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. |
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| United Kingdom |
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| South Africa |
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| 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 |
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| North Carolina |
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| North Carolina |
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| 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
Monday, August 19, 2013
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.
Friday, July 12, 2013
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
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.
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
Thursday, June 13, 2013
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'mmanhandling using this...stuff.
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 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
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.
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