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.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
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.
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"
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
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. |
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| 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
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