.

I do not speak of some tall tale. No Loch Ness Monster or alien ships. Oh no.
I speak of nakedness. Whole masses of people. Naked. Bathing and scrubbing. Soaking and showering.
 It’s not a nudist colony. It’s a jimjilbang. 

Before I go on, let me give some context. I went to Wando beach for some camping on Buddha’s birthday weekend with some friends. Things went exactly as planned, meaning almost nothing went right. Buddha’s bday is a national holiday which results in the mass migration of Koreans across the country. They flock to the beaches or up the mountains, wherever is popular that year. So when I arrived at the bus terminal “early” to buy our 10:55am tickets to Wando, I, of course, had to buy the 2:10pm tickets. Everything else was sold out. We waited. We chatted in the sun, then took the 2.5 hour ride to the beach. We tried to head to another island once we got there, but found out there was no campgrounds. After some taxi rides we had finally arrived! Our long awaited camping adventure could begin! Excitement runs through our group as we talk about the camp fires that will be had, the breakfast we'll eat over looking the ocean and falling asleep to the sound of the waves. We found our way to the beach where we spent the night on a raised tent platform. It was hard. It was cold. That cool sea breeze turned into a frigid ocean tundra gale at night. It was cramped. One of the tents was very very tiny and my tall tall friend slept in the fetal position all night long, longing to stretch his lengthy limbs. The ocean waves were incredibly loud. Waking me with their incessant crashing. At 4:30am half of the company was awake. That morning we found out there were no showers. It was low season. The facilities hadn’t opened yet. Our bodies, which had been smothered with campfire smoke the night before, were starting to reek. No worries. We will take the ferry to that island we wanted to see, rent a pension for the night, and shower in luxury (ish). Two hours and a ferry ride later the man at the ticket counter tells me,

“No ferry Sunday. Rest.” 

Sorry, what? You mean to tell me we're stuck here or we can turn right around and go back now?! I turn to my tired, smelly friends who gaze back with bags under their eyes. Everyone takes a breath. What do we do? Do we go back now? Sightsee a bit? We have all our gear. What will we do with this mass? Are there lockers? One girl starts to slump forward a bit at the thought of taking another 45 minute ferry ride just to go back to where we started. Our spirits drop. The storm is starting to descend. Then someone suggests, 
“What if we go to the jimjilbang?"
Spirits lift. Smiles appear. Yes oh yes is the joyous cry from the group. We will go to the jimjilbang! Our saving grace has appeared. The weekend is saved. No longer do we look to the ferry ride back with dismay. No no, this ship is a vessel of hope, steering us toward glory. 

The Jimjibang. It’s a sauna. Not any sort of sauna that westerners are used to. There are no candles lit with soft music playing. This is a public bathhouse. 
Here’s how it works.
There are two levels: men and women. Walk through the front door pay your $4-8 grab a pajamas set and go to your respective floors. The men and women are separate and don’t see each other at all. (If it’s a sauna then you get no outfit. It’s just a bathhouse. If it’s a jimjilbang then you get the outfit set because it’s also a place to sleep. Men and women can meet back on the shared floor clad in the given pajamas.) Once inside you grab a locker and strip. Shocked? Worried? Don’t bother. Everyone’s doing it. The elderly, middle schoolers, children, moms and daughters, fathers and sons. Usually there are at least three large baths, large enough to fit 10-15 people comfortably. Well, as comfortable as one can get with a naked stranger beside them. One is filled with boiling hot water, one with luke warm water, and at least one has water taken straight from the arctic circle. The routine is to shower first then go from hot tub to cold tub. Sit in the steam room. Have your body scrubbed (by what feels like a brillo pad) down by an old woman wearing nothing but her underwear. She's easy to spot. She has the most clothes on in the place. Cleanse the body, rejuvinate the spirit, get the blood pumping, and open the pores. People, it feels. So. Good. 

Now, the nakedness. Sigh. Most foreigners downright refuse to go when they learn of this queer cultural ritual. An entire room filled with naked people? Naked strangers?! You think I’m stared at while walking down the street? Just wait till they see me in all my glory. No. Absolutely not. 

That’s what they say until they try it anyway. 

People stare at first. It’s a foreigner. It’s naked. Give it a once over and move on. I confess, I waited until my eleventh month mark had passed in Korea before I checked out a sauna, but once I did, I was hooked. Our culture teaches us to hide our bodies, be ashamed of our form. It’s not perfect. There are so many mistakes, too many scars and imperfections on our bodies. However true that might be, the sauna teaches me one lesson: no body is perfect. Nobody chats about how ugly someone is or points out what's wrong with you. This isn't some sorority initiation. Nobody cares what your body looks like. It's the most freeing experience and biggest confidence boost I've ever experienced. And it's so simple. We sit gathered in the tub with towels around our heads. We gossip, and eat hard boiled eggs (jimjilbang food of choice). Kids play, and the women scrub their skin until they gleam red and raw. It’s the sauna. It’s Korea. It’s the way of life. 

After our hour long trip to the sauna the guys and girls in our group reconvened. We were calm and clean. We sipped our cappuccinos and tea while smiling, remembering how that hot watery nakedness cleansed away the stress and soothed the ache in our bones. A sigh of contentment was passed around the table. 

And we went back again the next day.

The Redemption of the Number One

Poor 1. It's got such a sad reputation. It's the loneliest. The saddest experience. Sigh.
I have to admit, most of the time I agree. Depression overload when you say, "table for one." But lately, I've seen 1 rise from the darkness, from the pit of despair into a glorious rebirth. It blew into my life like a cool breeze on a hotter than hell day.

Surprisingly enough, I haven't done much solo traveling since I moved to Korea. I've got good friends who, for the most part, are excellent travel partners. But, upon returning this year I found I had this desire to strike it out solo. Test the limits of Jennifer. What would she do when things went wrong? When she got lost in a very foreign country? I had a taste of it when I traveled to the Philippines alone, stood in a crowd of approximately 505,209 people in the Manila airport, trying to figure out how to get to my hotel. I wished to God my friends would have been the first to arrive and could have met me there instead of the other way around.

But this is a story of redemption.

This weekend I headed to Beopseongpo. A small fishing town on the edge of my province. There's a temple there with an impressive statue of Buddha that I had a hankering to see. So, I did.

Jennifer's "How to Travel Alone" List:
1. Charge Your iPod. 
The sweet harmonies of Florence and Head and the Heart saved my sanity that day. From riding an OBSCENELY packed #9 bus to waiting in the hot sun for a bus that won't come, my ipod made me feel like I was traveling with a friend. A close close friend.

2. Make Nice With the Locals.
All the way from offering your seat to a sassy old lady (ahjumma) who will later direct you to the right stop when otherwise you'd have no clue, to the taxi driver* who was sent from sweet baby Jesus himself, a smile and kind word in their language goes a long way people.
*No really guys, this taxi driver. To see the temple you could walk about 5k or take a taxi and the driver I procured took me up there, and gave me his card so I could call when I was done. We shared a bag of chips up the mountain, and when he dropped me off I said, "Jennifer 임니다 " I'm Jennifer. When I called an hour later he said, "Oh Jennipa! Ok. I coming." Ten minutes later he was there and he charged me the same amount as it had taken me to get up there, even though he had a 2 way trip this time. He helped me buy a bus ticket back, and when that bus pulled up he shouted across this wee little village terminal, "Ok Jennipa! Let's go!"

3. Don't Panic
Most of time I had no idea where I was going. I refused to use google maps on my phone. So when they bus stopped I just had to be brave and hope I was right.
Yes. I got lost.
I ended up at the wrong temple. Don't panic. Just wait for a bus, call a friend, move on.
I went for a hike around the statue once I arrived at the right temple. It was clear at the end of the trail that it was not for visitors. I emerged from the shurbbery covered in scratches and spooked a couple of Koreans. Don't panic.

4. Learn the Language (or at the very least the alphabet)
I might still be in Beopseongpo or Yeonggwang or who the hell knows if I couldn't read Hangul.


So, the lesson here is that the number one isn't so bad sometimes. True it's good to have that companion and someone to laugh at you or figure things out with, but I rather enjoyed my solo journey. When I go to Indonesia this summer, I'll be on my own for a few days. I've scheduled surfing lessons, and booked a room in a hostel instead of a hotel in the hopes that I'll meet interesting travelers. It would be wonderful if I had someone to share those memories with. I can imagine my sister on the beaches of Indonesia bent over laughing at me as I fly off a surfboard or it bonks me in the head. But being alone has quiet moments of beauty. Words inside of my head are shifted around to form sentences as I come up with a million stories. I can pray, read, listen to music, and not worry about that other person. Traveling in groups is hard for us hybrid introverted/extroverted people. One day we want hugs and cuddles, the next we want to be left alone. One minute we want conversation, the next we just want to listen to music. Exhausting I tell you.
Not with one.

If only I could be uber cool and be like this girl. One day.

Photo Overload. I'm not into selfies. I might be a solo traveler, but I hate posting pictures of just me. I'm awkward.

What the Wednesday: Mid-Terms, The Other Side is Greener

Mid-terms. Fear driven by panic. Students run by clutching coffee and books with papers sticking out haphazardly. Pens stuck behind ears, hair that's clearly unwashed and in terrible disarray. Some hole themselves in their rooms with study guides, books spread out, empty bottles of energy drinks tossed about. Some board themselves up in the libraries with the same scene, but joining other desperate souls in neighboring cubicles. Some scream and cry, tear at their hair, and sob uncontrollably at the fate that awaits them. While others roam the campus with blank, wide-eyed stares, muttering to themselves in an incomprehensible language. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, the students wade through the pit of despair that accompanies exam week. If one falls behind, no one will stop to help. Every student for himself. It's not pretty.

That's how I remember mid-term week. That's what my students look like now. I watch their faces crumble and grow pale(er) as I hand them the six page, 75 multiple choice, fill in the blank, short answer, and essay question mid-term. My ears perk at the cries, gasps, and swear words (today it was shit. The kids can't say "strange" correctly, but the swear words they've got down to an art.). A slow grin spreads across my face as they file out after they've finished, faces aghast at the horror of my mid-term. They go to join the others, muttering, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.

I prop my feet on my desk, and with a latte in one hand and a red pen in the other, I start to decide their fate...I mean grade their tests. The grass really is greener on the other side.

Dit's nie altyd maklik nie.

Yesterday, an Afrikaner asked me how my Afrikaans study was going. My reply was, "Dit's nie alkyd maklik nie." It's not always easy. She loved it. Was pure putty in my hands. I adored her praise. She had expected only a simple answer in English. I gave her a full sentence. But the more I thought about that statement, "it's not always easy" the more it rang true to a few things here.

I didn't feel like I was gone for that long when I left Korea a while back. Four months, just four measly months. But everything is different, and folks, it's not easy. I figured that I had done well last year. Not just survived, but thrived. I left Korea on my little kimchi cloud, and flew back on my confident, "can-do", sassy American flag, proudly waving from sea to nuclear threatened sea. I landed softly enough. Was greeted at the airport by two dear friends instead of a stranger. Stayed with a friend instead of a barren room with no sheets. This year would be it. I would be a wise sage to all the expats; show them the makgolli flavored ropes. Ahh, maar, dit's nie maklik nie. Sug. Dat was dom. Humility check. Got it.

My best friend left two weeks into my second year here. The girl who'd been with me since the beginning and done almost everything with, was gone, and I was left to recreate that part of my identity. Then my other friend moved to a different city, then another, then another, until I found myself surrounded by new people. Starting over. Again. Then we play this game of asking the introduction questions, "Where are you from? Where do you live here? What did you do back home? Where did you go to school? What was your major? It becomes mundane and tripe. And that's unfair thinking because you really are...I mean they really are interesting people, and here more so than many places, we have to fight for good community. No compromising when choosing your friends because choices are limited. But then when you do find those solid people you continue the game of figuring each other out. Was that sarcasm? Is she a whiner? Was he being funny or serious? They don't like Lord of the Rings?! That's a deal breaker. For the love of all that's good and holy, was that sarcasm?! It takes a while. It's a process. It's risky and hurtful, putting yourself out there, letting people in over and over again.

Then just when you think the game is making you a little weary, a little glum, you win. You get back into the motions of the game. The game hasn't changed. I have. No new rules. But it is definitely time to change them up. Ask different questions. Yes, it was sarcasm. It's always sarcasm. No, she doesn't like LOTR. Hope they figure you out quickly because you're not slowing down. It's not easy, but you play anyway, because it gets easier. Also, if you don't start to meet knew people, then man, is your life going to suck. Be brave you pansy!


But you know what will be easier this year? Understanding what's being said around me at this year's Hunter's Braai Camp. Ek verstaan jou. Nie meer skinner.


*Note- I just had a wonderful and encouraging friend correct my Afrikaans. Dit is instead of dit's. But I'm leaving my mistake. Humility. Perseverance. Further up and further in, vriende.

Nuwe 언어. New Languages.

It's no lie. I hated Spanish in high school and even more so in university. I was an English major. Why in the name of all that's good and holy did I need to be proficient and take up to 204 in a foreign language when I knew I would have no use for the damn thing? Sigh. ¿Cómo se dice ridiculous?

Turns out I was right about the Spanish. It hasn't helped at all here in Korea. I'll use my kitchen Spanish to understand my Latino friends here. It's also handy when we get into a taxi and the driver understands enough English that I have to say, "vamos a morir" (we're going to die) because I fear for my life. But still, Spanish and I just never...clicked. Lo siento Senora Wise. I'm sure I'll be fine with my primary language. Surely it's all I'll ever need. The whole world speaks English.

Ha. Haha. Hahahahahahahahahaha

So I started learning Korean. Then it was hard and I stopped. 하지마(don't do it) It didn't help that Koreans weren't exactly supportive in my language discovery. I am corrected all the time and if I mispronounced even a teeny tiny bit then they had no idea what I said. Also, I have a foreigner face. They look at me and inwardly start to panic when they realize they'll have to speak to me. They panic so much they miss the first few words I say to them. In their own language. Enter extreme confusion. Point is, I was a coward. Or lazy. Fine, I was both. Anyway, I stopped. I quit. I learned enough to get around. I could read and write and tell a taxi driver to 가자 (let's go!) and ask where the 화장실 (bathroom) is. But I've been convicted recently by the professor that I tutor. Sorry let me specify: the Chinese Language professor who's learning English as a third language. Convicted. Shame. Whatever.

So I started up again. Happy?

But I started learning another language in earnest last year. Afrikaans has got to be one of the easiest languages I've attempted to learn. *Side note, I've also attempted Cherokee and Irish Gaelic.* However, the uitspraak (pronunciation) is a bitch. There's no nice way to say it. 

Most people's reaction when they find out I'm learning Afrikaans is a one big "what the...?" moment followed by even more confusion. How in the name of Edward Cullen is that going to help you in Korea? African? Is that the one with clicks? 

Sigh. 

The quick answer is that I have a few Afrikaans friends and I wanted to understand what they were saying, I was looking at a South African uni for grad school, and my friends spoke this language. It was their heart. It is the language they dream in and talk to God with. I'm a firm believer in being a good friend and while that doesn't mean I need to learn every language my friends speak, I wanted to be close to my friends and show interest in their culture, respect their backgrounds and differences. Now, they get good laughs from me ALL the time, and are bombarded with questions at all hours of the day which I'm sure makes them roll their eyes, but bless them, they are patient. Dankie.

At least those were the reasons the language learning started. Now, I see it as this personal journey. One of determination and perseverance. Can I stick it out this time? Will I quit? It's hard being laughed at when you're making such an effort. I want to punch the Korean barista in the face when they giggle at my piss poor attempt to ask for low fat milk. I never ever of evers laugh at my students attempts with my language. They would all walk out of class, and be terrified of English forever. Language learning is hard. I cannot identify with Korean or Afrikaans. It isn't my culture. It makes no sense to me. But I feel good when I sit down to study. I feel excited knowing I'm closing the cultural gap. Afrikaans is 'n mooi taal, maar it's still difficult.  When I study and master a sentence or a grammar rule I feel the world become more accessible to me, a little easier to navigate. So I persevere and verstaan a little bit more each day. I open myself up to change each time I learn a new 표현, and the world becomes less scary with fewer boundaries. 

This guy is my inspiration. A white guy who's learning Xhosa (one with some clicks) and he's pretty good. Like it says at the end of the video, "Speak to a man in his own language, and you speak to his heart." Nelson Mandela

Good one Madiba.