It’s omnipresent. Every time I step outside of my apartment and into the public eye, somebody is going to be staring at me. Probably multiple people will try to bore holes through me with their eyes. It’s similar to the degree of staring one might entice back in Canada Land were they to parade out of their house naked. In December. Sweaters, hats, sunglasses – none of it reduces the degree of eye rape that I endure. Conservative dressing has been known to reduce the number of creepy men that follow me around the subway platform, so it’s not a complete waste. Still. I long for the day that I can dress for 30 degree weather with humidity as if it’s actually 30 degrees and humid, and not leave the apartment adorned in a sweater and long pants.
Somebody somewhere would probably like me to point out that in Korea, one doesn’t have to be a menacing sexual predator to knowingly eye rape you or follow you around the subway platform. They’re just curious! And staring like it’s the last sight you’ll ever take in is socially acceptable here. Still. Twenty five years of conditioning has led me to immediately be suspicious of and disgusted by all individuals who stare at you like you’re tonight’s dinner, who refuse to let up after you’ve made it clear that their level of creepdom has been noted. It’s led to me being unable to deal with this behaviour on a daily basis without offering up the occasional retort.
Somebody somewhere would probably like me to know that retorting to the barrage of eye rape that I endure from the locals is socially unacceptable behaviour in Korea, and that I’m an appallingly rude foreigner with whom they would be embarrassed to be associated with. They wouldn’t be entirely incorrect. It is rude for me to retort here, especially to an older man. But I’m not sorry.
Somebody somewhere would probably be upset to find that I have something negative to say about Korea. They may feel that I’m being culturally ignorant, and that I clearly fail to understand the intricacies of Korean culture. While there are undoubtedly many things that I don’t quite get, I understand this particular aspect just fine; I merely think that it’s fucked up. Also, my bitchiness is not saved just for Korea. I have negative and positive things to say about everywhere I’ve been. I could do up a blog about why Canada sucks, and I probably will once I’m living there again. Where I’m living is the key here. I currently live in Korea. Hence, I bitch about Korea. At length. Some things about Korea are nice. But some things are terribly, terribly broken. That acting like a menacing sexual predator is considered socially acceptable is inexplicably fucking broken.
Somebody somewhere would probably like to opine that my definition of what constitutes menacing sexual predator behaviour is culturally bound, and that it’s ignorant of me to apply in Korea. This isn’t entirely incorrect. My concept of what is absolutely fucking creepy was formed in a culture that is very different from this one. In no way does this refute my assertion that this particular aspect of Korean culture is broken. In Canada, I’m expected to award even the most abysmal restaurant service with a tip. For me to leave nothing at all is considered by many to be rude. This aspect of Canadian culture is broken. It’s slightly less offensive to me than living in a world where menacing sexual predator behaviour is considered acceptable, but it’s broken nonetheless. Just because something has become culturally ingrained, doesn’t negate it from being totally fucked up.
I regularly wonder what behaviour, exactly, does one have to exhibit for your average Korean to sit back and think “Jesus fuck, hide the children!”? Aside from, “gee, they don’t look like they’re from around here”, of course. Because apparently all the indicators that give me the desire to flee in terror (some combination of: menacing staring, stalking, uninvited touching, unkempt appearance, and stumbling drunkenness) don’t apply here. Yet, if my students carrying rape whistles is any indication, apparently there is some code here which determines what creeps the locals out.
When I return to Canada Land, I will do so with my ability to use a butter knife seriously compromised. I will be confused when rice is not served at breakfast, saddened by the expense of public transit, and unsure as to how to work a dryer. I will not, however, have lost my desire to flee from those that creep me the fuck out. For this I can thank my inability to accept that broken aspect of Korean culture whereby acting like you might be a menacing sexual predator is A-Ok.
Showing posts with label predators. Show all posts
Showing posts with label predators. Show all posts
Monday, July 28, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Flashing Lights: The New Bad Man Repellant
I’ve been a little lax on the posting lately. This is primarily because, while I’ve been keeping track of everything in the old fashioned paper and pen way, I’ve been too lazy to continue thinking once I get home. That and I’ve been a little cranky and pathetic recently, making my ability to complete projects even more crap than usual. Sniffle. I chalk this up to the exhaustion that comes with passing through my 34th I Hate Korea Phase. It will pass. Maybe.
A while back, my students began showing up at school with orange plastic doohickeys dangling from shoelace necklaces. They were too ugly to have caught on as a trendy Must Have, even for here, so I assumed that they must serve some sort of function. My suspicions arose further when I saw that if one of the students threatened to pull the cord that dangled from the bottom of the orange plastic blob, the others would cover their ears and grimace, as if something loud and terrible was about to occur. Clearly my new goal for the day was not to persuade my students from saying “change-y”, but to find out what the loud and terrible was.
Given that the students were reluctant to share the loud and terrible with one another, it was going to take a little effort on my part to get to the bottom of this. At least, that’s what I thought. Then I remembered that some of my students are 8, which usually makes being tricky a practice in futility. After the first few students merely giggled uncomfortably when I asked them what was with the orange doohickeys, one of my younger introductory level students decided that he would let me into the loop. He pretended to pull the cord, then waved his hands around and made a beeping noise. I asked why he needed this, and he proceeded to look embarrassed and giggled like the rest of the class. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that one of my students finally provided me with the why: “Teacher, there are bad men”.
Right. Of course! Half of my students had taken to wearing what were essentially rape whistles. The exact same model. I later learned that the hand waving my student had done during his demonstration was meant to indicate that there are red lights on the side which flash when the cord is pulled, presumably because Bad Men are known to be scared of flashing lights.
I feel much better for my student’s safety having learned this.
A while back, my students began showing up at school with orange plastic doohickeys dangling from shoelace necklaces. They were too ugly to have caught on as a trendy Must Have, even for here, so I assumed that they must serve some sort of function. My suspicions arose further when I saw that if one of the students threatened to pull the cord that dangled from the bottom of the orange plastic blob, the others would cover their ears and grimace, as if something loud and terrible was about to occur. Clearly my new goal for the day was not to persuade my students from saying “change-y”, but to find out what the loud and terrible was.
Given that the students were reluctant to share the loud and terrible with one another, it was going to take a little effort on my part to get to the bottom of this. At least, that’s what I thought. Then I remembered that some of my students are 8, which usually makes being tricky a practice in futility. After the first few students merely giggled uncomfortably when I asked them what was with the orange doohickeys, one of my younger introductory level students decided that he would let me into the loop. He pretended to pull the cord, then waved his hands around and made a beeping noise. I asked why he needed this, and he proceeded to look embarrassed and giggled like the rest of the class. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that one of my students finally provided me with the why: “Teacher, there are bad men”.
Right. Of course! Half of my students had taken to wearing what were essentially rape whistles. The exact same model. I later learned that the hand waving my student had done during his demonstration was meant to indicate that there are red lights on the side which flash when the cord is pulled, presumably because Bad Men are known to be scared of flashing lights.
I feel much better for my student’s safety having learned this.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
A Deer in Headlights
I was a helpless young lady. Stifled by the confusion of Korea Land, I was waiting desperately for a strong personality to swoop out from the shadows and guide me in the right direction. The utterances that spilled from my mouth, the words that flowed from my finger tips, the discreet slouch of my shoulders; collectively, they screamed out to the world: “Help me! I’m needy and dependent! Hold my hand, dammit!” All this time I’d foolishly considered myself to be strong. Independent. I see now I was just acting out in denial of the truth that lied beneath. I could have spent an entire lifetime not realizing that my entire being was a pretentious façade if not for the intervention of the President of Dyssemia Anonymous. Finally, my hand is being held.
Last week, for the first time in my life, somebody mistook me as dependent female looking for a pat on the back. I boarded a plane to Korea with less than 300 dollars to my name. I’m That Girl that spent half an hour wandering around a Quebec City parking garage by myself looking for an ATM at 2am, because when nobody volunteered to join I realized that my legs still had motion; the one that ate alone from time to time when living in university residence because I didn’t happen to be on the same hunger clock as everybody else; the one that traveled to New York City by herself three times; the one that has never seen the need to wait for others to fulfill her own needs. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need money, I get the cash. If I need a washroom, I find a washroom. There is no shame in cherishing the company of others and knowing that you have people to lean on, but to use those people as hand holders to guide you through the walk of life is heavily dependent. Heavy dependence is weakness. I am not weak.
Cue another Friday Night.
The Plan had been to join The April and Shanna in Seomyeon for some coffee then jet off on the last subway. A lifetime of inability to budget had finally caught up to me in Korea. This meant that if I wished to eat through till payday Tuesday, a seriously hobo weekend was in store. As per usual, The Plan didn’t quite stick. I’m apparently a Yes Person; I’ll kick the hanging handles in subway cars for a dollar, and I’ll stay out past budget without needing to be asked twice. Coffee somehow turned into a trip to the Rock & Roll bar down the road. The Rock & Roll bar successfully combines a number of elements which I believe to be essential in considering where among the greatest places on earth a particular spot ranks: a sports package that carries hockey games, free mashed potatoes and gravy on Fridays, ginger ale, and playing cards. It was dropped from consideration on account of having an obscenely low Frat Boy to Barbie ratio, but remains high on my list of places to be. When presented with the option, The Plan died a swift death.
The April, myself and Shanna were having a discussion of inappropriate sorts when an acquaintance of theirs, Drunk Guy, joined us at the table. I’ve met Drunk Guy exactly two times, and each time he’s been boozed beyond belief. At 9pm. He was sharing with us his desire to get a website going which would provide a detailed database of how the male anatomy of foreigners in Korea measures up; this was his way of giving back to the women of the world, you see. This was terribly amusing, so his continued company was highly encouraged. Closely behind him followed Blonde Lady; her verbal dissertation detailing how her anatomy doesn’t allow for much girth was thoroughly entertaining, so we let her stick, too. Much to the dismay of anybody who was not a complete social retard, The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (Poda) followed shortly behind both. He rather sucked.
Every once in a while I am immediately weirded out by the mere presence of somebody that I’ve never before encountered. Within a split second, without them even having to utter a word, they are swiftly shifted from the ‘Nonexistent’ category to the ‘Note to self: sleep with one eye open” files. Something about Poda was so inherently creepy that I instantaneously felt the need to shower when he took a seat at our table. I hoped and prayed that if I failed to acknowledge him (beyond the base level of cordialness the situation called for) that he would think I sucked and not bother to engage me in conversation. This went about as well as the last time that I asked the universe for somebody who had similar tastes as me in beer and hockey teams.
Tragically, Poda apparently lacks the ability to read nonverbal cues. While one who is subject to this condition can receive formal training in order to improve the quality of their social relations, this man clearly had not. Being completely oblivious of his social shortcomings has made him not just creepy, but overbearingly arrogant. When Poda stopped creeping in the peripheral and leaned over to ask if he could take the chair beside me, I could hardly contain my excitement. My pants nearly hit the floor. My brain’s unfortunate habit of mistaking that potent combination of fear and disgust as sexual arousal has led to many a sticky situation. Thankfully, I caught myself just in time and curtly advised Poda that he could sit there if he wished.
As Poda shifted towards the chair, I immediately turned my attention to the person furthest away from him at the table. Speaking to Shanna meant that not only was I not speaking to Poda, but I was looking in the opposite direction of him. About a minute into the conversation I noticed that Poda had been lurking in my periphery, staring incessantly, totally engaged in a conversation that he was not a part of. I tired of this fairly quickly, halted my conversation with Shanna, and said: “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help but notice that you’re staring. It’s making me rather uncomfortable, so could you please stop?” Poda was completely taken aback. Didn’t I realize that he was people, too?
Now, I realize that in the off chance that my intuition was wrong here, and this guy was harmless, kind, and just a touch socially unaware, that I was being unnecessarily bitchy. My issue with him wasn’t that he was socially retarded; I only discovered that he completely lacked any clue whatsoever after my Creepdar had been activated. Given my propensity to refer to myself in writing as “Barbie”, I will be the last person to alienate another on account of questionable social skills. However, I will be the first to assert myself in a situation where I feel threatened in any way. Everything about Poda struck me as offensive and threatening. His demeanor, tone of voice, body language; all those elements of nonverbal communication that he failed to read in me, led to only one conclusion: This guy sucked. I wasn’t quite sure why he sucked, and I didn’t want to stick around him long enough to find out.
Understandably, Poda was offended with how I asserted myself towards him. Whether he was just trying to be friendly or blatantly hit on me mattered not; either way, I had just very publicly rejected whatever his interests in me were. Aghast, he looked towards The April and Shanna in disbelief. “Can you believe this? She’s accusing me of staring at her?” He was obviously clueless or hoping that they had somehow failed to pick up on his creep vibes. Shanna set him straight: “Well, then maybe you should quit staring at her”. Poda was in absolute disbelief. Whether he was shocked that other people noticed he was a creeper, or that he hadn’t won us over with his irresistible charm, is still in debate. I presume it was the former, as he spent the next minute trying to convince us of his good intentions.
Poda had been misunderstood, you see. I had stood out to him, from across the bar, as a “deer in headlights”. He saw me as a lost soul, new to the harsh world of Korea, looking for guidance that only he could provide. He swooped to our table, not to creep, but to show me the way. Couldn’t I see this? Did I think that I already “knew it all”? His ranting died fairly quickly, as I refused to respond to it in any way, not even batting an eye in his direction. Poda was pathetically looking for any sign of weakness that he could grab onto and pad his ego with. I’m not That Person. Realizing that I wasn’t biting, he took his coat and disappeared a few moments later; presumably so that he could go post over here about how the Western women in Korea are fat, bitchy, and not deserving of great men like him.
I received props from the remainder of the table for getting rid of Poda. We all agreed that while Barbie oozes Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones, that she leaves a waft of Creeper Mace in her trail. Not surprisingly, the quality of conversation picked up significantly after his departure.
Last week, for the first time in my life, somebody mistook me as dependent female looking for a pat on the back. I boarded a plane to Korea with less than 300 dollars to my name. I’m That Girl that spent half an hour wandering around a Quebec City parking garage by myself looking for an ATM at 2am, because when nobody volunteered to join I realized that my legs still had motion; the one that ate alone from time to time when living in university residence because I didn’t happen to be on the same hunger clock as everybody else; the one that traveled to New York City by herself three times; the one that has never seen the need to wait for others to fulfill her own needs. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I need money, I get the cash. If I need a washroom, I find a washroom. There is no shame in cherishing the company of others and knowing that you have people to lean on, but to use those people as hand holders to guide you through the walk of life is heavily dependent. Heavy dependence is weakness. I am not weak.
Cue another Friday Night.
The Plan had been to join The April and Shanna in Seomyeon for some coffee then jet off on the last subway. A lifetime of inability to budget had finally caught up to me in Korea. This meant that if I wished to eat through till payday Tuesday, a seriously hobo weekend was in store. As per usual, The Plan didn’t quite stick. I’m apparently a Yes Person; I’ll kick the hanging handles in subway cars for a dollar, and I’ll stay out past budget without needing to be asked twice. Coffee somehow turned into a trip to the Rock & Roll bar down the road. The Rock & Roll bar successfully combines a number of elements which I believe to be essential in considering where among the greatest places on earth a particular spot ranks: a sports package that carries hockey games, free mashed potatoes and gravy on Fridays, ginger ale, and playing cards. It was dropped from consideration on account of having an obscenely low Frat Boy to Barbie ratio, but remains high on my list of places to be. When presented with the option, The Plan died a swift death.
The April, myself and Shanna were having a discussion of inappropriate sorts when an acquaintance of theirs, Drunk Guy, joined us at the table. I’ve met Drunk Guy exactly two times, and each time he’s been boozed beyond belief. At 9pm. He was sharing with us his desire to get a website going which would provide a detailed database of how the male anatomy of foreigners in Korea measures up; this was his way of giving back to the women of the world, you see. This was terribly amusing, so his continued company was highly encouraged. Closely behind him followed Blonde Lady; her verbal dissertation detailing how her anatomy doesn’t allow for much girth was thoroughly entertaining, so we let her stick, too. Much to the dismay of anybody who was not a complete social retard, The President of Dyssemia Anonymous (Poda) followed shortly behind both. He rather sucked.
Every once in a while I am immediately weirded out by the mere presence of somebody that I’ve never before encountered. Within a split second, without them even having to utter a word, they are swiftly shifted from the ‘Nonexistent’ category to the ‘Note to self: sleep with one eye open” files. Something about Poda was so inherently creepy that I instantaneously felt the need to shower when he took a seat at our table. I hoped and prayed that if I failed to acknowledge him (beyond the base level of cordialness the situation called for) that he would think I sucked and not bother to engage me in conversation. This went about as well as the last time that I asked the universe for somebody who had similar tastes as me in beer and hockey teams.
Tragically, Poda apparently lacks the ability to read nonverbal cues. While one who is subject to this condition can receive formal training in order to improve the quality of their social relations, this man clearly had not. Being completely oblivious of his social shortcomings has made him not just creepy, but overbearingly arrogant. When Poda stopped creeping in the peripheral and leaned over to ask if he could take the chair beside me, I could hardly contain my excitement. My pants nearly hit the floor. My brain’s unfortunate habit of mistaking that potent combination of fear and disgust as sexual arousal has led to many a sticky situation. Thankfully, I caught myself just in time and curtly advised Poda that he could sit there if he wished.
As Poda shifted towards the chair, I immediately turned my attention to the person furthest away from him at the table. Speaking to Shanna meant that not only was I not speaking to Poda, but I was looking in the opposite direction of him. About a minute into the conversation I noticed that Poda had been lurking in my periphery, staring incessantly, totally engaged in a conversation that he was not a part of. I tired of this fairly quickly, halted my conversation with Shanna, and said: “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t help but notice that you’re staring. It’s making me rather uncomfortable, so could you please stop?” Poda was completely taken aback. Didn’t I realize that he was people, too?
Now, I realize that in the off chance that my intuition was wrong here, and this guy was harmless, kind, and just a touch socially unaware, that I was being unnecessarily bitchy. My issue with him wasn’t that he was socially retarded; I only discovered that he completely lacked any clue whatsoever after my Creepdar had been activated. Given my propensity to refer to myself in writing as “Barbie”, I will be the last person to alienate another on account of questionable social skills. However, I will be the first to assert myself in a situation where I feel threatened in any way. Everything about Poda struck me as offensive and threatening. His demeanor, tone of voice, body language; all those elements of nonverbal communication that he failed to read in me, led to only one conclusion: This guy sucked. I wasn’t quite sure why he sucked, and I didn’t want to stick around him long enough to find out.
Understandably, Poda was offended with how I asserted myself towards him. Whether he was just trying to be friendly or blatantly hit on me mattered not; either way, I had just very publicly rejected whatever his interests in me were. Aghast, he looked towards The April and Shanna in disbelief. “Can you believe this? She’s accusing me of staring at her?” He was obviously clueless or hoping that they had somehow failed to pick up on his creep vibes. Shanna set him straight: “Well, then maybe you should quit staring at her”. Poda was in absolute disbelief. Whether he was shocked that other people noticed he was a creeper, or that he hadn’t won us over with his irresistible charm, is still in debate. I presume it was the former, as he spent the next minute trying to convince us of his good intentions.
Poda had been misunderstood, you see. I had stood out to him, from across the bar, as a “deer in headlights”. He saw me as a lost soul, new to the harsh world of Korea, looking for guidance that only he could provide. He swooped to our table, not to creep, but to show me the way. Couldn’t I see this? Did I think that I already “knew it all”? His ranting died fairly quickly, as I refused to respond to it in any way, not even batting an eye in his direction. Poda was pathetically looking for any sign of weakness that he could grab onto and pad his ego with. I’m not That Person. Realizing that I wasn’t biting, he took his coat and disappeared a few moments later; presumably so that he could go post over here about how the Western women in Korea are fat, bitchy, and not deserving of great men like him.
I received props from the remainder of the table for getting rid of Poda. We all agreed that while Barbie oozes Frat Boy Friendly Pheromones, that she leaves a waft of Creeper Mace in her trail. Not surprisingly, the quality of conversation picked up significantly after his departure.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Barbie, Mr Soju Man and the Super Ajumma
Ever since learning my first Korean curse word about 6 weeks ago, I’ve been very successful in warding off obnoxiously drunken Soju Men. That I know any Korean whatsoever seems to catch them off guard. That I know offensive Korean is even more blasphemous. The brief moment that they take to mend their mind, after hearing me curse at them in Korean has blown it to smithereens, is just time enough for me to brush passed them unscathed. No more sharing phone booths for you, Soju Man! Unfortunately, there are occasions when even I’m not crass enough to curse loudly in public. This is where I found myself last Saturday.
I was minding my own business as I waited out the subway ride from Deokcheon to Sasang, on my way to meet some friends for some fantastic Indian Food at this bloody fantastic Indian Restaurant beside the E-Mart. One stop prior to Sasang, a very drunken Mr Soju Man boarded my subway car. Oh, goody! Being the drunken Mr Soju Man that he was, he immediately started getting in the face of the first person that he stumbled upon. As there were only about 6 people on my car, it didn’t take him long to notice me sitting a few meters up the car from his current conquest. Mr Soju Man makes a bee-line for me and immediately starts getting right in my face, trying to put his hands on my shoulders, etc. I respond to this by shoving him backwards and kindly suggesting that I wasn’t interested in becoming his friend. Mr Soju Man didn’t quite understand that I really didn’t want to be his friend, so this shoving match continued for a short while. I finally tired of this and ran up the subway car in hopes of switching cars.
The other 5 people on the car consisted of an elderly woman (from here on out known as Super Ajumma), two middle aged women, and two men that were probably in their 20’s. While I’ve never felt particularly comfortable cursing in front of seniors in the first place, I would consider it even more inappropriate to do so in Korea. Here, seniors are actually awarded with the utmost respect, unlike the complete disdain that seems to be considered acceptable back in Canada Land. Hence, despite there having never been an opportunity more fitting to showcase my growing Korean vocabulary, my audience prohibited me from doing so. This is one of the few times in life when having been raised well does not necessarily come in handy.
As I raced up the length of the car in the hopes of switching to the next one, I found myself unable to move the door between cars. Fantastic. I was either on the one subway line that doesn’t allow you to switch cars, or I was simply on the one car in all of Busan that had a fixed door. Or perhaps I just can't open doors anymore? Either way, I was buggered. Mr Soju Man had followed closely behind me and was now flailing his arms around and rambling nonsensically. I shoved him out of the way again and started to walk the length of the car again. At this point I had concluded that I was going to have to hit Mr Soju Man in order to prevent continued harassment. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of hitting a man in front of somebody’s grandmother, nor was I keen on being arrested or deported. Thankfully it didn’t come to this, as Super Ajumma was there to save the day.
As I passed by Super Ajumma, she took my arm and guided me to sit down across from her, with the two other women on the train. She then swiftly whirled around, grabbed Mr Soju Man by the arm, and started chewing him out. Mr Soju Man failed to appreciate that he was dealing with a Super Ajumma, and actually had the audacity to yap back! Unacceptable! Super Ajumma raised her voice another notch, continued to chew him out, and then promptly shoved him towards the other set of seats. He sat down meekly, put his head down, and finally shut up. Super Ajumma took the seat beside me, patted me on the knee, and told me that she was sorry for his behaviour. I thanked her 100 times before getting off at Sasang.
Super Ajumma is a true hero.
I hoped dearly that Mr Soju Man would stay on the train and rushed upstairs, where I found my friends waiting. I immediately explained to them what had just happened. I was a little bit shaken up, but thanks to Super Ajumma I wasn’t fairing too badly. Before I could complete the story, Jack looks behind me and says: “you mean that drunken Korean, the skinny guy taking his shirt off over there?” Sure enough, there was Mr Soju Man, taking off his clothing in the middle of the subway station. He went for the pants but thankfully thought better of it. Upon seeing even more foreigners, he made a beeline for us. I presume that even in his drunken state he realized how difficult it would be to play Chase After Foreigners with his pants around his ankles. We scattered, which seemed to irritate him. Didn’t we understand that he was our new friend?!?!
Eventually we made it out of the subway station unscathed. The last we saw of Mr Soju Man he was headed into the bathroom. Probably for a nap; I hear that public bathrooms are a fantastic place to put your head down for a few.
I was minding my own business as I waited out the subway ride from Deokcheon to Sasang, on my way to meet some friends for some fantastic Indian Food at this bloody fantastic Indian Restaurant beside the E-Mart. One stop prior to Sasang, a very drunken Mr Soju Man boarded my subway car. Oh, goody! Being the drunken Mr Soju Man that he was, he immediately started getting in the face of the first person that he stumbled upon. As there were only about 6 people on my car, it didn’t take him long to notice me sitting a few meters up the car from his current conquest. Mr Soju Man makes a bee-line for me and immediately starts getting right in my face, trying to put his hands on my shoulders, etc. I respond to this by shoving him backwards and kindly suggesting that I wasn’t interested in becoming his friend. Mr Soju Man didn’t quite understand that I really didn’t want to be his friend, so this shoving match continued for a short while. I finally tired of this and ran up the subway car in hopes of switching cars.
The other 5 people on the car consisted of an elderly woman (from here on out known as Super Ajumma), two middle aged women, and two men that were probably in their 20’s. While I’ve never felt particularly comfortable cursing in front of seniors in the first place, I would consider it even more inappropriate to do so in Korea. Here, seniors are actually awarded with the utmost respect, unlike the complete disdain that seems to be considered acceptable back in Canada Land. Hence, despite there having never been an opportunity more fitting to showcase my growing Korean vocabulary, my audience prohibited me from doing so. This is one of the few times in life when having been raised well does not necessarily come in handy.
As I raced up the length of the car in the hopes of switching to the next one, I found myself unable to move the door between cars. Fantastic. I was either on the one subway line that doesn’t allow you to switch cars, or I was simply on the one car in all of Busan that had a fixed door. Or perhaps I just can't open doors anymore? Either way, I was buggered. Mr Soju Man had followed closely behind me and was now flailing his arms around and rambling nonsensically. I shoved him out of the way again and started to walk the length of the car again. At this point I had concluded that I was going to have to hit Mr Soju Man in order to prevent continued harassment. I wasn’t comfortable with the idea of hitting a man in front of somebody’s grandmother, nor was I keen on being arrested or deported. Thankfully it didn’t come to this, as Super Ajumma was there to save the day.
As I passed by Super Ajumma, she took my arm and guided me to sit down across from her, with the two other women on the train. She then swiftly whirled around, grabbed Mr Soju Man by the arm, and started chewing him out. Mr Soju Man failed to appreciate that he was dealing with a Super Ajumma, and actually had the audacity to yap back! Unacceptable! Super Ajumma raised her voice another notch, continued to chew him out, and then promptly shoved him towards the other set of seats. He sat down meekly, put his head down, and finally shut up. Super Ajumma took the seat beside me, patted me on the knee, and told me that she was sorry for his behaviour. I thanked her 100 times before getting off at Sasang.
Super Ajumma is a true hero.
I hoped dearly that Mr Soju Man would stay on the train and rushed upstairs, where I found my friends waiting. I immediately explained to them what had just happened. I was a little bit shaken up, but thanks to Super Ajumma I wasn’t fairing too badly. Before I could complete the story, Jack looks behind me and says: “you mean that drunken Korean, the skinny guy taking his shirt off over there?” Sure enough, there was Mr Soju Man, taking off his clothing in the middle of the subway station. He went for the pants but thankfully thought better of it. Upon seeing even more foreigners, he made a beeline for us. I presume that even in his drunken state he realized how difficult it would be to play Chase After Foreigners with his pants around his ankles. We scattered, which seemed to irritate him. Didn’t we understand that he was our new friend?!?!
Eventually we made it out of the subway station unscathed. The last we saw of Mr Soju Man he was headed into the bathroom. Probably for a nap; I hear that public bathrooms are a fantastic place to put your head down for a few.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Barbie, Pay Phones and Soju Date Man
Prior to the stupidity that was my accidentally deleting the original Barbie Blog, I had posted a lengthy note which detailed a particular encounter with a drunken Korean. Here I will revisit said encounter with Soju Date Man, and comment on similar other events.
On Saturday, I finally purchased a cell phone. Up until this point I've either used a pay phone or leeched off a friend who had already joined the rest of you in the new millennium by getting a phone. During my first few weeks here, this resulted in many a drunken-call-home to my not-so-lucky friends back in the The Patch. They were forewarned prior to my departure that the drunken-calls-home were definitely going to happen. Whether or not they were actually prepared for the ridiculous blather that was spewed from my drunken sailor mouth in the middle of their afternoon is debatable.
My encounter Soju Date Man by the phone booth occurred during a drunken-call-home that may have gone something like this:
Rebecca: Hey! It's totally me! So, like, how is stuff?!
The Unfortunate Friend: Err, hi? Rebecca? Stuff is...what the Hell time is it?
Rebecca: Oh, uh, hang on, I'll check my phone. I totally brought my phone from Canada and it fully doesn't work, but it totally tells me the time and stuff! Woo! Oh, look! A whitey in a phone booth! Quick! Everybody stare! Uh, sorry. You see, sometimes people look at me here. Something about being white. Or something. You know...
The Unfortunate Friend: Rebecca, is must be almost 4am. Go to bed!
Rebecca: Actually, it's 5am. Get your timezones right, fucko. This is Korea! 5am is early goings! You have no idea, my Friend. Oh, look. More people looking at me! Woo! Random whitey in the phone booth! Call me!
The Unfortunate Friend: Um. Okay. So... how is stuff?
Rebecca: Stuff is fucking fantastic. I made friends tonight! I think. You see, the thing about making friends here is that nothing that happens in Korea actually counts. Everything I do is just to fill a void of time, before I come home. You know? Hang on, some random Korean wants to use the phone.
The Unfortunate Friend: If you say so, Becca...
Rebecca: Dude, what the Hell. He doesn't want the phone at all. I tried to ask if that was the deal, yo, and he spat out 'Soju Date?' in response. No, I don't want to go on a Soju Date with you. Honestly. Why do these people think that I want to talk to them when I'm on a pay phone? Do I look Russian?
The Unfortunate Friend: Maybe you should go home... you can always call me back later, you know.
Rebecca: No! I will not submiss to the sexual harassment of drunken Koreans by changing my daily routine! This is my neighborhood and I'm going to use the pay phone when I please! Uh... what the Hell? This guy is totally getting into the pay phone with me. This isn't a fucking restaurant where you can sit at my table! Okay, I'll call you back in 10 minutes. Don't worry, I've got this shit under control.
The Unfortunate Friend: Okay then.
CLICK
True story. Some random drunken Korean got into the phone booth with me and tried to strike up conversation, while I was on the phone to Canada. Needless to say, he went home alone. And by home, I mean a piss infested alleyway where he hopefully choked on his vomit shortly after passing out. Of course, this would have been well after he followed me up the street, continually tried to grab my arm, and refused to understand that "Fuck off and die" does not mean "Yes, I totally want your babies! My apartment is this way!!!"
Had I been at home, I would have gladly ensured there would be no babies coming from this fellow. Ever. Of course, this probably wouldn't happen at home. If I was being blatantly sexually harassed by some drunk idiot in The Patch, there wouldn't be at least 10 other drunken men also in the vicinity whom would stand back and watch in silent amusement. At least one other drunken idiot would have jumped in and tried to Save The Day. Then the drunken idiots would have boxed it out until they eventually passed out in each other's vomit, as I made my way home without further issue. Ah, home. How I occasionally miss you so. Only occasionally.
I wish that I could say that this was an isolated incident. It was the first time somebody either tried to join me in the phone booth as I was using the phone or otherwise interrupted me, but it wasn't the last. It's absolutely mind numbing how in the Hell people like that happen, but it almost makes sense when you consider the following: 1) Koreans don't have the same understanding of personal space as we do, and 2) foreigners are at the very bottom of Korea's social hierarchy. On one hand, Korean women are getting plastic surgery up the wazoo so that they can look more like you, parents are pumping more money into your hagwon because your white face happens to show up there from time to time, and Americanization is everywhere you turn here. On the other hand, there are students who don't respect you because you're "only" a foreigner, employers that don't take you seriously, and drunken men who will treat you like you're a sex trade worker. The latter refers to my experience as a female, of course, though I've heard various bits of feedback from my male friends about similar disrespectful treatment they've received from some women here.
On the whole, I don't allow the drunken idiots that try to join me in a phone booth to paint my picture of Korea. They're just part of the story. The Good is really good. The Bad is Super Suck. More or less like anywhere else I could be right now.
On Saturday, I finally purchased a cell phone. Up until this point I've either used a pay phone or leeched off a friend who had already joined the rest of you in the new millennium by getting a phone. During my first few weeks here, this resulted in many a drunken-call-home to my not-so-lucky friends back in the The Patch. They were forewarned prior to my departure that the drunken-calls-home were definitely going to happen. Whether or not they were actually prepared for the ridiculous blather that was spewed from my drunken sailor mouth in the middle of their afternoon is debatable.
My encounter Soju Date Man by the phone booth occurred during a drunken-call-home that may have gone something like this:
Rebecca: Hey! It's totally me! So, like, how is stuff?!
The Unfortunate Friend: Err, hi? Rebecca? Stuff is...what the Hell time is it?
Rebecca: Oh, uh, hang on, I'll check my phone. I totally brought my phone from Canada and it fully doesn't work, but it totally tells me the time and stuff! Woo! Oh, look! A whitey in a phone booth! Quick! Everybody stare! Uh, sorry. You see, sometimes people look at me here. Something about being white. Or something. You know...
The Unfortunate Friend: Rebecca, is must be almost 4am. Go to bed!
Rebecca: Actually, it's 5am. Get your timezones right, fucko. This is Korea! 5am is early goings! You have no idea, my Friend. Oh, look. More people looking at me! Woo! Random whitey in the phone booth! Call me!
The Unfortunate Friend: Um. Okay. So... how is stuff?
Rebecca: Stuff is fucking fantastic. I made friends tonight! I think. You see, the thing about making friends here is that nothing that happens in Korea actually counts. Everything I do is just to fill a void of time, before I come home. You know? Hang on, some random Korean wants to use the phone.
The Unfortunate Friend: If you say so, Becca...
Rebecca: Dude, what the Hell. He doesn't want the phone at all. I tried to ask if that was the deal, yo, and he spat out 'Soju Date?' in response. No, I don't want to go on a Soju Date with you. Honestly. Why do these people think that I want to talk to them when I'm on a pay phone? Do I look Russian?
The Unfortunate Friend: Maybe you should go home... you can always call me back later, you know.
Rebecca: No! I will not submiss to the sexual harassment of drunken Koreans by changing my daily routine! This is my neighborhood and I'm going to use the pay phone when I please! Uh... what the Hell? This guy is totally getting into the pay phone with me. This isn't a fucking restaurant where you can sit at my table! Okay, I'll call you back in 10 minutes. Don't worry, I've got this shit under control.
The Unfortunate Friend: Okay then.
CLICK
True story. Some random drunken Korean got into the phone booth with me and tried to strike up conversation, while I was on the phone to Canada. Needless to say, he went home alone. And by home, I mean a piss infested alleyway where he hopefully choked on his vomit shortly after passing out. Of course, this would have been well after he followed me up the street, continually tried to grab my arm, and refused to understand that "Fuck off and die" does not mean "Yes, I totally want your babies! My apartment is this way!!!"
Had I been at home, I would have gladly ensured there would be no babies coming from this fellow. Ever. Of course, this probably wouldn't happen at home. If I was being blatantly sexually harassed by some drunk idiot in The Patch, there wouldn't be at least 10 other drunken men also in the vicinity whom would stand back and watch in silent amusement. At least one other drunken idiot would have jumped in and tried to Save The Day. Then the drunken idiots would have boxed it out until they eventually passed out in each other's vomit, as I made my way home without further issue. Ah, home. How I occasionally miss you so. Only occasionally.
I wish that I could say that this was an isolated incident. It was the first time somebody either tried to join me in the phone booth as I was using the phone or otherwise interrupted me, but it wasn't the last. It's absolutely mind numbing how in the Hell people like that happen, but it almost makes sense when you consider the following: 1) Koreans don't have the same understanding of personal space as we do, and 2) foreigners are at the very bottom of Korea's social hierarchy. On one hand, Korean women are getting plastic surgery up the wazoo so that they can look more like you, parents are pumping more money into your hagwon because your white face happens to show up there from time to time, and Americanization is everywhere you turn here. On the other hand, there are students who don't respect you because you're "only" a foreigner, employers that don't take you seriously, and drunken men who will treat you like you're a sex trade worker. The latter refers to my experience as a female, of course, though I've heard various bits of feedback from my male friends about similar disrespectful treatment they've received from some women here.
On the whole, I don't allow the drunken idiots that try to join me in a phone booth to paint my picture of Korea. They're just part of the story. The Good is really good. The Bad is Super Suck. More or less like anywhere else I could be right now.
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