Where'd My Trashy Go?

I saw a garbage truck of sorts go by just a few minutes ago. Ten months ago, I wouldn’t have thought that spotting a garbage truck would be noteworthy. Ten months ago, the garbage disposal process wasn’t a complete mystery to me. The idea of truck going along the streets collecting garbage had become so foreign to me that I did a double take. I half expected little green men to march out, taser somebody, and fly off. This would have been more interesting than what actually followed.

I spent my first month in Korea dumping garbage into shopping bags, which I then threw into a bin outside of my building. When I was dropped off at my apartment upon arrival in Korea, my boss and coworker had pointed to these six bins at the bottom of the stairs and explained that this is where I throw stuff. Five bins for recyclables, and one for waste. So, that’s where I threw stuff. As it turns out, they had omitted a minor detail.

My quest to find garbage bags at the grocery store failed. After failing to find garbage bags in a number of grocery and corner stores, I became very confused. Fortunately the woman who lived here before had left a number of plastic bags behind, or I would have been swimming in my own garbage. A month went by before I finally got tired of handling my garbage with dainty plastic bags and asked a coworker what the deal was. My worker was shocked to learn that I had been using plastic bags from the supermarket to dispose of my garbage. “But… but... you can’t do that!” she informed me. “Well, I clearly can, because that’s what I’ve been doing”, I told her. Then, remembering that being an asshole is not a way to win favours with the locals, I added, “but it’s clearly not what I’m supposed to be doing, so could you please help me? I don’t want to upset the building superintendent”. Except that I probably didn’t actually say “building superintendent”.

Garbage bags are kept behind the counter at grocery and corner stores, and have to be purchased. Given that garbage bags didn’t fabricate out of thin air in Canada, I was neither upset nor shocked to learn that I would have to pay for them. Apparently each neighborhood has different bags, so you have to purchase the bags in your own neighborhood. A friend of mine here, a foreigner, later told me that Koreans don’t pay garbage taxes in the same sense that we do back home, which is why they have to purchase special bags. I have absolutely no idea how much truth there is to this. Nor am I actually all that interested in where my garbage goes in Korea. Or Canada. All I know is that apparently I was being a monster asshole by using regular plastic bags, and I’ve since rectified this faux-pas. I probably should have known better, but given that it dawned on me to search for proper garbage bags in the first place, even in light of serious culture shock, I’m going to give myself a pass here.

I had learned how to properly dispose of my garbage at my apartment building, but still had no idea as to what happened from there. All I know is that in ten months I hadn’t seen a single garbage truck and I had no clue when they emptied the bins at my building. Had I known, I could have gotten rid of the 4 huge bags of plastic bottles that are clustered near my door, by filling the plastic bottle bin right before the city emptied it. Instead, I’m forced to dump just a few at a time, lest I be a complete asshole and prevent people who recycle in a timely fashion from dumping a bottle by filling the bin. I’ve asked coworkers and friends from time to time what the deal is with garbage pick up here is, and nobody has been of much assistance. So, when I finally saw that garbage truck working its way down my street the other night, I was fascinated. That is, until I realized that it was going towards the supermarket at roughly the same pace I was, leaving behind it a trail of garbage odour. At this point I was sorry that I’d ever wondered about garbage collection in Korea at all. And you probably are, too.

Barbie Plays Nice

I should probably write something nice.

My negativity is rarely anything more than healthy dose of honesty, yet I occasionally feel the need to balance it out somehow. After my recent bitch about how poor little me has to endure the eyes of millions boring into me on a daily basis, I should probably share a little anecdote regarding positive encounters with the locals. They do happen. Often, even. It’s just way more fun to bitch about menacing sexual predators than it is to lament, “Gee, that fellow was nice. His momma raised him right!”

The new schedule, which I found when I arrived at work on Friday, mandates that I work seven classes that day. Ending the week with seven classes is total balls anyways, but it was especially balls this past Friday. I had just flown in from a trip to Jeju Island, arriving in Busan around 10am. And I hate flying. It tires me and makes me queasy, so I pop inordinate amounts of gravol. While this alleviates the queasiness, it further tires me and makes me feel just a touch stoned. That last part is actually kind of awesome. Now, if you’re thinking that receiving my class schedule on the day that I’m due to start said schedule is rather ridiculous, you wouldn’t be entirely wrong. That’s more or less just kind of how they do things at hagwons around here; last minute schedules are pretty much par for the course. Frankly, given the minimal amount of prep required from me, it makes no difference whether my boss hands me the schedule a week early or 10 minutes before class. I really don’t mind that he procrastinates almost as much as I do.

The seven classes went by in a blur, since I was more or less half asleep that day. Also, it was the start of a new session, which means that a third of each class consisted of me handing out new books and ensuring that the students write their names on them. I have learned from this that a number of my students can’t remember how to spell their English nicknames. I’d propose that they pick a name that is easier for them to spell, but suppose that would send the wrong message: when the going gets tough, quit and pick an easier route. While that’s certainly a mantra that I’ve employed far too many times, it’s not one I would want to impose on a nation’s youth (especially not when there are far more important values to impose, such as: Staring is rude).

After my last class wrapped up I headed towards the subway, which is about a 10 minute walk downhill from the school. This is lovely at the end of the day; not so lovely in the early afternoon when it’s hot and humid as fuck. I regularly arrive at school with a pool of sweat surrounding me. While waiting at the cross walk, I saw an older gentleman approaching me. I knew from the look on his face that he was going to try to speak to me. A quick glance in his direction also indicated that he had bathed recently, did not move like a menacing sexual predator, and wasn’t wielding an axe. So, I was somewhat at ease when he finally greeted me. He asked me the usual questions: where was I from, what was I doing in Korea, did I like Korea, where did I work, how old was I, blah blah. Koreans tend to have different ideas of what constitutes personal information and privacy, so the line of questions might be considered a little bit invasive to somebody back home. But I don’t mind. Sometimes people here, usually older, are genuinely happy to see a foreigner wandering around and are either curious or want to extend a welcome. It’s nice, really. This particular man was just one of those people.

It’s difficult for me to accept some cultural differences, on account of my being a bit of a cultural ignoramus and all. But other things I like just fine. Like cheap eats and drinks. And inexpensive train fares. And random people welcoming me to their country. It’s not all terrible.

Korea: Where Creepy is Not Actually Creepy

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.

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.

Student Requests Wham!; Teacher Obliges

Two things happened today. Independent of one another, each event may have been considered terrible. In combination, what resulted can only be described as magical.

First, Al Student decided that there was no time like when Rebecca Teacher was rambling on about plurals to request music. “Rebecca Teacher, you know that song… that song, with the… you know...” Al Student stands up and proceeds dancing at this point, to illustrate the soundtrack that is looping in his mind. I stare at him blankly. Al Student has a penchant for interrupting me with randomness which is rarely relevant to the lesson but is almost always related to English class in some way, so I tend to give him a pass on these distractions. Al Student is frustrated that the music hasn’t moved from his mind to reality, and stops dancing. “Rebecca, you know… wake me up before you go…. Go?”

As it turns out, today was Al Student’s lucky day. I assured him that I knew it and waved him over to my desk. I pulled my MP3 player out of my desk, cued up my copy of Wham!, and told Al Student to listen. Al Student began dancing again. “Teacher, song is so exciting!” I smiled and nodded. I wrote “Wham!” on the board and asked why on earth he knew that song. He told me that he had no idea and went back to dancing.

The other students had started playing tic tac toe during this exchange, totally oblivious to the awesomeness of The Wham! Experience.

Reflecting on this later, a couple of things beg explanation. To start, of all the songs that Al Student could possibly have had floating in his head… Wham!’s ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go Go.’? Really? Is there a nifty new Korean computer game that sports this as its theme song? Because not only would that explain everything: that would be awesome. Let’s just say it’s that; any other explanation would compare inadequately at this point. With that solved, there is a second question: why on earth is Wham! readily available on my MP3 player? I’m reminded of the time that I was rocking out to the theme to Jesus Christ Superstar on the subway one day. My friend looked at me, horrified, and asked: “Why?” After responding with the obligatory, “Why wouldn’t you have Jesus Christ Superstar on your MP3 player”, I advised her that I thought it was ridiculous, ridiculous things make me happy, so I had added it for purposes of immediate ecstasy. A short time after that, I retired Jesus Christ Superstar and found room for Wham! Everybody wins: Me. Al Student. Wham.

Of course, next time somebody takes a listen through my MP3 player and says something like “Rebecca… Will Smith? Really?” I can save myself some shame and claim that one of my students requested it.

And Then Things Got A Little Lispery.

It was bound to happen sooner or later: The dreaded pronunciation lesson. Nearly 9 months of teaching and I’d managed to avoid it. But it had never entirely left my mind; I knew it was coming.

I finish my week early Friday evening with a couple of our most advanced students. They’re well behaved and actually like learning, so I enjoy my time with them. One of the required activities in each unit at their level is a review of basic pronunciation of (and ability to differentiate between) similar English sounds. The students are provided with three sentences, each missing two words. The missing words are a pair which contain similar English sounds (thigh/sigh, Sue/Zoo, etc.). The objective is to listen to a CD rhyme the sentences off and fill the correct word in each blank, then read the sentences back to me. Given the level of these student's English, the activity is fairly elementary and bordering on ridiculous. Hence, I usually pass on simply playing the CD and instead try to build conversation topics out of the material provided; a challenge when the sentences are often even less intelligible than “She let out a sigh as she cut the chicken thigh”.

The aforementioned sentence brings me to Friday’s pronunciation activity, which focused on differentiating between “s” and “th”. Given that I don’t properly differentiate between those sounds myself, my teaching this lesson as usual would have ineffective; hilarious, but ineffective, inappropriate, and probably unprofessional. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said either “mouse” or “mouth” in context relevant to the lesson during one of my other classes, only to have a student think that I said the other one and end up horribly confused. I’m perfectly happy lisping my way through the English language; I just have enough sense not to intentionally teach a generation of Korean students to develop my speech impediment. It’s been pointed out to me that many of them are going to do it anyways, on account of it being difficult to produce such a subtle difference in sound that apparently doesn’t exist in their own language. Still. Some of my students have an excellent ear for language, and it would be wrong of me to teach them incorrectly for no better reason than my own amusement.

It pained me to do it. I couldn’t go through my usual turn-the-pronounciation-lesson-into-a-discussion plan. I really didn’t want to do it. But I took one look at the lesson, which clearly stated “Differentiating between ‘s’ and ‘th’” and enthusiastically spurted: “Yeah, that’s not going to happen... Today we’re going to do something fun and different and listen to the CD!” My two students looked very confused. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth: that Barbie Teacher sounds much like a 5 year old.

Quite Possibly the Worst Student Nickname Ever

It is common for Korean students at hagwons to adopt English nicknames. There may be several really fantastic reasons for this, but so far I’ve uncovered just two. First of all, every single one of my Korean co teachers has told me that they adopt English nicknames so that the foreign teacher has an easier time learning the student’s names. I’ve always thought this was a terrible reason, as it discourages us from learning the student’s real names; while I don’t necessarily link names to identities, I do consider them important. It also effectively eliminates what would otherwise be an excellent chance to improve our Korean. Korean names are, to simplify, composed of Korean sounds. Being forced to verbalize them on a daily basis would improve both our accent and our ear for the language. It’s from this frustration that I’ve deduced a second reason for the adoption of English nicknames: English nicknames are composed of English sounds. Any venture that requires English students to practice English sounds is a worthy one. Even if it results in unintentional hilarity that really ought to be embarrassing for everybody involved.

It’s not uncommon for the students, or their Korean English Teacher, to select an English nickname that nobody in the English speaking world would ever assign to a human being. For example, just the other day one of my students stopped short of begging me to switch his nickname from “Howard” to “Genesis”. I looked at him quizzically and asked, “The beginning of what, exactly?” Howard Student looked confused. After explaining to him what his desired name meant, he agreed that this was less than awesome. As further illustration, one of my students has been assigned the name Gate. Apparently his mother insisted that he be named after Bill Gates and somebody dropped the ball on either naming him “Bill” or “Gates”. While even “Gates” would be adequately stupid to suffice a mention here, seriously: why drop the “s”? Now, instead of carrying the name of a millionaire dweeb, he’s represented by the word for a movable barrier which covers an opening. We may as well just rename him Hymen.

It’s also not unheard of for the students, or their Korean English teacher, to select an English nickname that nobody in the English speaking world would assign to another human being. That is to say, that they may select the name of an individual who happens to be infamous rather than famous. And this unfortunate hopefully-not-a-growing-trend brings us to what I intend to be a weekly supplement, but probably won’t on account of Total Laziness: Student Name of The Week. I informally polled a number of my friends, and while I should probably save the best for last, I simply can’t sleep another night knowing that I’m withholding this level of Absolute Awesome from the world. Of course, by "the world", I mean the 5 of you who actually read this far. So, without further adieu, I share with you the best English nickname ever; and by "best", I do mean worst: R. Kelly Student.

No, seriously.

R. Kelly Student.

Yeah, that R. Kelly.

Take a few moments to digest that, if need be. It really doesn’t get any better. There is absolutely no reasonable explanation for this. Somewhere along the line, somebody dropped the ball. Huge. And the end result is that some prepubescent kid in Korea has named himself after a suspected pedophile. Yes, R. Kelly was recently acquitted on all counts of diddling. That doesn’t make this okay.

Thankfully, R. Kelly Student is not one of my own. If he were, I would spend my days in class with him wondering if he had any idea that R. Kelly was suspected of diddling. It would dawn on me that perhaps the kid knew and thought he was pulling a hilarious prank. Or worse, he knew and felt that R. Kelly was a real man’s man; a role model, even. Here, I start to feel queasy. But it gets worse. Much worse. I realize eventually that it’s quite likely that neither the student nor his Korean Teachers have any idea that R. Kelly is a suspected diddler; that R. Kelly Student simply fell in love with the “music” of R. Kelly and decided to honour his idol. The idea that somebody might feel that moved by R. Kelly’s “musical works” might actually be more upsetting than the possibility that we have a future diddler on our hands.

When I get to about this point in this line of thought, I start to convulse and try to forget that this ever happened.

But it did.

Subway Shushery and the Trichotomy of Absolute Sex

If you look like a menacing sexual predator, the odds of me taking you seriously as a human being decrease exponentially. This is not so much a reflection of my shallowness as it is a reflection of human nature. We tend to have a natural aversion to those things which appear liable to eat us and our babies. Hence, bunnies are cute, cockroaches are ugly, and people who look like menacing sexual predators are deplored. As such, should you have the misfortune of resembling a menacing sexual predator, it’s in your best interest to work against the grain of nature and try to look like less of a creep. This would include such efforts as bathing regularly, not growing a pedostache or unbuttoning the top few buttons of your shirt so that your chest carpet billows out, and not drawing negative attention to yourself by acting like a douche. Cussing out the only foreigners on a subway car while your chest hair meets your neck and the glisten off your pedostache is hardly noticeable under the glimmer of your comb over, is probably not a good start to this journey.

It was probably a Tuesday. Shanna (who missed that day of kindergarten where we learn to use our “indoor voices”) and I were on the subway to somewhere. Probably in search of food. Something or other was being discussed. It was probably about me, and I was more than likely doing most of the talking. A fellow to our left was carrying on a terribly loud phone conversation. He was significantly louder than either of us, though I didn’t particularly mind. Maybe it was important. Or maybe he, like Shanna, missed the lesson on indoor voices. No matter. There were more important things to worry about on the subway car that evening.

A particularly creepy looking man of the “I like ‘em young… real young” persuasion was sitting down the bench from us. Choosing to ignore the loudest man on the train, Surefire Pedophile looked down our way and made a shushing gesture. “Subway! Voices! Shhh!” he advised us, in that creepy my-voice-is-raw-and-I-could-sure-use-some-baby-blood-to-soothe-it voice of his. He then repeated his shushing gesture for good measure, just in case we had failed to catch it the first time. Immediately threatened by his disheveled appearance, this did not sit well with us. And by us, I mean me. Shanna began speaking a touch louder, as I debated what this guy hated more: foreigners, the English language, or women. Surely there had to be some reason for his shushing us but not the louder man, and what fun is it if I don’t assume the absolute worst? I settled on the belief that it was all three: he was clearly a racist, xenophobic misogynist.

Sadly, this trichotomy of Absolute Sex is not found as a preference on most dating sites; further evidence that all the good ones are taken.

Canada Land When, Teacher?!

Every few weeks, somebody from home remembers that I’m alive somewhere in the world and emails me to ask when I’m coming home. I don’t mind one bit; it reminds me that somewhere in the world, to somebody, I’m at least a passing thought. In turn, every few weeks, I spit out a detailed, lengthy response of my plans from here until the end of eternity, because concise has never really been the adjective for me. In spite of some emotional set backs, The Plan has changed minimally since December. Yet, every few weeks a new email rolls in. As my wordiness need not be encouraged, perhaps this will spare the world a few thousand more of my words by decreasing the email flow for just a short while.

My work VISA is due to expire in mid-October. I spoke to The Boss Man today in the hopes of getting the ball rolling on an extension; somewhere between November 1 and December 1 ought to do the trick. For financial reasons, I’m likely to return home immediately following my contract. At this point I expect to be showered with the admiration and copious amounts of beverage that come with having not seen somebody in well over a year. Just shortly before I wear out my welcome and people start to remember me as I am, rather than as the fantastically flawless and worldly friend that they’ve been building up in their minds during my absence, I’ll more than likely return to Korea. I'll seriously consider other spots, such as Taiwan or Vietnam, but am rather fond of familiarity. The time line on this is likely mid January to early February. That ought to give me more than enough time to spread the love at night while spending ridiculous amounts of time in the library during the day.

Oh, how I miss going to the library. Any library with an abundance of books in a language that I’m literate in, with more words on more pages than I could possibly ever read, would bring me to tears right about now. I miss certain people, too, of course, but if I had to pick just one …

Every now then some of the emails that I receive wondering if I’m still alive in the world somewhere express a similar sentiment: “but you just have to come home, Rebecca Teacher! And stay! What am I going to do with out you?! *sniffle*” It’s cute, really. Melodramatic, but cute. I imagine that those who stop to wonder these things will probably do whatever it was they were doing for the previous 12-14 months that I wasn’t part of their life. Given that some of you have married, popped out babies, and died in this time, I suspect that life will continue to happen without me in arms reach. Now, why it is that I don’t consider a lengthy return home to be the best option is a fair enough question.

When I’m bored and in the dumps, I make a point of perusing the Canada Job Bank. Doing so reminds me of what a good deal I have here. As tempting as it is to return to the world of serving or being a corporate office drone, I think that I’ll stick to kimchi and goobery children, thanks. While there is nothing wrong with being satisfied in either a service or a corporate drone position, I have tried both and know that doing either causes my brain to slowly shrivel until I finally lose almost all will to continue getting out of bed in the morning. In other words, I’m not one of those people. I may not quite know what satisfies me or where to find it, but knowing what doesn’t please my fancy and avoiding those things is as good a place as any to start looking.

One of these days, when I get my thoughts together and can focus on one thing for more than two minutes at a time, I’ll apply to graduate school. Of some sort. I’ve considered law, journalism, education psychology, teaching, advertising, and a number of other things. Life would probably have been much easier had I not been born academically inclined. Options are a peril for the attention challenged among us. Ideally I’ll find this focus sometime around the fall of 2009 or 2010. Until then, I’ll stick with the option that affords me the time and money to live my life rather than hate it.

The Princess Bitch Problem: Solved?

The Princess Bitch Problem: Solved?

I begin every Monday afternoon by giving the Princess Bitches the benefit of the doubt and treating them like they’ve developed into respectable human beings within the past week. I’m always wrong. It usually takes about 30 seconds before all Hell breaks loose and I’ve lost my smile for the hour. Today, Hell broke loose in the form of wood bugs (woodlouse. Or something appearing as such. Entomology has never really been my thing).

The Bitches danced into the classroom, glaring briefly in my direction before putting on fake grins in the hopes that today might be the day their asshole behaviour earns them a game. They were wrong to hope for this. The plopped into their chairs and immediately broke into conversation in Korean. I was confused as to why they hadn’t bothered to take their books out and take aim at me yet, when I noticed that Bitch, The Younger (BTY) had brought a friend for show-and-tell. Sadly, nobody had informed me that today was show-and-tell, so BTY putting her bug-friend on the table and watching him squirm struck me as random. And obnoxious. I hate bugs. Of course, Bitch, The Older (BTO) didn’t want to be one upped, so she pulled out her bug for comparison.

I hate bugs. I especially hate bugs in the hands of horrible people who are liable to throw them at me when they don’t get their way later. This shit was not going to fly. After being complete ignored when asking The Bitches to put the bugs outside where they belong, I grabbed a tissue so that I could remove them myself. The Bitches either thought I was going to kill their bug friends, or didn’t want to part with their only friends in life, and absolutely lost it. Much screaming and yelling ensued. Finally, BTO put both of the bugs in her backpack, thinking that this was an acceptable solution. She was wrong. I asked her to remove her backpack from the classroom on account of total grossness. Not wanting to give up her title as the most spoiled seven year old ever, she pitched a fit, clutched her bag and curled into fetal position with it. None too amused, I flung open the door of the classroom and told her to get out. For once, she listened. BTY followed, because at some point in life somebody told her the merits of learning from the best (of the worst).

I read a few pages from my book before stepping outside to find out what The Bitches had gotten themselves in to. While I may think they’re horrible, horrible children who will grow up to be terrible, terrible people, I still consider myself responsible for them for 45 minutes per week and don’t wish to see them get hurt on my watch. The Bitches hadn’t gone far before finding The Boss Man, who was already in the loop as to what was going on. He sifted through their backpacks for their books and pencils so that they could return to my classrooms without being gross. I thanked him for his fulfilling his weekly obligation as mediator between The Bitches and Barbie Teacher, and led the girls back to class. I had a plan.

The Bitches had made it very clear in previous weeks with me and the other teachers that they have minimal interest in learning from us. Countless complaints to The Boss Man have led to countless calls home to their mother, which has resulted in no positive behavioural modification whatsoever; if anything, they’re acting worse. I’ll be the first person to admit when I screw up. Nobody loves riding The Train of Self Loathing more than I do. Sadly, in this case, I’m clearly not the cause of the problem; I simply can’t find reason to beat myself up over it. While I’ve done little in recent weeks to improve things, it’s unlikely that children who can’t muster up a modicum of respect for any other present elders are going to suddenly have a change of heart and think that it’s due time they start listening to Barbie Teacher. Hence, my solution is to give up on them.

When they returned to the classroom, without their bug friends, I opened their student books to the correct page and turned on the accompanying CD. Intermittently throughout the lesson I would change the track on the CD and check that they were still on the correct page. Once this was complete, I put some worksheets in front of them. All the while, I enjoyed listening to my MP3 player and reading a book. Sometimes one of them would look my way and say something in Korean, which was barely audible over my tunes, and I would grunt in response. Oddly, they actually seemed to work better when I completely ignored them. Perhaps being obnoxious is less fun when they don’t have an attentive audience.

I imagine that some people may find my behaviour terribly unprofessional. I’m not going to disagree. In fact, I’m open to suggestions as to what might suffice as a viable alternative to barely falling short of refusing to teach them. Just keep in mind that the other two teachers that deal with The Bitches have the same issue; the only difference is that I now refuse to waste my energy getting upset with them when I could use it during the hours of time after this class spent with students who actually want to learn.

Cane My Bottom, Please.

One of my co teachers stopped me in between classes last week to ask permission to ask me a question. Every now and then I like to respond to this silliness by telling him that he can’t, and it’s totally lost on him that I’m just kidding. After yanking his chain, I eventually field his questions because that’s what they pay me for. I tell him as much, and he fails to be as amused by me as I am. This particular teacher tends to ask lots of questions, which is fantastic. I spend many an hour at work in disbelief that I’m getting paid to do next to nothing; helping my coworkers teach English makes me feel like I actually have utility.

This is what they pay me for:

Tony Teacher: Rebecca, can I ask question of you? What is ‘cane bottoms’?
Barbie Teacher: Errrr?
Tony Teacher: Cane bottoms.
Barbie Teacher: Come again?
Tony Teacher: Cane bottoms!

Either because I’m slow or because I’m still not accustomed to deciphering the awkward language that litters our hagwon’s texts, I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was going on about.

Barbie Teacher: You mean… the bottom of a cane? *makes gesture as if holding a cane*

Yes, I actually responded like that. To be fair, his English is somewhat broken. It was entirely possible that he was speaking of the parts of a cane. That’s honestly the first place that my mind went on this one. I might be at least part idiot.

Tony Teacher: No, no, no. *makes a gesture as if to hit somebody in the ass with a stick* Cane bottoms!
Barbie Teacher: *horrified face, quickly wiped away by denial* Errr… can you show me the phrase in context?

I was at a loss as to 1) why he was asking me about caning and 2) why he was wording it as “cane bottoms”. More so, I was still hanging on to the hope that he was looking for a word for the bottom of a cane.

Tony Teacher: *opens his book to a lesson about rewards and punishments*

I realized at this point that I had no choice but to accept what most people would have deduced several minutes earlier: that “cane bottoms” was, in fact, being used to refer to the act of caning. Given that caning isn’t something that I’ve been exposed to in my lifetime, I prefer to think of my delayed understanding as naivety rather than stupidity.

I’m probably wrong.

A Serious Scarcity of Social Savvy

I’m a woefully awkward social peon. I was tempted to write 'pariah', but that's a matter of skewed perception. I’m just not socially savvy. My interpersonal skills could use some serious work. As I’ve gotten older, my social awkwardness has improved to the point that it can occasionally be mistaken for quirkiness. But just occasionally. Last week an acquaintance of mine aptly identified me as “socially handicapped” following a social blunder that was typical Me. Frequent dates with my friend Beer have resulted in my being mistaken for an extrovert, but don’t let Beer fool you; Beer serves no other purpose than to bring out the Bunny in me, an attention whoring alter ego who is wondering if anybody has seen her pants lately. Without Beer in abundance, Bunny doesn’t come out to play, and the odds of my being socially awkward increase exponentially.

An illustration of just how lacking in social savvy I am was drawn for me when I was out at the bar on Tuesday night. Practicing restraint that night, the plan was to take one drink slow then call it an early night. For once, The Plan was right on course. I knew a couple of people mingling around the bar, whom I greeted shortly before taking my brew of choice to a chair near the billiards table. Shortly after I began taking in my beer and the billiards game, the owner of the bar approached me. I recognized him from the countless other times that I had chosen his location to drown an idea with a Bud (my unfortunate taste in beer has been well documented). He introduced himself to me and asked if I knew anybody else there; if I didn’t he would be more than happy to introduce me to some of the other foreigners. His gesture was genuine; I’d seen him do it numerous times for others before me. I struggled to find a tactful way of pointing out that I did, in fact, know the people standing within 4 feet of us. I didn’t want him to feel bad for offering to help. I smiled and explained that I knew a few people, that I was just a little out of it that night. He accepted my explanation gracefully and explained his need to make sure that everybody is having a great time. I reassured him that I was, and all was soon well in his world again. I resumed my position by the billiards table and pondered the reality that I’m occasionally so socially awkward that I can be in the middle of friends and still look like that shy girl that doesn’t know a sole.

Some day soon, I’ll be chasing one of my friends around the bar trying to ensure that they’re having the best time possible. I’ll suggest that we do some shots, or introduce them to random people that I hardly know because at that particular moment I see a direct correlation between the volume of acquaintances present and the quality of my friend's enjoyment. Whichever friend I've chosen to annoy that evening will smile, nod, and humour me, because that’s just what I do. All will temporarily be will in my world. Later, when Beer has left the building and Bunny has found her pants, one of my friends will laugh at my efforts to be the great savior of the socially awkward. The irony will not be lost on me. Should I temporarily forget, Another Tuesday Night is no doubt right around the corner.

Barbie Teacher and the Princess Bitch Fiasco

People occasionally make the mistake of believing that I’m kind. Their confusion is understandable. I am That Girl that gives a complete stranger 10 bucks because he lost his wallet; That Girl that will sleep on her floor so that the other repulsively drunk people have somewhere comfortable to crash; That Girl that shows Random New Guy around Busan in spite of being atrociously ill, because it’s his birthday and she can’t imagine letting somebody down like that. You know, That Girl. The one that grates from time to time because she’s always in your face in search of being needed, but you can’t bring yourself to get rid of because you never quite know when you might need 10 bucks and a place to crash. I’m also That Girl that chirps out idiots while in line at McDonalds, that doesn’t hesitate to tell creeps not to creep, and skips out on your birthday party at midnight because the beach party up town sounded like a better idea. Really, I’m a bit of an asshole. Today’s offense involves referring to children as Princess Bitches. In this particular case, it’s true, but given my current occupation I would do well to show some restraint and simply refer to them brats. Sadly, the word brat just isn’t doing it for me. Princess Bitch it is.

My first class of the work week begins whenever it is that the Princess Bitches decide to roll in. The Princess Bitches are sisters, ages 6 and 7. Every Monday they storm into the classroom, leaving the door open behind them, and break into conversation about me in their native tongue. They intermittently break from their conversation so that they can look at me and giggle. After about a minute of this, they get their workbooks out of their bags and toss the in front of me, giggling. Their conversation, still clearly about me, continues as I mark their notebooks. Upon the return of their notebooks, the Princess Bitches then take another couple of minutes to take out their student books and pencils. Once they’ve finally done so, I begin the lesson. If I’m lucky, the lesson carries on for about ten minutes before either Princess Bitch the Younger decides its nap time or Princess Bitch the Older decides that it’s a good time to slap The Younger. At this point the Princess Bitches are finished learning for the day and begin requesting games. When I advise them that we won’t play any games until the lesson is over one of them cries, the other pouts, and I count down the seconds until class is over.

While I always expect the worst from these two, today the Princess Bitches caught me by surprise by seriously upping their game. Class was going smoothly for once, largely because the girls knew that we only had about 15 minutes of material to cover and then it was Game Time. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it appeared we’d actually make it to Game Time for the first time in a month. Naïve, Barbie Teacher. Very naïve. I failed to realize that it was only a matter of time before one of them managed to get their Game Time privileges revoked. With only one more minute of good behaviour required, The Younger decided that there was no time like the present chuck her student book at me. Needless to say, I called the game right then and there and told them that I hoped they were as excited as I was to practice dialogue for the next 20 minutes. The Princess Bitches responded by putting on their backpacks and leaving. Normally I’m thrilled to see them go, but there was a serious flaw in their actions: class didn’t end for another 20 minutes. There was no way that this would fly with The Boss Man.
One may read this and think that the issue here lies with the one who created the Princess Bitch moniker rather than the Princess Bitches themselves. This person would be wrong. I’ll be the first to admit that I have absolutely no training whatsoever which would make me a qualified educator. While I’ve learned a lot in my 8 months here, there are still many flaws in my style. I’m not too proud to accept the responsibility when I’ve failed as a teacher. If it wasn’t for the fact that the Princess Bitches treat their two Korean teachers in exactly the same manner, I’d put the onus squarely on me. The only difference between the experience of my coworkers and mine is that my coworkers have the misfortune of being able to understand the Princess Bitches when they bicker in their native tongue. Apparently they spend a good deal of time complaining to whoever their teacher is that day that they don’t like them one bit and prefer whoever it is that isn’t teaching that day. Then they throw their books, hit each other, and ask if it’s time to play a game yet. I suppose it’s possible that all three of us are horrible teachers, but consider it more likely that poor rearing has resulted in a complete lack of discipline. When in doubt, blame Mommy and Daddy.

After debating the merits of chasing after the girls once they left the classroom, I decided to take matters to The Boss Man. Had I gotten angry and scolded the girls, they probably would have giggled at me and ran away anyways. If they chose to stick around rather than run away, they probably would have made faces at me and scolded me in Korean, like The Younger did last week when she waved her finger in my face and said: “bad, teacher! Bad!” Getting angry with them is a waste of energy, but I had to do something. As much as I find these children vile, they’re still children who I consider myself responsible for during our 45 minutes of scheduled time together. The thought of them wandering outside and playing in traffic wasn’t going to sit well on my conscience.

This wasn’t the first that The Boss Man had heard of the Princess Bitches, and he didn’t seem terribly surprised to find that they’d been acting up. A wild goose chase later and we eventually found them about a block up the street hanging outside of the elementary school. As The Boss Man summoned them back to class they complained to him that I hadn’t played any games with them that day. I explained to him that I was about to play a game when The Younger decided it was throw-the-book-at-Barbie-Teacher time, and that I refused to reward bad behaviour. The Boss Man looked rather embarrassed and quickly put The Younger in her place. At this point The Younger decided that she no longer wanted a game, a lesson, or anything to do with me. The Boss Man apologized and advised me that we’d call class for the day and that he’d speak to their mother and the other teachers about this. I thanked him profusely for his help and refrained from pointing out that I was pretty sure their mother wouldn’t be terribly impressed to get a copy of the memo that her children have been poorly raised.

The Princess Bitches probably returned home that night in tears and blamed the entire fiasco on the big bad foreign teacher. Tomorrow, when it happens again, they’ll blame Rambo Teacher and after that, Anna Teacher. It will be clear at this point that everybody at Barbie Hagwon is ganging up on the Princess Bitches, who will be rewarded with cake for the hardships that they have to endure. Next week, when they return to Barbie Teacher’s class, they’ll be as terrible as ever. Sometimes, all you can do is smile and not care.

Rambo Teacher Brings His Drunk to School

One of the teachers at my school has adopted a not-so-English English nickname. His chosen name lends itself fairly well to what our students prefer to call him, Rambo Teacher. I was going to offer to rename him, but didn’t think that would fly. If he sees no shame in spending his work week being referred to as such, who am I to judge? So, Rambo Teacher it is.

On Tuesdays and Thursday I’m provided with a dinner break after my 4th class of the day. My 4th class consists of a mix of males and females that range from 13 to 15 years of age. They’re chatty, rowdy, and have little interest in learning from me. When I declared class finished last Tuesday, they immediately broke from their English banter and began snipping at one another in Korean. While my Korean is terrible, I understood enough to follow that they were joking around about Rambo Teacher.

I hate few things more than finding everybody else amused by a joke that has passed me by. I want laughs, too! In search of answers, I held Tom Student and Riley Student back to inquire as to what it was they were saying about Rambo Teacher. Riley Student giggled and informed me that Rambo Teacher’s face was really red. I nodded and pointed out that sometimes, sunburns happen. Tom Student, who has a potty mouth which rivals mine, interjected to reject my hypothesis that Rambo Teacher had a touch much sun on the weekend. Tom Student and Riley Student exchange words, probably debating whether or not they ought to fill Barbie Teacher in on the hilarity. Within a minute, Riley Student was ready to cave. Tom Student took advantage of her pause for breath, a rarity on her end, and briskly walked out of the classroom. He preferred to pretend that he had no part in deducing what she was about to share with me: “Teacher… no sun burn. Rambo Teacher… he…” Riley Student reached for an imaginary glass in front of her and chugged back an imaginary shot. “Rambo Teacher, soju!” she told me, looking awfully pleased. Amused as I was at the thought of Rambo Teacher being so half-in-the-bag that he was still sporting soju flush at 6 in the evening, I found this rather unlikely. If anybody was going to show up to work half-in-the-bag, surely it would be Barbie Teacher? "Riley Student, it’s called sunburn. Look it up”. Riley Student shook her head at me and giggled on her way out of the classroom.

After collecting my things, I went to the staff room to seek out my coworkers and fill them in that our 5:30 thought that Rambo Teacher had gotten his drunk on at school. Rambo Teacher looked extremely embarrassed, showing only a hint of relief when I explained that I had pointed out to the tykes that he was obviously sporting sunburn, not a soju flush. He told me that he really hoped the students believed me and didn’t tell their parents otherwise, then quickly changed the subject to something else. Likewise, I let the subject drop.

The next day when Rambo Teacher appeared at work with his complexion more or less back to normal, I refrained from asking any further questions; a rare exhibition of tact.

Bob Student is Trashy

My students regularly provide me with material via their unintentionally hilarious utterances. Broken English is expected; without it, they’d have no use for me here. I like to think that mocking my students for their broken English is below me; I also like to think that I have unshakable self belief. Denial, denial, denial. Should one of my older students make a seriously unfortunate English blunder, I refrain from smirking and make a point of explaining the difference between what they meant to say and what they actually said. Given my inability to have emotions without wearing them on my face, this is harder than it ought to be. When one of my younger students makes a grossly inappropriate blunder I simply correct them and hope for the best. There really isn’t good way to tell an 8 year old why they shouldn’t replace the “Tell” in the “Tell Me” song with “Finger”, is there? A truly horrifying two minutes of my life that was. Thankfully, Bob Student’s English blunder last week wasn’t quite that awkward.

While in Itaewon last weekend, I bought an inordinate amount of Real Gum; that is, mint flavoured American gum. Korean gum isn’t awful; it’s just not as minty as what I prefer to snap. My students went completely gaga last time I brought in Real Gum for them. Their excitement was soon quashed by sour faces upon tasting a mint much stronger than what they’re used to. They would wave their hands in front of their mouths and say “teacher, hot!” I would smile, nod, and agree. There are few things that I enjoy watching more than other people making foul faces in response to things that I give them, so I decided to share the Real Gum love and pass some around in one of my evening classes. After humouring them throughout their chorus of, “ooh, teacher! So hot!” I tried to proceed with the lesson plan. Failure ensued.

As I was beginning to discuss the objectives for that day’s lesson, Bob Student decided that it would be a good time for him to speak. He was wrong. My response to this is usually to make a face at him then put a check mark beside his name on the board and threaten to remove him from class if he doesn’t learn how to be quiet when I’m speaking. Barbie Teacher hates to repeat herself! Sometimes I’m too tired to go through all the motions and resort to blowing a whistle at him instead. I returned from lunch break one day a few weeks back with the best 20 cent purchase of my life: a beautiful, blue whistle. My coworkers were extremely confused when I ran into the staff room to blow it at them; they had thus far failed to notice that my immaturity is off the charts. Blowing the whistle more or less has the same effect as putting a check beside their name, but is significantly more amusing for me. On this day I opted for the face-and-check method, largely because I was too lazy to sift through my purse for my whistle.

Before I could properly scold him for interrupting me, Bob Student waved his hand at me to indicate that he had garbage to dispose of. In other words, I had provided the entire class with gum and then went to scold one of them when they wished to get rid of their garbage in an orderly fashion. This never happens. Bob Student should have received a reward for the most unlikely behaviour by a Barbie Student. Ever. The children generally take whatever candy I give them, immediately pop it in their mouths and then throw their wrapper on the desk or the floor behind them. Manners; they’re a lost art.

Bob Student looked at me innocuously with his ball of gum wrapper and said, “Teacher, I’m trashy”. Double take. “Bob Student, you’re what?” “Teacher, I’m trashy”, he repeated, waving his garbage. I was tempted to have fun with this like I did with the Short Bus conversation from last week, but for once, professionalism won out. I spent the next 30 seconds explaining the correct way to ask me where the garbage is, and another 5 after that explaining why Bob Student shouldn’t run around in circles telling people that he’s trashy. If it’s true, they’ll already know.

Dude, Where's My Steak

I woke up Monday morning in Itaewon (Seoul) with swollen eyelids. While this wasn’t terribly noticeable to my unobservant company, it was rather disconcerting to me. This called for sunglasses indoors. After perusing through What The Book? (a fantastic book store in Itaewon that was so stock full of English titles that I nearly lost my pants), hunger set it. The consensus was that our hangovers weren’t in the mood for Korean. The Tall One’s pleas for Mexican were immediately vetoed by my lactose intolerance. The Shanster, who is even more of a Yes Person than I am, was patiently waiting for somebody else to make a decision. The Tall One and I finally decided that we should trek back to The Rocky Mountain Tavern, home of my Coors Light (my love of weak beer has been duly noted, thanks) and Caesar salad from the night before. I remembered being disappointed to learn that The Rocky Mountain Tavern thought that Caesar salad could exist without some form of bacon, but allowed the fond memory of Coors Light dripping down my throat to impair my judgment such that I thought returning was a fantastic idea. Oy.

The first of several servers that we would be dealing with that day approached our table to collect drink orders. The Shanster, who always orders Sprite, spit out her request immediately. I had the audacity to look towards the beverage menu. The server responded to this highly offensive gesture by immediately walking away. Interesting. A few minutes later another server returned to take our food orders, as the previous one was clearly under the impression that seeking knowledge as to what there is to drink is a sign that one isn’t terribly parched. The Shanster and I ordered steak and whatever-came-with-it. The Tall One is neither man enough for steak, nor did she receive the memo that it was Steak Time. She ordered chicken quesadillas. I managed to sneak an order of gingerale (more or less the best nonalcoholic carbonated beverage ever) on the end by making sure not to foolishly look at the menu while doing so.

Twenty minutes pass. The Tall One begins to get a little fussy. I ensure her that they’re taking a while because I requested my steak well done; I have a fancy for burnt food. The Shanster looks unconcerned, probably because she had tuned us out twenty minutes earlier. Just as the words of reassurance were spilling from my mouth, the server who took our food orders gingerly approached our table. With a post-it. And no food. He sheepishly leans on the booth and asks which of us ordered steak. The Shanster and I answer in the affirmative. Our server, who looks truly sorry to be a part of this moment, advises us that he is sorry. Terribly sorry. There isn’t any steak. The three of us exchanged stunned looks of disbelief before I flap my trap: “Dude, we’ve been waiting 20 minutes”.

Mind numbing.

In twenty minutes, with only two other tables to take care of, neither of the three servers or the cook thought to pass on the memo that there was no steak. How the fuck do you possibly drop the ball on that? I’ve been a server. You take an order, bring it back to the kitchen, and return to the kitchen when it’s ready for pickup. If there is a problem with the order, the kitchen immediately notifies the server. Absolutely nowhere in that line of communication, over the course of twenty minutes, did anybody stop to think: Dude, where’s the steak? What do you mean there’s no steak? I’m going to spend my next five months in Korea randomly asking people: “Dude, where’s my fucking steak?!” and nobody is going to get it. And nobody should. Because this is not something that one should even conceive of having possibly occurred. Blasphemy.

Our server looked rather ashamed and apologized profusely, before asking if we’d like to order something else. A brief team meeting brought us to the consensus that we were far too lazy to get up and go elsewhere at this point. The Shanster and I ordered chicken fingers. I figured at this point they’d screwed up so epically that things could only improve. This was kind of like that time I didn’t go to intro biology all semester long and thought that I could pass the course merely by skimming the textbook 6 hours before the exam. Or that time that I thought eating three tins of cheese balls over 24 hours was a good idea. Or any time that I’m found near the tequila. What seem like great ideas at the time, scream so obviously of imminent failure that only I would bother to take them for a spin. Your suspicion that I’m at least part idiot is not incorrect.

The Tall One forgot that we were too lazy to get up and go elsewhere and decided to run off and get a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts down the street, in order to blow some steam off and hopefully suppress her desire to go postal on The Rocky Mountain Tavern. The Shanster and I waited for another ten minutes before they finally brought The Tall One’s quesadillas. Apparently it takes half an hour to cook chicken; that, or they had to slay a cat out in the back alley to conceal that there wasn’t any chicken either. A few minutes later, our chicken fingers followed. Saddened as I was that this was not steak, I was willing to make the best of it. I watched the Shanster chew her way through one without keeling over and decided that it was safe to proceed. I was horribly mistaken. One bite lead to the discovery that my chicken finger tasted a trifle strange and felt a little slimier than it ought to. One look determined that the chicken was pinker than pink. Uncooked chicken fingers; just the encore I was looking for after twenty minutes of No Steak.

All kinds of special.

Disbelief. Yet, still too lazy to leave the restaurant. Afterall, I had swollen eyelids and a sports injury to boot! After picking through all of my chicken fingers to confirm that it wasn’t my imagination, that their cook is in fact 5 years old, we called the server over to collect them. I absolutely abhor being rude to my servers. Thankfully I was simply too tired and mind broken to muster up words. Unable to look at him for fear of either screaming profanities or breaking into hysterical laughter, I handed the server my basket and said: “Not cooked. Not cooked!”

Eventually they brought me another set of chicken fingers. Oddly, I didn’t feel like eating at this point. I needed a bloody coffee. While the delivery of the coffee itself went smoothly, they dropped the ball on cream and sugar. Who drops off a coffee without offering cream and sugar? Once again, the server was gone before I could open my mouth with another request. This alone would normally be enough to stun me, but I was still struggling to understand what the fuck happened to my steak.

Seventeen dollars. Seventeen dollars for shoddy service, No Steak, black coffee, uncooked chicken fingers, and scores of lost brain cells that will never regenerate. The upside if that this has provided ample material with which to amuse myself for the rest of time. But seriously… where’s my fucking steak?

Barbie Teacher and the Short Bus Chronicles

You really shouldn’t need a reason to be happy. And if you insist on being sad, there really ought to be a damn good reason for it. My own default is such that it’s painfully easy to wallow in self pity; it’s a lot harder to put on my happy hat and sing a happy tune. The truth is I used to be completely unable to do so. Reality, should we chose to accept it, changes everything. Knowing that the world has lost somebody who never needed a reason to smile or put others before him makes me want to be more like my friend; I’ll never do it quite as well as he did, but a little bit of effort goes a long way. Or so I keep telling myself. In my last week I may have swallowed bottle after bottle in search of the end to my own insecurities, and I’m probably going to follow this up with more of the same. Yet, rather than write about my struggle towards self love, I’m going to ramble about something amusing that happened in class a while back, if for no other reason than the hope that it might make somebody else smile.

Tuesdays and Thursday end with one of my most advanced classes. Given that my most advanced class can almost have conversations with me, this isn't exactly saying a whole lot. That being said, from time to time I have rather enjoyable banters with these students. The load of suck is that I have to stay an extra hour to do it. I regularly debate whether or not this is worth it, with mixed results. On this particular Thursday, Rhea Student decided to be cute and show up 20 minutes late. I love it when they do that. In the same way that I love Fran Drescher’s laugh. Or rough anal sex. In other words, call me a prude, but I’d really rather that they not show up at all at that point. In spite of my annoyance, as it turns out, the ridiculous banter that was about to hand wrapped for me could not have happened had Rhea Student not stumbled in late.

Rhea Student has a penchant for punctuality, so her tardiness drew the attention of Kevin Student. After allowing 30 seconds of what sounded like light hearted Korean mockery, Rhea Student threw her book at Kevin Student. Confused, I asked Kevin Student what he had just told her. He calmly explains to me that Rhea Student was late because she “took the short bus to school”. Rhea Student promptly throws another book at him. At this juncture I had two options: I could either tell Kevin Student that he’s not being nice and to cut it out, or I could play dumb and ask what this whole “short bus” deal was all about. Consummate professional that I am, I chose the latter. Frankly, I was so surprised to hear that “short bus” as a euphemism for retard might translate similarly to Korean, that the former option didn’t even cross my mind. I had to get to the bottom of this. The result was more or less as follows:

Barbie Teacher: Kevin Student, what does “short bus” mean?
Kevin Student: *naïve face* Rhea took a taxi to school! Short bus is taxi!
Rhea Student: *throws pencil at Kevin Student* No! NO! That’s not what it means!
Barbie Teacher: *innocent face* Is it a bad thing? Is he insulting you?
Kevin Student: No! Taxi man!
Rhea Student: Yes! *looks sad that she has run out of items to throw*
Barbie Teacher: Well, how is it an insult? What does it mean?
Kevin Teacher: No, not an isult! *smirk* *insert three minute conversation, complete with illustrations, about how some busses just happen to be shorter than others*
Rhea Student: Teacher! He lies! He's calling me... like stupid!
Barbie Teacher: *chortling* Kevin Student, tell Rhea you’re sorry.
Kevin Student: Rhea Student… I’m sorry that you rode the short bus.
Rhea Student: *pouty face*

In other words, 5 minutes of awesome later and neither of them definitively confirmed my assumption that “short bus” serves a similar purpose in Korean as it does English. Later, I naively asked my boss what “short bus” meant. For a split second he appeared to be thoroughly embarrassed for me, before concealing his pity with a puzzled look and shrug of the shoulders. Either way, I walked away happy.

Barbie Versus Mullet

Foreign women are often wary when it comes to getting a hair cut in Korea Land. I’ve met many a woman who simply refuses to get a haircut for their entire year here. These concerns aren’t entirely illogical. While there are certainly Koreans with thick or curly hair, they are few and far between. On the whole, if you don’t have straight, fine hair, your hair dresser probably doesn't have as much experience cutting hair of your type. There are probably hair dressers here that haven’t a clue how to cut curly hair; heck, there are a number of those in Canada Land, where they don’t have a homogeneous population to fall back on as an excuse. This being said, I consider refusal to cut your hair for an entire year while in Korea to be overly cautious. If you pony-up and just get it done, the worst case scenario is that you either leave with a mullet or bangs cut half way up your scalp. A hair mishap like this is why God invented the bobby pin. I was willing to take this risk.

Those who realize that not cutting your hair for a year is ridiculous and unnecessary, tend to flock towards those hair salons that word-of-mouth has placed a well reputed English speaking hair stylist at. Should you desire to offer any input on the process without mime, this is sound logic. I heard word of such a hair stylist near Seomyeon (central Busan). The exact location is roughly a 40 minute subway ride from my apartment, and rather out of the way from where I work. In order to guarantee that I made it to work on time, I would have to wake up a full 4 hours earlier than usual. This plan was flawed.

Thirty seconds of careful deliberation determined that four hours sleep is more important than vanity. Instead of traipsing around town in search of a great haircut that might not be found, I opted to just try Random Haircutting Salon near my work. A friend of mine commented on my bravery; whether in admiration or mockery remains to be seen. Given that I’m at least a little vain, I didn’t go unprepared. I printed a photo from the internet of a haircut that was distinctly non-mullet and had a coworker help me write in Korea: no bangs, no hair shorter than shoulder length.

Upon my arrival at Random Haircutting Salon, I apologized for my inability to speak Korea and handed them the photo and notes. Within moments I was seated and having the life straightened out of my hair by three stylists. For some reason they felt that my overwhelming abundance of hair required more than one person to straighten, and that it was necessary to do this prior to cutting it. The rest of the appointment went more or less as you would expect a haircut to go; not particularly noteworthy.

Much to the dismay of my friend who had declared me brave, I did not leave with a mullet or a head full of bangs. My assumption that anybody with a pair of scissors and five minutes spent in hairdressing school could follow the photo and instructions that were provided proved correct. I wasn’t brave; merely prepared. Either I got lucky or the foreigner fear of Korean hairstylists is largely unfounded. I’ll put a dollar on the latter.

Happy Hat Time

Death themed dreams seem to be the Treat of the Week. Apparently my indulgence of House and cheese balls wasn’t enough keep the cortex stimulated. The dreams tend to involve an acquaintance passing away, usually in an accident of some sort. Most have involved cars. My subconscious may be alerting me to the perils of not wearing a seatbelt when being buzzed around Busan by Random Cabbie. Perhaps it’s circulating a memo that some death issues still linger. The latter is most likely, though the former shouldn’t be entirely dismissed.

I wake up each morning, hours before my alarm goes off. I reflect on the scenario that my dreams treated me to do the night before, and hope that in time better dreams will come. In the meantime, I put on my Happy Hat and keep walking.

One of my students picked flowers for my on her way to school the other day. She probably picked them out of somebody else’s garden. Given that this behaviour wasn’t exactly below me at her age (or at present), I accepted them with a smile and hoped that they hadn’t been peed on. It’d be a pity if something that beautiful were sullied.

Wednesday mornings at work begin with the youngest, most hyperactive class on the books. While I thoroughly enjoy teaching The Circus, it takes every last bit of energy from me to keep the engaged. If I’m not dancing around or singing a tune, they’re not interested. I also have the attention span of a cat in heat, so I can relate. Yesterday morning I foolishly decided to positively reinforce their good behaviour with high fives. This did not end well. One moment I was exchanging a high five with Sally Student, the next there were 7 kids swarming around my chair, taking swings. I put both hands in front of my face and hoped to come out on top of this onslaught. Note to self: next time, administer the high fives from a standing position. In the end, I was too busy laughing to discuss with them the logistics of 14 hands versus 2.

Death isn’t an issue that I’ve been avidly seeking refuge from. It’s something that is there, that I deal with in pieces. Every day. The Happy Hat is not a façade under which to hide; it’s merely more pleasant to share flowers and laughter than it is to dwell on those things beyond my control. I indulge my negative thoughts in confines of my own time and space; the time that I share with others is spent pleasure seeking. I try to surround myself with people who provide that, in some form or another. My failure to write about any particular events lately is a reflection of my being so wrapped up in what’s going on, rather than a lack of hilarity. Running in overdrive to Live a Little, like never before, is my way of addressing the death issues.

Perhaps now my subconscious will be satisfied into conjuring up Dream Land images of bunnies and cotton candy?

If only somebody could pass on a memo to Dream Land that it was Happy Hat Time.


Onwards.

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.

Barbie Reflects; Deeps Thoughts Are Lacking

I’ve been in Korea Land for six months. It’s countdown time, contractually speaking. I was going to try to write a meaningful summary of my experiences here so far, the good, the bad and the unmentionables. Somewhere between then and now I got the distinct taste of bile in my mouth over the thought of doing so. I’d really much rather discuss how I’d like the Washington Ovechkin’s to spend the first round of the playoffs bending over, how my white comforter is looking a trifle grey since I washed it with a red sweater, how there is a fine film of dust building up as a result of my refusal to clean my apartment, or why my potatoes look green. Should I still eat them?

Korea Land was originally intended to be a one year break from the rather bleak reality that was my life in Canada Land. The purpose was to travel a bit, pay off some debt, and take a hiatus from Everything That Sucked. I somehow failed to consider the possibility that this much time away from home would merely fuel my lust for travel and experience; that it would be asinine to ever again tolerate Everything That Sucked when I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t have to be That Way.

My father has been calling me out for being self centred for as long as I can remember; probably not long after I learned how to speak, which led to many an hour spent verbalizing thoughts about myself. That I blog on end about myself, people I know, and what we do, does nothing to refute his claims. Bearing this mind, I came over here hoping that time in Canada Land would just sort of stop. That is, that nothing of note would happen when I was gone. Nobody would breed, marry, or die. In my mind, these were simple requests to ask of the universe. I certainly don’t plan on doing any of those things anytime in the foreseeable future; it confuses me when people have other ideas.

When you make the choice to move abroad for a period of time, you do so knowing that life will go on without you ; you just kind of hope that it does so with little fanfare. I like to hear that everybody back home is healthy, happy, and that no, nothing is really new. Same old, same old! While weddings themselves are a bit of a snore, the after parties tend to be worth the price of admission. Knowing that I missed one saddens me a touch. Other people’s babies are cute and lovable. The best part about them is knowing that they aren’t coming home with you. It saddened me a bit to learn that my life long friend would have hers in my absence; I would have liked to have been there for it. Both of these things only sadden me because I’m missing them; at the core I’m happy for both of my friends. When another friend passed away suddenly in January, there was no happiness to fall back on.

Sometimes, there is no silver lining; no upside to lean on or optimism to be found. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; it merely allows for the worst to become bearable. Time allows us to make sense of what we can’t control by focusing on what we can. The choice to make a life change following tragedy resets the control scales. My choice was to see myself as a whole, rather than individual pieces to dissect. This will not undo the damage that has been done and might not even make me a better person; it’s the perception of moving forward, that my choices still matter, which is important.

Separation anxiety aside, six months removed from Everything That Sucked has done me a world of good. The extended holiday has been so good to me that friends from home occasionally express concern that I might not return. No worries – or an abundance of them, depending on how much you like me – I’ll be returning to Canada Land when my contract comes to an end mid October. To stay here would be to run away from Everything That Sucked; everything doesn’t have to suck quite that badly, anymore. Nor is my only option whatever becomes of Everything That Sucked. My promise is to return to Canada Land – not to stay there.

The Golden Drunk’s Fishy Debacle

Rarely are drunken shenanigans of worthy of repetition. Being drunk and stupid in Korea is no more interesting than being drunk or stupid in Canada; in either case, few stories of any interest are likely to emerge. Every once in a while a mixture of one part stupid and two parts absurd blend and I feel compelled to share. Such was the case when I expressed befuddlement over the ingrate that was Random Frat Boy. Such is the case now. Months removed from first learning of The Golden Drunk’s predicament with Cain, tequila, and fifty dollars worth of fish, I’m no closer to understanding what in the Hell Cain was thinking.

Cue another random Saturday evening. December something-or-other. The Golden Drunk and her boyfriend of the time, Cain, were somewhere stumbling around Busan, poisoning their livers in the hopes that one more drink would wash away that nagging feeling that they held in their hands their only commonality. I often humoured the thought of the two of them having a conversation of actual substance and concluded that each attempt probably ended in a tequila shot. If my suspicions were accurate, it would go a part way towards explaining what was about to unfold.

On the way back to The Golden Drunk’s apartment, the unlikely pair passed a seafood restaurant. This is hardly a remarkable event. On every corner in Busan there is a cell phone shop. Across the street is a kimbap restaurant. Diagonal to that is a seafood restaurant. A cosmetics shop or Paris Baguette is likely to fill out the remaining hole in the intersection. If you frequent my neighborhood, you may find a Love Motel or Massage Parlor in place of the seafood restaurant. The Golden Drunk and Cain were not in my neighborhood. They were near the beach, where seafood restaurants are so in abundance that they rarely warrant a second glance. Unless you’re Cain, you’re well past your limit on the tequila, and you feel compelled to be a hero. Of the Sea.

Cain, Hero of the Sea, was unable to stomach the idea that all of those beautiful, innocent fish being exploited in the seafood restaurant’s window aquarium would soon be reduced to fillet. He saw a much greater purpose for his finned friends: death by deoxygenation.

The Golden Drunk found Cain’s newfound kinship to his finned friends rather disconcerting. Had he never eaten seafood before? Since when did he care so much about killing animals? Cain loves steak! Are cows not people, too? Much arguing ensued and, if my imagination has it right, some serious hair pulling and possibly a bitch slap followed. Hopefully one of those classy full-armed white trash bitch smacks that I perfected on my friends in high school. Anything less would be seriously disappointing.

Cain wasn’t going to let a bruised cheek or even The Golden Drunk’s empty threats to withhold sex deter him: it was his purpose to save these fish from this cruel, cruel world. While the restaurant manager undoubtedly thought Cain was off his rocker, money talks: Cain walked out of there with 50 bucks worth of fish. Alive, bagged, swimmingly happy in anticipation of their new life with the Hero of the Sea.

As The Golden Drunk had pointed out, there was simply no way that they could keep half a dozen fish, each half a foot long, alive and well in her apartment. In spite of further bickering, Cain refused to accept that he was marching his new friends to an untimely death. With nowhere else to put them, The Golden Drunk and Cain filled every pot, pan, and large bowl in the apartment with tap water. Tap water.

Much to the shock of nobody, Cain’s finned friends were swimless by the time the two of them awoke.

In his efforts to save his finned friends from the cruel fate of somebody’s dinner plate, Cain, lover of all other kinds of carcass, spent fifty dollars so that these fish could die a painful death by drowning. And then be thrown into the dumpster behind The Golden Drunk’s apartment. Hero of the Sea, indeed.

The legs on The Golden Drunk and Cain’s relationship fell off not long after the fish incident. Next time, try a hooker. It’s cheaper, isn’t guaranteed to make your apartment smell foul in the morning, and requires minimal disposal. And, if you’re really lucky, she just might be in to that sort of thing. Nobody does dead fish; hookers are a definite maybe.

Nazis. Skin Cream. Oops?

A Korean cosmetics campaign has drawn the attention of the Simon Wiesenthal Center. The folks at SWC were less than impressed to find an abundance of "Nazi imagery" in Coreana Cosmetic's Co.'s recent commercial for skin cream. The 30 second spot featured some general military imagery, with a swastika thrown in for good measure. The original version of the same ad reportedly contained the slogan: "Even Hitler didn't have the East and West." Apparently somebody at Coreana Cosmetic Co. decided that subtly was a lost art form and nixed that part. Either way, the SWC wasn't particularly amused to find that the advertising department at Coreana Cosmetic's failed to receive the memo that giving Hitler a spot in your commercial might be considered just a tad insensitive.

Even after having a couple of days to sit on this, I'm shocked that this one snuck by the Korea Land censors. Stunned! It's not like there's a Hitler HOF in the same neighborhood as my school, or anything. There's simply no way that a civilized society would allow for something so potentially offensive to stand.

Right? Right.

In news completely unrelated to bigotry, last week I was informed by one of my coworkers that "Koreans aren't racist". None of them. "It's different than in Canada". It sure is! More on that later.

This Just In: Barbie Teacher Went Through Puberty, Once

I learned to embrace my shape at a very young age. Or at the very least, accept it for what it is. I first acknowledged that I had child bearing hips when I was 12 years old. It took another ten years to grow into them. Once in a blue moon somebody will attempt to insult me by pointing out that my physique is perfectly designed to fill out my evolutionary purpose. While they never articulate it quite in that manner, the underlying message is the same. Of course, those who think that “you could spit out three at a time with those hips!” qualifies as a passable insult are generally too stupid to see it this way.

Tuesdays and Thursdays at Barbie Hagwon begin with a quartet of overactive 9 year old boys. They like to eat paper, run circles around the table, and tattle on one another for speaking Korea. Often, they will accidentally slip in some Korean while tattling on their friend. They’re all kinds of special.

When I first took over the class from the Not So Native English Speaker who left at the beginning of January, I found them completely unbearable. Just a couple of months later, I’ve trained to the point that they’ve completely lost interest in seeing who can piss me off the fastest. They’re still overactive and mildly irritating, but in a much more controlled fashion. In other words, I can usually get through a lesson without any outburst, which results in the reward of playing some lame game that I don’t particularly enjoy for the last 5 minutes of class.

Last Thursday, for the first time in months, I felt compelled to remove my coat in the classroom. It’s usually so bloody cold at Barbie Hawgon that I leave my ski coat on all day long. On this day, I was wearing a loose blouse and dress pants. Appropriate, and conservative. I make a point of dressing more conservatively here than I would in Canada Land, in the hopes of not drawing any more attention to myself than necessary. This is all in vain, of course, but I respect myself more for doing it.

I removed the coat and walked around the table to make sure that nobody was cheating in this horrible, horrible game that really sucks. If one of them is caught cheating, somebody else will get upset, and fisticuffs will ensue. Gotta nip that in the bud! Blood is messy. As I’m wandering, Leo Student stops whatever it was he was doing in this dumb, dumb game and says, “Teacher! Teacher!” His voice is rather grating when he repeats himself in this manner. I inquire as to what it is he wants. Leo Student says, “Teacher! Teacher hip!”

Colour me confused.

This is an introductory class, so I figured that it was grossly unlikely that he knew either the anatomical or slang meanings of the word hip. I assumed that I must have heard him wrong and made it clear that I thought he was making no sense. Leo Student was annoyed at this and repeated himself while smacking his right hip. “Teacher! Hip! It big. Hip big!”. Apparently Leo Student felt it was appropriate to play the role of Captain Obvious for us that day. I laughed and told him that some day he’s going to have big hips, too. Leo Student was saddened by this lie. Then he remembered that he was playing a really stupid game, and forgot all about Barbie Teacher's big hips.

God bless that stupid game. Whatever it's called.

The Talk is so not included in my job description.

Barbie Teacher is Monkey!

I am a fairly compensated Talking Monkey. Even my students think so.

I’ll be the first to admit that my job entails very little in the way of skill. If my occasional peak at message boards frequented by other English teachers in Korea is anything to go by, one doesn’t even need a working knowledge of the English language. The check list of qualifications required to teach English at your typical hagwon in Korea is looks something like this:

1 - Are you from Korea? No? Fantastic.
2 - Are you whiter than white? No? Look into purchasing some whitening cream and you’re temporarily forgiven. Good news! In Korea, there is whitening cream in everything, from your facial moisturizer to the dye in your clothing.
3 - Can you speak something that at least sounds somewhat like English? Oui? Fabulous!
4 - Do you have a university degree, or at least a shiny piece of paper that kind of looks like it could be? Yes? Super!
5 - Do you have any interest in teaching? Not particularly, but you’re awfully fond of money? Sold!

Higher paying jobs and those which offer more vacation time tend to be a little pickier than your typical hagwon. They may actually be interested in knowing that you can spell, too. I’ve heard of some institutes that are interested in learning whether or not you’re a qualified educator, but they’re few and far between. The reality for most foreigners teaching English in Korea is that we really are Talking Monkeys. Our job is to provide a foreign presence. If one decides to go above and beyond that and actually take their role as an educator seriously, that’s fantastic. If one thinks that this is lame and would rather stumble into their 8am classes only two hours removed from a serious drinking binge, the sad reality is that they’re probably not going to get fired. As long as they show up on time, they may not even get criticized.

I know my place here. I know that while I chose to arrive at the hagwon half an hour before class, to not drink during the week, and to prepare each lesson, that the vast majority of the time my efforts will go unnoticed. I don’t take my job seriously because I’m vainly searching for praise; I do it because I wouldn’t respect myself otherwise.

Each Wednesday, I begin the day with eight screaming six year olds. They’re just darling. It’s an introductory class, so I spend a good deal of time miming as I speak. The Talking Monkey becomes the Dancing Monkey. It’s a good deal of fun, so I don’t really mind.

On this particular Wednesday, the children weren’t too keen on listening. The activity that we were working through required them to repeat what I said, and nothing more. They so weren’t feeling it, and blabbered at one another in Korean. Dancing Monkey time! I ordered the class to be quiet, and announced that it was time to listen, while grabbing at my ear. Body language excellence! Belle Student either misunderstood my message, or hates me a whole lot. Seeing me grab at my ear resulted in her breaking into a fit of hysterical giggles. The giggling subsided shortly after, because breathing is important. After taking a moment to get some air, she grabbed both of her ears, screwed up her face and said: “Teacher Monkey! Ooo! Woo!” For her efforts, Belle Student won herself a free date in the hallway with Captain Nobody.

While Belle Student wasn’t exactly incorrect in her mockery, Barbie Teacher really doesn’t need six year olds to put her in her place. Even though I found Belle Student’s mockery of my actions rather amusing, I had to put on an Angry Face and feign indignation.