Seoul Writer's Retreat

Retreats are glorious.

I belong to a creative writing group in Seoul called the Seoul Writer's Workshop.  It meets every week (alternating between poetry and fiction), and has been a great way to meet other writers and give and receive critiques, and generally slow the brain atrophication process that set in after graduation.

Atrophication.

This weekend/week is the Korean holiday of Chuseok which is generally described as a Korean Thanksgiving - a three day holiday for families to gather and eat.  Or, for expats, a three day holiday to travel around Korea/Asia; in my case, on a writer's retreat in Jeungpyeong-gun, a couple hours southeast of Seoul.

And so it was that I found myself nestled in a pension surrounded by breathable air, rocky streams, and mountains filled with broccoli trees.  The renewing effect of nature, of solitude, of friendly company -- of writing -- is...nice.  We rented two small pensions (vacation cottages) for our group of 16, which meant half of us slept on thin mats and fat blankets on the heated floors. Each pension had a couple of bedrooms, a common area, a bathroom, and a kitchen (or two).  And writers.

Writers are interesting creatures.  We had some great discussions, including one on when/why we decided to start writing.  It's not something I think about often, because it's an urge that feels so natural to me, like breathing or watching Firefly -- it's always been there.  I never classified myself as a writer for the same reason I never called myself a breather - it never needed a descriptor.  Also, titles=pressure and standards.  It's strange for me to remember that some people dislike writing and find it tedious and unnatural, that some people process through different outlets.  Some people are actually living their lives. :P

**

Four or five of the retreat attendees were dealing with breakups.  The sense of losing the investment of time, emotion, effort.  The realization that breaking up with someone does not make you a quitter or that you will one day fail at marriage.  The transition into thinking of yourself as a single entity - the removal of his/her armchair in the corner of your mind.  And the opening of doors.

**

Our activities included free writing, prompted writing, and group discussions, though the majority of the time was unstructured and we were left to wander, write, read, and meet people on our own.  Night meant sudden temperature drops and grilling meat and vegetables.  Morning meant splayed bodies and scrambled eggs.  Our group represented America, England, Canada, New Zealand, and Korea - with the majority being American.   Our ages ranged from 22-50's. 


I managed to forget my fancy photo taking device and instead snapped a few iphone shots.  Enjoy.

Read more »

Sports Day Whoo Whoo

Today is Sports Day.  This means a day filled with music, races, parents, cotton candy, balloons, and an entire-school Gangnam Style dance bonanza. 

I forgot my camera.

However, I do intend to get some snazzy iphone footage of the socutecanitakeyouhomeplease first and second graders running around.  Maybe get a shot of the 5th grader wearing the "ATHEISM COMMUNISM AND FREE LOVE" (Reed College motto) shirt.  That's a lot of worldview statements for a 10-year-old to be sporting.  To be fair, he wears it with a big smile and lots of energy. 

In Korea, Sports Day doesn't just happen.  You spend a week practicing for it/making shirts for it/thinking about it.  On Tuesday, classes were cancelled for a school-wide rehearsal, which basically meant a few races, some dancing, and an innumerable amount of students running up to me and pointing at my legs. 

"Teacher!  Long!  Wow!"

**

Read more »

Sarcasm, Autism, and free rides

Last Thursday I finally realized that sarcasm doesn't easily cross language barriers.  Unfortunatly, I discovered this while being broadcast on classroom TVs across our entire school.  Let me explain. 

Twice a week, I oh-so-slowly read a children's book on camera, and am broadcast live to all the students in their homerooms.  Three fifth graders are in the recording room with me, interacting with the story by listening and repeating and answering questions like "How many fish do you see?"

I am currently reading "Brown Bear" to the students, which is a simple book aimed for native speaking four-year-olds.  It goes like this: "Brown bear, brown bear, what do you see?  I see a red bird looking at me.  Red bird, red bird, what do you see? ..." etc.  After reading the first two pages on Thursday, I looked up and questioned the students.

"What color is the bear?"

"Brown." They replied with confidence.

"No!"  I said.

Just like that.  No.  My co-teacher, who monitors my TV appearances for just this sort of situation, gave me a strangled, pained, whatswrongwiththishuman look.  The kids stared.

"Just kidding!" I smiled. More blank stares. I mentally noted to teach that expression to all of my classes.

**

There's an autistic kid in one of my fifth grade classes.  You can't tell by looking at him - average height, glasses, short dark hair - and generally well behaved, if spacey.  For the purposes of this blog, I will call him Jay.  At the beginning, I didn't realize he had a disability, and tried to help him with his in-class work, until SH told me to leave him alone because he ... "has a handicapped?" (we have many great naver translation conversations).  I'm not sure what the learning approach is for him in other classrooms, but apparently nobody cares about his English levels. 

I left Jay alone after that; I've barely heard him speak Korean, let alone English.  We had one incident where he became upset over a new seating arrangement involving him sitting by a girl, but besides that he blended into the class as shy, awkward 10-year-old.  His behavior was so reasonable - and so preferable to my ADHD kids - that I was convinced he had Asperger's, a highly functioning autism.  Until Thursday.

We were in the middle of a class game which involved students competing against each other and "evolving" to different parts of the classroom.  I was walking from station to station,making sure the target language was being used, when I heard a commotion behind me.  I turned to see Jay shouting and lunging at other students.  SH tackled him from behind with a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side as he wiggled and kicked furiously.  If you recall, SH is tiny - 5 ft, size 0 tiny - and I froze, uncertain how to help.  Two or three of the students grabbed his wrists and feet, and I started to pull them off, trying to avoid a fight.

"No, let them!" SH said.  "Please control the class. I will watch him."  I nodded, unsure how she thought the game was going to continue as usual with a kicking, screaming kid in the middle of the room.  None of the students seemed too bothered by it - many of them were smiling.

"We are sorry teacher.  Sorry."  Two of my kids started apologizing to me for Jay's behavior.  Eventually his homeroom teacher came in and calmed him down.

Later SH explained that the kids knew how to help Jay relax; they were used to his outbursts and were allowed to help physically restrain him. 

I have no idea how autistic kids are treated in American public schools, but I have a feeling it errs more on the side of avoiding lawsuits (ie. don't let students physically step in).  Honestly, the Korean system feels family oriented - it felt like the kids were his siblings.  Kind of cool.

**

There's a lady, a science teacher I believe, who has started giving me rides home after school.  She speaks minimal English, and doesn't make any attempts to converse.  So we sit in silence, sharing yawns and dried mango pieces.  Occasionally I say something like "Are you tired" and she says yes and we laugh, and I feel better as though I have fulfilled my conversational duties. 

I fear I have stumbled into a giving war with her.  I bought Dunkin Donuts for a couple of teachers, and made sure to deliver one to her room in the morning.  A few days later, she offered me a Korean equivalent of a Malomar (a cookie made of marshmellow, biscuit and chocolate), and insisted that I take another one home.  I'm pretty sure it's my turn next.

Read more »

And now for something completely different

One of the most cliche blog posts is a blogger apologizing for not blogging in a while and vowing to get back on it.

I'm not going to apologize, or make such a vow here.  But I will say that it is paramount to consistently maintain a blog (no, I don't know why I use words like that.  sometimes they just come into my head), and I find that I have slacked in my duties on this one.

Me with a Chicken Coke.  There's a little tub of chicken at the top of the coke.  These are amazing. 

Here's the deal: I write a lot.  On here, on word, in emails, on paper.  I try to compartmentalize my writing, particularly in this blog.  I wanted to maintain a tone, style, and type - it's supposed to be a travel-based blog; informative and entertaining.  I'm going to keep trying for that, but it means that there will be many dry spells as I move through phases in my life that move me to write in styles and about subjects that aren't meant for this blog.

Maybe I'll start a new blog.  Probably not, because it would mean the almost certain demise of this one.  I'm considering revamping the sections in this to accommodate for different styles.

Ah well, just wanted to put some content up. 

Read more »

Surviving a typhoon

I come home in the rain and wind at 10:30 a.m., an hour and a half before Bolaven is expected. I am thankful for the timing of this typhoon - two days ago I arrived from Europe, and my body clock is pulling a Charlie Sheen.  A little confused, a little nutty.  I lie in bed and watch my outer windows shudder. The wind is loud. It sounds like the ocean, like waves rumbling onto the shore.  I decide that I don't want to nap in my window-lined bed and move to the couch.

It's stuffy in my room and my fan is on.  The fan is pitiful compared to the powerful wind outside, and I tell it so, but not out loud because I am not crazy.  I drift into sleep. 

When I wake, I look out the window and see people standing outside in short sleeves.  Their bodies are braced against the wind, and their faces are ecstatic. I have a flashback to when I window-watched Swedes walking hatless in negative degree weather in Sweden.  Are these people the same kind of crazy?  I want to yell at them to go inside.  Occasionally a big gust rattles them for a few seconds, and they shriek in fearful delight, clutching umbrellas, running toward doorways.  It is like watching a woman in labor.  Pause, pause, pause, scream. 

I go on facebook and people are having hangouts.  Apparently my friends, too, are throwing caution to the wind; ignoring nature's warnings.  The satellite on the building opposite me is reminiscent of a badly made weathervane.  It shakes from side to side and I wonder if it will fall, if our neighbors lives will be changed in such a way.

Pizza.  I want pizza.  I wonder if they are open today, if they will deliver in this weather, if they will magically understand the konglish directions to my apartment.  I grab some cash and head downstairs, thrilled by an excuse to experience the elements.  Am I one of them? One of my pregnant neighbors?

I venture out the doorway of my apartment complex and feel the air twisting up around my body, mangling my bangs.  Depending on your perspective, this is not skirt weather.  The thought occurs that perhaps this isn't typhoon Bolaven, but a faded version of him - like Rocky without a comeback.

An old man stands in front of the doorway, contentedly watching the store signs on the building opposite as they shake and rattle.  He is 5'9, with a straight back contradicting the deep grooves in his weathered face.  We share a moment of silent solidarity, watching first the signs, then the occasional passerby.  What wisdom does he have, what storms has he seen? It is good there is a language barrier, so that I am not disappointed on this score, for what could be more of a letdown than watching a storm with an old man and hearing him say something stupid or trivial? Especially when my fine mind has created such an excellent, seafaring past for him.

Heading out of the limited shelter of our front doorway, the warm wind greets me with the enthusiastic strength of embracing a long lost friend.  Hardly the violent shove I was expecting.  The trees that line our streets are shaking violently - they are thinner and weaker than I, and apparently on less friendly terms with our mutual acquaintance.  I briefly imagine my dad's angry face when he discovers that I was struck by a branch while wandering through a typhoon.  There have been complaints of my common sense in the past.

Well Dad, I was going to get pizza. 

**

A big store sign has become a hazaard, perhaps knocked partly off the building, and a construction crew is being lifted to fix it.  The boxy black lower third of our pedestrian crossing light has been knocked off, and a man is helping direct traffic as the lights madly dance like sufis.

I eat half my pizza, complete a tutoring session, and succumb to a demanding phone call from a friend who clearly cares nothing for the safety of my limbs.

"Come over," she demands.  "We are having girl time.  You agreed to this yesterday."

I tell her that I am busy, that I am blogging my experience.  She laughs and says this is nothing.

"You can't," she announces, "tell people you were in a typhoon unless you journeyed through it."

"I'm in the middle of a fantasy book that I've rediscovered."

"We will have wine and watch a movie," she returns.

"Can we film a newscast in the wind?" As of this moment I've always wanted to do a fake storm newscast.

"Yes.  And we'll do a photoshoot."

We hung up.  I'm bringing my book, I texted as a final act of defiance.  good idea. that'll save you from flying trees.

And so it was that I braved the elements once again and arrived at girls' night with an unnecessary red rain jacket and green boots.  We played Twister and drank wine and pretended to giggle about boys.  And we shot a typhoon survivor film, which I will upload and share here. 

Read more »

Welcoming Typhoon Bolaven

Typhoon Bolaven is expected to hit Paju around 2:00 pm today.  No problem, said my school, our teachers are hearty, they shall still come in even though the students have the day off. 

Yes. Come in during a typhoon to sit in an empty classroom. 

This morning I woke up and texted my co-teacher.  Koreans are big on the word "maybe."  They generally use it to mean "absolutely" or "no way," depending on context.  I'm not sure if there's a direct translation of a similar Korean word, or simply the favored English expression for avoiding conflict.  "Maybe you shouldn't do that" sounds a lot nicer than "That is completely against the rules and you can never do it ever again."

I decided using the Korean "maybe" on my co-teacher this morning would be the politest way to tell her that maybe I didn't want to risk my life for desk warming.

My text: Do we still have to come in? It might not be safe. Maybe I will not come to school.

SH: I think you have to come to school although you are late. (I wasn't.) When it is worse and worse, ask principal to go home.


Maybe maybe doesn't always work.

When I arrived at school, we sat and stared at the bursts of leaves tossed by rising, moaning winds.  I mentioned that it might be dangerous to take a bus when the storm hit.  Which led to this conversation:

SH: Teachers are hired by government. We are government officials.  But not you. So maybe you can go home. But you are teacher too!  Do you understand?

Me: I can go?

SH: Maybe after morning. Maybe at 12.  Vice Principal thinks you do not understand what Korean culture.

Me: ?

SH: We are government officials.  All government officials work in emergency.

Me: But there's nothing to do. 

SH: It's difficult to explain. It's complex.

Me: OK.

And then, at 10:20, we were notified that all teachers were allowed to leave at their leisure.  SH decided to finish up a few plans, but I headed out.  Downstairs I ran into one of the admin staff, a woman with short, dark hair in her early 40's with limited English.  As we walked out together, she looked at me and then her car: "Bongilcheon?"

I nodded and followed her.  She silently drove me home. It was pleasant.

**

In other news, my principal gave me a large shoebox full of weed for my birthday.  Seaweed, that is - not that the translation of the gift included the "sea."  I'm pretty excited because I really like seaweed, but I have no idea how I'm going to consume the amount he gave me. 

**

My windows are flexing in the wind. 

Read more »

The one where I ramble

Today my co-teacher came into the classroom wearing new RayBans and informed me that she had forgotten her English over the holiday, and - on an unrelated note - was very unhappy to be back.

**

Yesterday, as I thought about the obsessive amount of meal photos I take, I decided that it would be a cool art project to snap a photo of every meal you eat for a year.  Make a cool collage or something.  The beauty of art projects is that you can create them out of something you already find interesting/fascinating and make up a profound meaning after the fact, using key words like metaphor, lighting, perception.

An art major friend recently told me about how she created an art project out of her long distance relationship with her bf - collecting letters and photos and creating a piece for a final project in one of her classes.  We agreed that it would be a hefty amount of work to burn that project after the breakup - which thankfully never happened. 

As I thought about my photo food project and how it would never happen because I'm not pressured by an impending grade, I realized that it would also never happen because it would be too much of a pain to whip a camera out every time I wanted to snack. (Though I suppose I could phone photo snacks and DSLR photo meals, and pass it off as a meta interpretation of perceptive lighting). 

And then came my moment of total inspiration: Food Photography as weight loss.  Have people sign on to an agreement to photo and post every single scrap they eat.  Watch the pounds drop as people become too lazy to find a camera for a handful of chips (which they then cannot eat), or too embarrassed to post the massively unhealthy junk they consume.  

It's comparable to the Facebook Effect: I am convinced that people regularly have dressed better in the last 10 years because there's a much higher chance they will be photoed and uploaded.  Actually, that's not entirely true.  We're still more sloppy than generations past - but we're more conscious of the perpetual possibility of being photoed. It's like we're all on our own reality tv show where the reality becomes scewed through the observational effect - you behave differently when being recorded.

I think maybe I will come back to this post one day and edit it so that it becomes snappy and clever and concise and oh so witty.  Because I can.  Because it's public.  Because it's meta. Like Community.

*Apparently I'm behind the times.

**Favorite comment from ^
"I dated a guy who did this for a year too and posted it on flickr... I now think of it as a rather pretentious thing to do and I don't know if it is directly correlated to him (he was a hugely pretentious hipster architect with a fantastic mustache) or if it is because it just is."

Read more »