Remembering Papa Sam

In my grandparent's colonial, yellow Connecticut home, there is a room -- the living room -- which is essentially a time capsule from the 1970's.  It is a striking place, with shag carpeting, shiny-rimmed mirrors with geometric patterns, and psychedelic black and white curtains.  At one end of the room is a bar, complete with barstools and a dwindling stock of hard alcohol.  Next to the bar, glass shelves contain my grandmother's extensive collection of Waterford crystal, which only she is allowed to wash.

Grandpa said he was going to take the room with him when he died.  Every Saturday, company or not, he would sit on a stool -- or eventually, his walker -- and have a glass of beer or watered whiskey, while listening to a radio station that played old time music on Saturday evenings.  It was here, sharing a drink and pretzels as Natalie Cole or Frank Sinatra's voice crooned in the background, that I will always picture my grandpa, smiling, laughing, talking. His voice was raspy: "I sound like the Godfather," he often joked, after his second stroke paralyzed one of his vocal chords and left him perpetually hoarse, like he was always almost getting over strep throat.  Or like the Godfather.

"What should we talk about?" he would ask after finishing a war story or stock market explanation.  It was often he and I at the bar during my visits; grandma too tired, the rest of my family scattered across the world.  

"You decide," I would say.  "You decide," I said again, slowly and clearly.  His strokes had rendered him incapable of following fast speech patterns.  For him to understand, the words must be very slow and clear -- something that most strangers had difficulty forcing themselves to do.  Ours is not a society used to pauses, and instead of talking to him, stores clerks would often turn and answer me or his companion, and I would translate into slower English.  He never complained or became bitter about his condition.  On the contrary, he was always smiling and joking and laughing a loud "HA" when he was amused, which he frequently was.  

I wish I had known him pre-stroke -- his first was at 61, forcing him into early retirement -- and experienced him in all his unfettered gregarious charm, wit, and brilliance.  Grandpa was extremely bright; graduating from high school with the equivalent of a college degree, then studying engineering at an ivy league, and finally getting an MBA.  He owns many patents from his work as an engineer; yellowing papers with names and sketches and descriptions that are beyond me.  I wish I had known him before the first time his heart stopped.  Before he had to relearn the alphabet.  

**

"When you laugh," he looked at my sister and me, "It makes me happy."  We smiled, and probably laughed in response, or maybe said "thank you."  

**

Growing up overseas, flitting from country to country as my father represented America while satisfying his travel itch, I only saw my grandparents during hot New England summers.  My memories mash with home videos to provide a picture of park visits and Chuckee Cheese adventures and grandma saying I'm tall and grandpa asking if I want a banana after we've had a huge meal.  No.  Pretzel?  No.  There were six of us kids, and every year our family descended upon their quiet house on its wooded road, and settled in for a month, spreading through the rooms, climbing on furniture, gobbling all the American food and candy.

Food was a link to my grandparents even when we were thousands of miles away.  A huge box would arrive at the Embassy in Yemen, filled with Cheerios and Peanut Butter Captain Crunch and Mallomars, none of which could be found locally.  On our birthdays, aside from our gifts, they would send an extra amount of money for a trip to McDonalds, which we would regrettably use for a different restaurant in the absence of the golden arches.  

"Love, 

Grandmother Betty and Papa Sam."  

**

In 1944, at 18, my grandpa went to war.  His army photo shows a handsome young man with wavy dark hair, kind eyes, and a hopeful expression.  His stories are harrowing: captured by the Germans, standing in line in the snow with his comrades, an officer eying them and pointing at several different soldiers, including my grandpa.  The chosen men are taken to a Prisoner of War camp.  The rest are shot.  Grandpa had earlier removed his dog tags which identified him as Jewish, and he attributes this to saving his life.  

They were liberated after several months, and he came out dangerously underweight.  After that, he said, he always carried a bit of food on him.  He never forgot the feeling of starvation.  He later served in the Korean war, and he emerged from the two wars with medals, a proud identification as a veteran, POW license plates, and haunting dreams that stayed with him the rest of his life.  

**

Grandpa was always joking.  Always.

"Last night, I had a dream I was eating a marshmallow.  When I woke up this morning, my pillow was gone!"  This was one of his favorites.  His repertoire of corny jokes morphed from being goofy humor to being embraceable and comforting in familiarity, like a fondly shared memory, a line from a script we had all read.  

His hands were large and slow, knobby with translucent skin softly stretching across his veins.  87.  An old man's hands.  His hair though, grew dark and full his whole life, only thinning and becoming speckled with gray in his 70's.  Without his walker, he moved slowly and shakily, arms outstretched towards the closest firm object; door or bed or desk.  He was always working on a project of some sort, usually for the grandkids: family tree research, family photo album compilation.    

**

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return," Natalie Cole is singing.  

"It's true," grandpa murmurs, relaxed in his walker, plate of pretzels in front of him.  I don't know if he understands the words as she sings them or if he recalls them from years of listening.

We are at the bar, the time capsule room is dimly lit by lamp and candle, and I am drinking white wine from Waterford crystal.  He tells me stories.  Stories about the wars, stories about work and friends, about meeting my grandma -- "You should have seen her.  She was beautiful…she still is."  I sit and take in the stories.  I have questions, but it is easier to let him talk, to let him have his story flow.  One question can take a long time to get across.

He asks about my boyfriend -- he has met him over Skype, pressing his face up to the screen with a big smile -- and he asks if he will come visit Connecticut and there is a twinkle in his voice and a comment in his eyes and I imagine he is thinking about great grandchildren.  Grandpa has told me in the past that he was waiting to see his great grandkids before dying.  Sometimes my grandparents talked of death like it was a trip to Taco Bell.  Maybe this is a form of acceptance.  

**

My grandpa passed away last week, and I am sad.  We are all sad.  The world is sad.  I can't imagine anyone who knew him who wouldn't be saddened by his absence.  He was bright and kind and patient.  I see him in my mother.  In her quirky humor, her welcoming smile and ready laugh. I see him in my siblings, in their ability to charm, their nerd-brains, their appreciation for life, their features.  I see him in myself, in my stubborn optimism, desire to learn, enjoyment of company.  

I miss him.  I love him.  

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The Final Days

I'm composing this from Connecticut, where I have spent the past few weeks staring at all the non-Koreans, eating processed snacks, and trying not to bow when I say thank you.  But this will not be a post about transitioning back to America (which is kind of a disturbing place, as it turns out), but about my final days in Korea which I was too busy/tired to chronicle at the time.  And lazy.  That too.

So here are some belated glimpses of my Korean finale:  

December:

SH hands me around nine resumes of young females from North America, and asks me to read through them and choose a few to interview.  School is in session, but we've finished the textbooks, and have embarked on a Home Alone marathon in which I discover that Scarlett Johanssen is in Home Alone III as a preteen, but it's still a blah movie.  The kids are delighted with the comic violence and they shriek delightedly as the villains get their heads smashed with irons and bricks and are later set on fire and attacked by a stapler gun.  We play each movie in 40 minute chunks to three different classes, and by the end I am a strange juxtaposition of being in the Christmas spirit and being surprisingly desensitized to graphic violence.      

As Kevin mouths "Keep the change, ya dirty animal," I shuffle through the smiling photos of enthusiastic applicants with liberal arts degrees and wanderlust.  On paper, they all seem like they would do a great job, so I pick two or three who have a specific interest in Asia and a few years of experience with children.    

No, no, no.  My choices are misguided. SH is convinced that the age range needs to be a goldilocks mid-twenties; not too young, not too old.  

I go through the resumes and write out the highlights of each applicant on a sticky note for her examine.  SH isn't lazy; her English isn't strong enough to read the paragraphs of I-can-use-this-word-so-you-should-hire-me papers.  We discuss a few of the applicants who stand out, and set up three Skype/phone interviews.  SH hands me a paper of questions to ask the applicants, and then she finishes the interview with a little speech she has written out.    

"Do you like children?  Teaching children is deferent than teaching adults.  Many times students don't listen to you and they will bother you. I want you to know about this."

One applicant tells us how she is obsessively organized and clean.  After the interview, SH asks me what she meant, and I say that it means everything is neat and on time.  We look at our desks which are covered in lesson plans, reminders, and, in my case, a pen shaped like a fluffy flamingo.

"Not like that," I say.  She laughs.  I will miss her.

Eventually we settle on a girl who is friendly and energetic.         

January:

After a three-week vacation in Sweden, which is not an ideal location to winter, I come back to the equally snowy Korea and conduct my two week Winter camp.  

February:

My time in Korea is coming to a close.  Something about the impending departure makes me simultaneously want to soak up every last minute, even as I impatiently wait to leave.  It's not that I'm sick of Korea; I just have the expiration in sight and the remainder feels like waiting in line.  Really slowly -- because each day at school I sit at my desk for eight hours and try to be self-motivated.  I read online that another public school teacher spent his excess desk hours teaching himself finances and is now a bit of an investing guru.  This is inspiring, I think to myself, as I watch my online television shows.

Teacher's Dinner

Our school has a final Teacher's Dinner at a Japanese restaurant in Geumchon.   We are seated on cushions on the floor and there are several long tables in a sectioned off area that we reserved.  It's on a slightly raised platform and we take our shoes off before stepping up.  It's Japanese, but, like every good restaurant in Korea, has kimchi, hot soups, Soju and Hite.  The tables are gloriously laid with sushi and side dishes and alcohol and soft drinks.  As we sit and eat, the waiters constantly stream in with new foods to try; sashimi, soups, fried desserts.  

But before we start: Surprise!  The leaving teachers will all be giving short goodbye speeches to the room.  I suppose I should have anticipated this after having had to give an intro speech at the beginning of the year, but it hadn't crossed my mind.  I wish I could remember enough Korean to say something significant.  The person giving her speech before me is young -- mid-twenties -- and starts to cry halfway through her speech.  Everybody "awww" or giggles and she can't finish her speech.  I, of course, am next.  Yes, I'm supposed to follow the crying girl.

I stand up and bow, and enunciate very clearly and slowly how grateful I am to everyone (wide gesture to the room) and how I love Korea and its mountains (big mountain curve gesture) and it's very beautiful and I am very happy to have come and everyone is very kind.  I end with a Korean thank you and a bow.  They hand me a goodbye envelope with 10,000 Won and a slip of paper with something typed in Korean.

The evening proceeds nicely and is filled with teachers getting drunk enough to feel confident enough to use their English on me.    Most of the teachers who talk to me spend their time apologizing over being too shy to speak to me at school.  I am oh-so-forgiving and we graciously toast each other, knowing full well that we will be silently nodding at each other in the hallways on Monday.  Eventually an older gentleman corners me and leans at me, mumbling incoherent English and Korean that SH also finds incoherent and instead of translating says "Pretend like you understand what I am saying."  So I look at him and nod and laugh.  It's been a couple hours at this point, and the night is just getting started for most of them, but SH tells me I'm allowed to leave.  The next day Correy tells me he saw my Vice Principal and a group at noraebong at 1 in the morning.

**

The week before I leave is low key.  Both SH and I are desk-warming, and, with my extensive experience, I am much better at it than she.  I read a book, chat, surf facebook, watch online TV, write emails, etc., while she sits with her phone, texting and then sighing and telling me she's bored.  I suggest watching Korean soap operas online and she groans and lays her head onto her arms on the desk.  Cool.  Another teacher comes in -- a young woman called Yanghee who was the English co-teacher before SH -- and speaks to SH about lunch.  I hear them say "migook", which means America, so I know they are talking about me.

"Can you eat goats-eh?"Yanghee asks me, looking distrustful at the idea.

"Goats?" It didn't sound like a scary food to me.  They think I'm such a wuss.

"Goats-eh" she says again, and makes a pregnant belly movement over her stomach.

"Ohh, guts?  No, I can't."  I laugh.  We all laugh.  I am a wuss.

'Nsync pose

**

The teacher exchange across public schools in Korea is one of the haphazard aspects of the system that makes no sense to me.   Each teacher is allowed to stay five years maximum at one school, so that different schools have a chance to have good teachers (and bad teachers are shuffled around).  Fine.  What I don't understand is why the management can't figure out where teachers are going to go until a week before they start.  My original co-teacher, Young Rock, was moving schools this year, and he wasn't told until a week before what his new school would be, or even what grade he would teach.  I think some teachers have better luck, but even still -- the physical and mental preparation involved in starting a new grade at a new school requires more than a week's notice.  

**

My sixth graders graduate with a sweet little ceremony in the cleared out cafeteria, which converts into a sort of auditorium.  Proud 6th grade parents sit together at the back of the hall, behind the younger students, and the teachers sit along the left, in a sectioned off area.  It starts with the fifth graders playing the saw -- our principal is a talented saw player (see above video from Sports Day) and once a week he teaches them classic songs that have included "Country Road," "Yesterday," and "Somewhere over the Rainbow."  The principal then gives a speech and starts calling up the names of each student, who bow once in greeting to the principal and once in thanks upon receipt of the diploma.  Afterwards, parents give their kids flowers and hugs.

Before the ceremony starts, when everyone is milling about, I go over to where my favorite fifth graders are sitting and point to the seats at the front where the 6th graders are.

"Next year, you will be there.  Are you excited?"

They stare at me.  I repeat myself with dramatic hand and facial expressions: "Next year" -- left hand makes giant arch over stationary right hand -- "You" -- point -- "Will be there" -- point at 6th grade -- "Are you excited?" -- happy face dance.

"Oh no!"  They make faces and shake their heads.  Ah, right.  A grade higher = more work, more expectations, less childhood.

**

We have our final band night.  It's Katie's apartment and it smells of incense and candles and chai tea, and the lamp is covered by a scarf, which means the lighting is soft as one of us picks up an instrument and sings a slow melody.  We film each other answering questions about where we're at, where we think we're heading, what our philosophies are, and the significants who are enriching or leaving our lives.  Inspired by a documentary, we vow that we will shoot follow up films every five or so years.  In the meantime, we're all enamored with the 1-second-a-day guy who creates montages from seconds of his days.

One of my friends -- who has been pregnant 9 of the 11 months I've known her, so I actually have no idea what her personality is like -- has a birthday and about ten of us squish into the apartment where they live with their newborn.  The child is adorable and my child-holding privileges have been restored after I retracted all kidnapping comments.  And bribed them with a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake.  We take spoons and eat the colorful cake that is split into eight sections of mostly delicious flavors.  The way we consume it is like a really questionable commercial that simultaneously makes you want to purchase, devour and then throw up the product.  

I say goodbye to the rest of my friends and acquaintances, except most of my writer's group, who will hopefully use my mysterious disappearance as writing fodder for a terrific book.  I give my darling cat away to a stranger from an expat chat board.  She has wavy brown hair and seems nice in a probably-won't-eat-my-cat way.

On Monday, I pull my all-nighter packout and am driven to the airport by my Korean friend Jane and her sleepy brother.  We discuss her upcoming English classes, dating, and traveling.  Goodbyes to fellow travelers never feel permanent.

**

Here are some seconds of my last year and a half.  I didn't manage to do seconds from consecutive days (very often), but I still thought it was a cool project.

And that officially concludes my Korean adventure.  Hello America.  

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Late

I've never had insomnia.  Not real, stay up all night, tossing and turning, mind whirring, insomnia.  The closest I've come is an hour or two falling asleep or upon waking in the middle of the night -- and these are extremely rare instances.  I get this trait from my father, who falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow.  There should be a word for that -- upon pillow-hit.  He says his deep sleeping is the sign of a clear conscience.  I'm not sure what that says about my mother.

Tonight, I have decided to pull an all-nighter.  Or rather, the all-nighter was decided for me when I realized I had three hours of sleep left.  Actually, it was decided when I -- according to custom -- grossly underestimated the amount of time I would need to pack and clean before my flight.

As a non-insomniac, I find myself without an armory of middle-of-the-night distractions.  Compounding matters is the decision I made at a cafe this evening that went something like this:

Me: What should I get?
Lauren: Do you want caffeine?
Me: No.

Past Siobhan is clearly an optimistic little fuzz bunny.  I'm also thanking her for vowing off online TV for Lent.

**

I've had a very difficult time deciding what music should accompany during my vigil.  My gut reaction was something peppy to energize me, but that quickly sounded obnoxious.  New music is too much of a gamble.  So I went with classical: non-invasive, good company.

I'm terrible about the names of classical music.  I'm bad with composers, too.  Even pieces of music that I've played for years.  There are certain types of information that, if I'm not intentional, will slip through my mind the minute I hear them.  Classical music names, strangers' names, directions.

My classical music slips into Backstreet Boys, which is the best way to keep oneself from becoming pretentious about music: remnants of middle school tastes.

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Day 357 - What I will miss about Korea

I'm not exactly sure what day I'm on, but it must be around the 357 range, because my contract is a year, and I'm leaving in five days, a bit before it officially ends.

I am sometimes very bad at creating closure with people, places, ages, etc., but my goodbye to Korea has been slow and long, so I thought I'd take a moment to write out some of the things I will miss.

Things I will miss about living/teaching in Korea:

- Walking around by myself past midnight and feeling completely safe.  I have never felt as safe in a country as I do here.  (Which is ironic, as I'm on the border of a crazy-eyed, nuke-happy dictator). 

-  Low crime in general.  I haven't had to think about pickpockets.  My friends have had phones and wallets returned to them.  I've left my bags outside for one reason or another. 

- Public Transportation.  It costs me a couple of dollars to get to Seoul -- an hour away -- on a direct bus.  The buses are direct and extensive.  The metro is clean, fast, and extensive.  It's great not having to be dependent on a car.

- Not worrying about taxes when shopping or eating out.  The price listed is what you'll pay.  How pleasant.

- And on that note, not worrying about tipping in general.  I'm not miserly, and I know that tipping in the States is the bulk of the waiter/waitress' salary.  But it's nice that it's built in here.  And that it's still cheaper (Korean food), or similarly priced

- Korean food.  Mmmm.  Inexpensive access to delicious Korean barbeques, soups, bimbimbop, kimbop, etc.

- The tight knit community of foreigners in rural areas.  I live near a small town called Geumchon, and it's pretty cool to walk around and bump into friendly faces. 

- Free rent, inexpensive health care, cheap phone bills.

- "Service".  Service is what Koreans call little gifts that are thrown in for free with purchases.  Free drinks, free time at noraebong, free random stuff...

- Noraebong!  Noraebong is Karoake in a purer form.  It's private rooms with couches, tamborines, and giant TVs and mics set up for singing.  You and your friends choose all the songs, and you can be as ridiculous as you want.

- Kind and hospitable Korean people.  I've had so many stringless free lunches here.  And people who come up to me and help me carry things (suitcases, guitar cases, etc.), or just want to chat.  Strangers who help me with directions. 

- The children here.  Are. So. Incredibly. Cute.  It's absurd.

Ilsan 

- My students and the quirky, sweet things they say.  The ones who really want to communicate with me, so they come up and repeat "How are you?" over and over, or say "This is for you," and hand me random things from my desk (I think every ESL teacher grows to resent that lesson...).  The students who insist on taking photos with me, who try to have Google Translate conversations with me, who request Justin Bieber songs...And the quiet sweet ones who bow at me and murmer "Hello."  The artwork and failed attempts at spelling and grammar....

- My co-teacher.  Her muttering to herself in English and Korean and then saying "Why?!" when I laugh at her.  Her endless dramas with her bf.  Her existential crisis over teaching.

- My apartment.  It's a good size, and it's in the middle of a street that has restaurants, grocery stores, pharmacies, bakeries, convenience stores, etc.  I love living alone.

- Pizza School. These are a chain of pizza places that have 5 dollar pizzas (actually, more like $4.50 if you convert it.)  Pretty delicious...

- All the quirky things I take for granted.  Subway arrival music.  Larva cartoons on the bus.  Street food.  The everpresent feel of Psy...

**

There are probably many more things, but these are the ones that came to mind first. 

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The one about Valentine's Day

When I was eight, my classmates drew names for Valentine's and then decorated a cupcake and made an acrostic out of the person's name.  A kid called Justin (I think?) got me and used the "I" in my name to write "I like her a lot," which we both got teased about. 

Korea is the mother of cute.  Really.  Everything is ribbons, pink, hellokitty, skirts, dresses, heels, kpop, cursive all-year-long.  Couples wear matching outfits -- shirts, pants, shoes, coats, hats, all-year-long.  (As my friend Lauren asked: When/how do they have that talk?  Is it around the three month mark?  Are the guys into it?) 

My wardrobe has not been immune to the cute.  Pink is now all over my wardrobe, I have floral headbands, multiple hair ties with flowers, little bow hair clips, etc.  But I digress.

Valentine's Day in Korea, is the first in a three month celebration of love/singleness.  February 14, March 14, and April 14 are all holidays that revolve around the subject.  February is for girls to give to guys, March (White Day) is for guys to give to girls, and April (Black Day) is for singles to get together and eat black noodles. 

Apparently Valentine's Day is about chocolate and White Day is about candy.  Two of my Korean friends have told me they have made chocolate for boyfriends on past Valentine's Days.  It feels much less inyourface here -- I haven't seen any flower/chocolate deliveries to the school, and definitely don't feel the advertising in the same way. 

Chocolate companies do make specialized chocolate bars like in the States, though.  Here's one I got: 

I'm pretty sure there's no good way to interpret "Calorie Down" written on each block of chocolate.  The bar itself was wrapped in a pink HelloKitty valentine wrapper, so these weren't meant as weight loss treats.

**

I like holidays.  I like traditions.  I like that they add and remind us of the meaning in our lives.  I like that New Years is about growth, Valentine's Day is about love, Easter is about hope, Independence Day is about patriotism, Thanksgiving is about gratitude, Christmas is about Love.  Birthdays and mother/father, etc. days are about celebrating lives of individuals.  They are all about community, celebration, appreciation; and they allow us to give and receive and be cheesy.

 
That said, I do think that turning romantic events (V-day, proposals, asking someone to prom, etc.) into crazy huge pressure competitions is usettling and sad.  Kudos to the guys and girls who go all out because they are genuinely intense romantic people.  (Though they make everyone else look bad.)

An especial kudos to the gentleman who thought it would be a good idea to tie the ring to a helium filled balloon when proposing:   

  And the dude who knocked his girlfriend out:

And of course, the following viral proposal is fabulous:

Alright, and here's some real romance.  If you haven't watched the movie, you're cutting corners. 

Happy Valentine's Day!  :)

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The Deal with Winter Camp and Desk Warming

Winter Camp

Winter English Camp is a camp during winter vacation that most public school teachers are required to teach.  Depending on your school, it can range from a few days to a few weeks.  During the rest of the school holiday, English public school teachers are still required to come in, even though there are no classes and no other teachers.  We affectionately call this time "Desk Warming."

Winter Camp is entirely in the hands of the English teacher.  (Or, most are.)  I was the one who planned it and taught it.  It runs from 8:30-12:30, with the afternoons free for planning.  Mine was set up so that 9:00-9:40 was 1st/2nd grade for two weeks, and 9:50-12:10 was 3/4th grade for the first week and 5th/6th grade for the second week.  I had 18 or so 1/2nd graders, around nine 3/4th graders, and two 5/6th graders.  Yes, two.  (Six signed up, and three came the last day). 

From what I can tell, the school doesn't actually expect the kids to greatly improve their English at Winter Camp.  It's more about having fun doing silly activities and reviewing/picking up some new vocab along the way.  Initially (before Summer Camp) I had been excited for the camps to teach new grammar and subjects outside the book, but I quickly learned that the kids are in vacation mode.  Oh, and they don't particularly care about English.  Did you care about High School Spanish?

Supplies

My school has a pretty good English budget, and they offered us a few hundred thousand won (a few hundred dollars) for Winter Camp supplies.  I made a list of what I would need for the activities, my co-teacher got the list approved, and we went shopping together with a school credit card.

Some schools have really low budgets, and every school is slightly different in their approach.

My supplies included colored paper for projects, tape, balloons, cookie ingredients, etc.

Ideas for Winter Camp

Waygook.com will save your life.  Really.  It's a site where ESL teachers in Korea upload lesson plans, games, ideas, and other materials (crosswords, worksheets, etc.)  It has forums for different themed Winter Camps: Harry Potter, Space Camp, Olympics, etc. and they are filled with really useful material. 

For 1st and 2nd grade, I did a simple craft/art project about very basic vocabulary every period.  For example, we learned some weather vocabulary, colored umbrella top cutouts, and taped them to chopsticks.   

3+4th and 5th+6th I was able to get more advanced.  We learned English songs -- I printed out the lyrics with a bunch of words removed for them to fill in -- and made/ painted paper mache heads, played review games, watched Elf, did an Egg Drop, and made no-bake cookies.

Ideas that flopped:

1) Making a music video.  This might have worked if my kids were all outgoing/dancy/enthused about memorizing an English song.  They weren't. I have some pretty terrible footage of a few kids mouthing "Love me do."  Lots of blooper footage.  Maybe I can make a blooper movie and add the real bits at the end. 

2) Learning feelings, writing them in the snow and taking pictures.  Also, snow angels.  The kids had zero desire to go outside "Teacher! COLD!", which was understandable -- most of them had no hats or gloves.  (Dear parents...). 

Also, in spite of showing an inspiring Youtube video about how to make snow angels, my kids weren't enthused about trying them out.  Except one boy who ran ahead, stopped still, and then flung himself face-forward into the snow, flailing his body around.  It was beautiful.

3) S'mores.  This wasn't my idea, nor is it my story, but it makes me laugh so I will share it.  My friend Asrune has a tumultuous (read: bizarre/insane) relationship with her co-teacher.  Asrune sat down with her before camp to go over the supplies that the co-teacher would need to get for the Winter camp.

They discussed s'more ingredients for about 20 minutes, with Asrune explaining very carefully what a s'more was, and giving her a list of optional types of chocolate, graham crackers/biscuits, and marshmellows.

When Asrune returned from vacation to start winter camp, she looked at the s'more ingredients that had been supplied.  Well, actually, she didn't know they were s'more ingredients because they were so off-base -- she assumed they were random snack foods.  Here is a breakdown of her co-teacher's s'more ingredient interpretation:

Graham crackers became: Ritz cracker cheese sandwiches. 
Plain chocolate bars became: chocolate candy bars
And the topper -- Marshmellows became: MINI SAUSAGES.

What? 

Yes.  She couldn't find marshmellows and thought that mini sausages would be an appropriate substitute. 

Desk Warming

There are a ton of complaints about desk warming because it seems pointless and inefficient, and other teachers have the vacation days off.

I kind of enjoy it.  They're paying me to relax in a warm (oh yes, the heater is on when I'm here alone) room with internet access, a phone and a fridge.  Nobody checks up on me, and I have no work to do.  Which means I get to blog, read, write, take care of emails, make phone calls, Skype, and watch Community.  Which is so.amazing.love.

When camp ended last week, the kids whined and asked if they could visit me this week.  I gave them an hour on Monday and Tuesday.  I have no idea if I'm breaking laws, but I assume I'm not.  Today they came in and we watched K-pop music videos.

Kpop is the Korean pop music genre.  It consists of a million all-boy and all--girl pop groups that have around eight people with the same height, body, and face (they change up hair colors).  The girls are really cutesy with long hair, big eyes, and scaryscarytiny little waists.  The boys are the same, but with shorter hair and angstier expressions.  They mostly sing about relationships, from what I can tell of the English phrases thrown in (Girl, you're my caffeine; so I love you, so I hate you...)

They've got some catchy songs.  It's pop.  Here's a Girl's Generation video called "I have a boy." 

    

 One of the extremely popular boy bands is called Beast.  (Which has made for some fun English lessons: "No, not I want to meet the Beast.  Just Beast.)  Here is their song Bad Girl.

One of my kids spazzed out when showing me a video of them.  "Handsome!  Ohhhh!"  She turned to me and pointed at the screen.  "Handsome?"

I shrugged.  "They're so little."

"What?"

"Uh.  Baby.  Baby."  I made baby rocking gestures and pointed at Beast.

"Teacher, no!  No baby!"

"Yes!"  And then I told her I was 66.  She freaked out and started jabbering to her friend who also freaked out.  They pulled up Google Translate and typed in "How old are you?"

I repeated 66, and translated "Plastic Surgery."

"???"  They pointed at my face.  I pointed at my eyes, nose, chin, and then made a waving motion over my body.

One of them typed some Korean into Google Translate.  "66, huh?"  Not a bad translation.

And then.  "Her face is 20."

I laughed.   "Thank you." 

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Adaptibility, the good, the bad, and the pretty

Throughout high school, my class was told -- as every class should be -- that we were bright, capable, full of potential, and the future was not simply in our hands; it was us.  We were also told that we were special because we had grown up overseas and had a sense of the changing world, of cultural interactions, of adaptability.  Highly adaptable, they told us.  Highly adaptable from the moving, the transitioning, the juggling of culture and language and family and streams of friends passing through. 

I've been thinking about adaptability lately, or rather, I've been thinking about what it often comes hand-in-hand with -- getting used to situations.

"Man is a creature who can get used to anything, and I believe that is the very best way of defining him."

Dostoevsky would have our adaptability define us -- not just TCKs, but everyone -- and I think few would argue that it isn't an essential part of our nature.

Pauline Chen, a surgeon, lends an interesting perspective, describing the first time she made an incision on human flesh:

Like doctors-in-training before and after me, I wrapped my fingers around the handle in a kind of death grip and winced as the belly of the blade touched the patient’s body. And as much as I’d like not to admit it, my hand shook, so great was my fear of pushing too hard and slicing too deep.   

She says this is a common initial reaction for surgeons, but that after years of practice, "cutting began to feel second nature to me, the scalpel merely an extension of my fingers."

It's a slightly disturbing idea, isn't it: Getting used to cutting live human skin.  The cringe aspect was purposeful, as she continues her article with a discussion of why the public is relaxing about goverment atrocities.  Man can get used to anything.  

Adaptibility.  On one hand, there are people adapting and thriving in new, difficult environments.  On the other, there are people becoming complacent about problems that once horrified; shrugging about distant violence, accepting with a blink the pictures of swollen stomached children that once at least stirred us enough to click the Donate Now button. 

It's a coping mechanism, a defense mechanism, an evolutionary reality, an unbelievable asset, problematic in addictions (as we adapt to our input and crave more drugs, alocohol, porn, food, power), and depressing when resultant in complacency.

Perhaps I'm using the wrong word.  Perhaps getting used to violence and thriving in a new environment shouldn't be accredited to the same source.  I don't know.

**

"I've grown accustomed to her face..."

I take things for granted.  I have to, in order to perform as a functional human.  If I were constantly thinking about how amazing my body is (wait for it), with the blood rushing, and the synapses sparking, and the nerves doing their signal sending spiel -- I wouldn't get anything done.

There's a Ted Talks about falling in love, and how the world would be a scary, awful place if the infatuation period were permanent.  Well, not scary and awful so much as unproductive.  Nobody would get anything done.  They would be writing crappy songs and driving miles to find rare flowers and spending all their money on trinkets and failing any exam or work problem that required mental energy.  OK, maybe not exactly like that...

In the same way that you have to release aspects of the puppy love phase, you also have to release constant appreciation of the wonder of the world (which you once had.  really.  watch a baby or a little kid for a while...or read Calvin and Hobbes).  The sun and the stars and the ocean and mountains and flowers and animals (animals!) and how it all fits so perfectly...you can't walk around thinking and talking about it all the time.  Socially, that doesn't work so well -- like Adam, the Asperger's title character of Adam, who strikes up intense and lengthly conversations about the Solar System as part of small talk. 

So instead of marveling over it, I live in it.  And, probably, if I were from some awful, dirty, frigid planet and came to ours, I would greatly appreciate Earth for...oh a couple months.  And then it would be routine. 

**

My point...Let's go back to the love analogy.  Sure, puppy love ends (supposedly lasts up to two years though?), but that doesn't mean you have to lose an overall sense of appreciation for the one you're with -- you don't lose the love, just the puppy.  (That didn't work...)  But sometimes it takes intentionality...rekindling the sense of awe at the beauty and craziness that we see, eat, breathe, touch...

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Ring out, wild bells

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. "

--Tennyson



On New Year's Eve, one of Sweden's traditions is a Swedish reading of Tennyson's poem, In Memoriam, on national TV.  It's the ideal New Year poem; ringing bells to beckon in the good, flush out the bad, and give cause to hope.

2012 was an eventful year for me. I visited three new countries, moved to Korea, spent hours lost on busses and subways, made great friends, changed jobs, said goodbye to new friends, explored a foreign culture, got bruised from kickball, took on too many languages, ate jellyfish legs, learned yoga, got a cat, saw two babies come into the world via Facebook (no, not live), discovered that I can almost deal with cold weather, learned new recipes, made friends online, taught my kids to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, joined a band, got a smartphone, cut my own hair (x2), bought clothes without trying them on, survived a typhoon, discovered tights, joined a writer's group, went to a mud festival, calmed way down about flying, experienced a New Moon party on a beach in Thailand, celebrated the New Year in Hong Kong, got into Ted Talks, developed an English/Korean/hand gesture language with my co-teacher, ate a lot of pasta and banana milk shakes, and turned a quarter of a century old.

I almost wish I had numbers for you: the average amount of times I have return to my apartment because I've forgotten something, the amount of pounds of rice I've eaten in Korea, the number of bus rides I've taken, the number of times per day that I bow in greeting or thanks, the number of photos I've taken, of times I've told my kids to speak English, of shrugs I've made when people have commented on my weight, of impromptu songs sung with Asrune, of times I've tried to explain where I'm from...

The desire to quantify is simply the journalist in me who I can never quite stomp down -- always support with authority and numbers.  In this case, it's better to leave things nebulous; the best things in life can't be quantified.  (Seriously, Bhutan. with your index of happiness).

**

This year I shall say goodbye to my two homes of the past few years; my family's elegant apartment in Ostermalm, and my own little studio in Bongilcheon.  There is always a sadness and nostalgia surrounding goodbyes, but in this case, there is also great anticipation for the future.  Future adventures, locations, ideas, loves, books, foods, stories.  Stories.  My own and others.

Strandvagen, Stockholm

Seoul

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Trekking along, and a note to my future self

I had a blog where I posted almost daily for a year.  I actually think the yearly posts were over 365 because I often posted several times a day.

I was unemployed.

Actually, that's not entirely true.  I was unemployed for a few months, and then part time employed.  I think the key to consistent writing, though, is just that: consistent writing.

Today, though I have nothing exciting to say, I thought I'd post anyways, if only to try to be more consistent in my output on here. 

So:

My time in Korea is winding up.  I have less than three months left in the country, and only a month or so of actual classes to teach.  This year went by so crazy fast, that I cannot help but wonder if it will one day be a smudge on my memory -- a blurry snapshot of a pleasant, odd time.

Of course, that won't be the case because I'll have a ton of awesome blog posts reminding me of my experience.  Including today.

Dear future self,

I have chosen, at random, this day to memorialize.  You're welcome.  I wonder if your humor will have evolved to a point to find this completely stupid.  I hope so.

This morning I almost missed the bus because I didn't get out of bed until 7:30, which is technically the time I like to walk out the door.  I managed to get out at 7:40, and actually looked quite presentable.

In the afternoon we had the first real snow of the year, and the kids went crazy pointing and yelling out the window until we had to close the curtains to start class.  (After I too got a good look).  I always forget how magical snow is until it makes its first yearly appearance, blanketing everything in a layer of white and frosting the trees, glittering the air, making everything soft and light.

Enjoying the snow.

It was Wednesday today, which meant I taught three classes, totaling two hours of the total eight I spend at school.  I tried to be productive with my free time, and I got a few lesson plans done, before deciding to work on a personal writing project, before deciding that my fingers were too cold to be removed from my gloves.  So I sat, wearing my hat, mittens, three layers and a massive down coat, and I watched Freaks and Geeks on Youtube.

We were let out an hour early and I walked to the bus stop in time to see my bus pulling away.  I ran and yelled like a proper character in a movie.  I then waited 45 minutes in the blizzard, watching various buses come and go.  None of which were mine.  The bus machine that tells you when the next bus was coming was broken, so I wasn't able to leave for fear of missing the next bus.  I eventually got home later than I do on normal days.

At night I had band practice.  We were all a bit run down from the week, but still managed some weird jokes (Peanut butter?  No...) and got some music in.  Music Music Music Music, would I miss you if I were deaf?  Would I look at everyone singing and swaying and feel a sense of loss, deeper than missing out on normal sound?  Would I read the words and feel the poetry and wonder how it would sound spoken...sung?

OK, that's about all for now.  You're looking good.

-- Past Siobhan

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Before I die I don't want to die

We created bucket lists in my grade five classes this week.  Each student made a small paper booklet with three things he/she wanted to do before dying.  Our target vocab for the lesson was "I want to..." which fit perfectly with the project. 

Their desires ranged from mundane -- Before I die I want to go shopping -- to accidentally profound -- Before I die I don't want to die.

Quite a few kids wanted to be rich/win the lottery, and I also had a surprising number of wannabe zookeepers.  I want to fall in love was another popular one, complete with little pink hearts and smiling stick figures -- both boys and girls.

My students' bucket lists highlights

I want to taste food from every country.
I want to meet (insert name of popular K-Pop boy band).
I want to be bitten by a shark.
I want to raise every kind of animal in the world.
I want to fly in a plane.
I want to eat plankton. (???)
I want to fly in a fighter jet. 
I want to visit Canada.
I want to visit New York.
I want to meet Hillary Clinton.
I want to be president.
I want to go bungee jumping.
I want to go into a pothole. (Yes, I was used to translate this one.)

**

I was recently talking to someone about how we're taught to dream big as kids, but the minute we get out of high school/college, we're told how important it is to make money, settle into a career, create stability, forget our band, our art, our big ideas. 

**

My co-teacher, 22, dainty and adorable, has a slew of male 6th grade admirers.  From said devotees, she has received love notes, Ferrero Rocher chocolates, and phone accessories.  (Actually, these were all from one particularly enthusiastic admirer who used to come by our classroom every afternoon, open the door, giggle, and run away. Ah, puberty.)

I, on the other hand, attract strangeness.  Always.  A few days ago, I was sitting at my desk, working on my computer.  I looked up to see one of my students wearing a sweater fully zipped over his face (like the picture below except the face zips up to complete a monkey, not a skeleton).  He stood by my desk and bobbed up and down, slowly waving his arms in the air. 

I burst out laughing, and another student pointed at him "Monkey!" then she pointed at me "You beautiful! Monkey you love!" 

So, to recap: SH's admirers bring her chocolate.  Mine do faceless monkey dances. 

Here is a poem that makes you realize you don't know ANYONE.  Enjoy.

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The Invisibles

I love surrealism.  This is an oil painting called "The Invisibles" by Yves Tanguy.

 

 His subconscious saw imaginary beings and he painted them.  What would the world be like if everyone had the technical ability to paint their thoughts, imaginings, dreams? 

Overwhelming, I suppose.

Artists can color the sky red because they know it's blue.  Those of us who aren't artists must color things the way they really are or people might think we're stupid.  ~Jules Feiffer

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On being grateful -- This will be cheesy

I thought I was going to die.  It was painfully hot.  My backpack -- almost as tall as me -- was digging into my shoulders.  Our water supply was low. We had miscounted our distance and missed a checkpoint.  We huddled in the shade of an indent in the mountain, and started to write our wills.  Occasionally one of us blew the whistle that was supposed to bring help.

**

Throughout high school I was in a hiking program called International Award (IA) in which we learned to navigate with maps, rely on teammates, and camp out with only the items we carried on our backs.

During the three+day hike, each team had a map with various checkpoints we had to hit, ending in the campsite which all the groups shared.  Each day consisted of over 10 hours of walking through desert, wadis, and mountains, with our backpacks stuffed with clothing, food, stoves, tents, and sleeping bags.  Everything was a team effort -- deciphering the map, figuring out the route and how long it would take, the breaks we could afford -- and group bonding was inevitable. We slowed down to accommodate different paces, we invented and sang songs, we carried each other's supplies and bandaged each other's blistered feet with moleskin.

In preparation for this hike, our instructor/leader (also our PE teacher), prepped us on what to expect and how important the team mentality was.  She ended with these words:

"Don't complain.  One person complaining will affect the mood of the whole group and bring you down in ways that will affect you deeply."

It was simple, obvious advice, but it resonated with me.  And I saw how accurate it was, when, as we slogged through endless hours in unforgiving sun, the mood of our group managed to stay fairly positive.  We were hot, we were hurting, we were unused to the physical strain of our gigantic packs; but we were in it together.  Nobody brought up how tired or hot or slow we were.  We just kept going.  Sometimes we were silent, sometimes -- after a rare break -- we sang, conversed, smiled.  If someone had spent the days complaining, it would have added to my burdens, reminded me of my complaints, and made the trip generally intolerable.  It would, indeed, have brought the whole team down.

When we hit the low point I described earlier -- several hours off the map, low water supply, completely fatigued and discouraged -- we got through it.  (Jokingly starting to write my will was quite fun...)

It's crazy how one person can affect the moods of those around him/her.  It's an odd responsibility we have in life -- the responsibility to remember that our actions and words have an impact on those around us.  We are not islands.

**

When I was 14, I went to a music camp in Pennsylvania which was filled with enough extremely talented musicians to make me feel sufficiently untalented.  But it didn't matter, because they made such beautiful noises with their breaths and hands and fingers.

A counselor pinpointed a verse "Do everything without complaining and arguing..." and challenged us to try it for a day.  A day of accepting, working with things, smiling when frustrated.

Try it.  Try to go a day without complaining or arguing.  Don't get me wrong -- arguing/discussing is how I process, and complaining also has a time and place.  But, try it.  It was startling to me how often I complained and argued about unnecessary, unimportant things.  How the negativity spreads, even silly negativity, and impacts the people around you, hangs in the air, lingers on chairs and counters.

It was similar to when I decided to be conscientious of how often I misused the word "like".  Scary.

Moderation.  

**

A couple months ago, some of my new friends were doing a Gratitude Project on Facebook where they made brief lists of the little things that they were grateful for that day.  These ranged from simple pleasures -- hot cocoa on rainy days -- to big things: friends who accept me for myself.

The gratitude was contagious.  It almost wasn't a choice for me: I started making my own daily lists and posting them as statuses.  It probably seemed obnoxiously Pollyanna of me, but the truth was that making the lists was helping me see all of the good and beauty in my life.  I did it for me, but wanted to share with others, because speaking truth and positivity into people's lives is as powerful as complaining.

And even more powerful is taking the negative aspects of your day and putting them on a list of gratitude... 

I'm grateful for:

I'm grateful that my non-heated classroom allows me to wear cute hats and gloves allthetimealways.

I'm grateful that distance allows me to appreciate my loved ones in ways I couldn't if I were around them constantly.

I'm grateful that when I feel out of control I know that I'm not meant to be in control.

I'm grateful that I don't have a piano because it's forced me to practice guitar.

I'm grateful that when bad things happen to me, they help me relate to others who have gone through the same.

I'm grateful that I'm uncertain of so much, because it brings into relief what I am certain of.

I'm grateful for the horrifying things that my kids do that turn into great stories.

**

On Thursday, my friends and I shared a Thanksgiving dinner.  The 12 of us seeped into the corners and surfaces of a small apartment, and we went around the group sharing what we were thankful for.

These 12 people were all friendships I had made in the last seven months.  And they have enriched and impacted my time in Korea such that I cannot imagine living here without them.  Actually, I can; I did it for a month when I first arrived -- and while I enjoyed becoming acquainted with Korea, and with myself, my life here would have been extremely desolate without them.

Five of the group eating on the bed.

And it's not that I know them all on a deeply personal level.  Some of them I do, but others I know only a laughing, bantering, goofball level -- and it's still beautiful.  Company, laughter, time spent, occasions shared: these are also important friendships.

Everyone had thoughtful, humorous, kind things to be thankful for.  Many of them mentioned our dinner club (we meet weekly) and the friendships within.  One friend said she was thankful that we couldn't time travel because it meant we always had to live in the present.  Another friend had written out a speech -- yes a speech -- which he read (which I will not repeat here, as it including a few minor faux pas I may or may not frequently commit).

It got to me and I mumbled something about family, friends, and health.  Or something.  I'm not too excellent with words in real life.  Especially when I'm feeling sentimental.  But I love them all so much.  I don't even know why.

I want to shrink them all down and put them on a keychain to carry with me around the world. 

**

When I try to count my endless blessings, I am inevitably reminded that they are not of myself.  That's why they are blessings -- they have been given to me.  Gifts.  And when I remember this, I want to give back.

Maggie Doyne is a girl who took a gap year after high school, traveling across the world, and ended up moving to Nepal, starting an orphanage/school and changing lives.  Her story is amazing:





Thanksgiving.   Sometimes I get hung up on where or how to give.  But the following two places are run by honest, crazy hard working people, and I have no qualms about sending them money. 

Maggie Doyne's home.


The Indian orphanage my brother volunteered at.

$10 buys a kid a backpack with school supplies...$75 feeds a kid lunch for a year. 

**

And now, I will go spend some time reading 1000 Awesome Things.  You should too.

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