Korea First Days, Bread

March 23, 2000

The student who got his head shaved over the weekend tracks me down after my conversation class.

“Professor, do you have class, Professor?”

“No, I just finished.”

“Oh Professor, thank you, Professor.  Later I will bring you bread.  Last night I baked bread.  By the way, Professor, I am hotel baker at my college.  Hotel baker.”  He beams.

“Right, I remember that.”

“Professor, let’s meet at twelve o’clock.  I will give you bread.”

I say okay, but I don’t know if I will eat the bread.  Yesterday when he showed up in my class with his head shaved,  I went to lunch with him because I had promised–even though I was feeling a little sick.  As we left my building to walk to the junior college cafeteria, he obliged me with an explanation of his shaved head:  “Dandruff, Professor.  Berry, berry bad dandruff.”

I ate cautiously, trying not to look at his head and what might be flying off it, into the air, across the table, into my soup.

The cafeteria, almost empty, was clean, each table decorated with an artificial rosebud drenched in dew.  At a nearby table, a sophisticated woman with a cap of dark hair, the signature dark lipstick, wearing a long, straight suit, sat eating alone.  She gave me a quiet smile.

The student did as other students do, served me the food.  Then he dug in himself.  He slurped his soup, and I was glad that I knew, from reading, that this was a common Korean habit.  So it didn’t gross me out as much as it could have.

We ate curried vegetables and rice, zucchini with sort of rubber chicken chunks, and piles of kimchi.  I said it was “delicious,” because it seems like Asians say that rather than just “good.”

“Oh, Professor, I am glad to hear you say ‘delicious.'”

I finally got away and began walking toward my apartment at the bottom of the hill, where I could take cold medicine and a nap, before it was time to return for evening classes.

He came up next to me in his strange, Chinese Communist-style uniform of black cotton shirt and pants.  “Professor, are you going to your home?  How can you get there?  I crave to help you, Professor.”

“Oh no,” I assured him.  “It’s very close, very easy.”

“Oh, Professor.  Well–”  He paused.  “Well, Professor, I would like to attend your class.  I really appreciate your lecture and dialog.”

I wouldn’t call it that, I thought.

“But Professor, tonight I have to bake bread.  I am hotel baker at my college.”

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe.”

“Professor!  Do you like bread?”

“Yes.”  I was thinking of dandruff, like gentle rain.  Barely perceptible.  White.  White as flour.

“I will bring you bread, Professor!  Tomorrow!  I will come to your office at twelve o’clock, Professor.”

*        *        *

He didn’t show up at noon the next day.  A relief.  I waited ten minutes, and then I left.  I had to eat lunch.

When I returned to my office, there was a big black plastic bag stuck in the transom above the door.  The bread.  I took it down.  I would take it home, and then I would decide what to do with it.

He was at my afternoon class, apologizing.  He had gotten there late, after his lunch.  Did I find the package?  I said I had.  I thanked him.

The class was terrible.  So big–forty-five students.  One boy talked constantly in Korean.  Three girls were gesturing wildly, saying things I couldn’t understand.  When one finally said, “Toilet!” I understood.  Then all three left together.  The class laughed.  I was embarrassed.

After that, two night classes–pronunciation, in which I boringly had them parrot vowel sounds, and another class called Language Practice, the purpose of which I have yet to discover.  I played a game with them and tried to learn their names.

Dear God, just let me get through this night, so I can go home and sleep.

Finally, the class ended.

“Davis, do you want to go eat something with us?” one of the students asked me.

“Oh, I–”  They were so nice, and cute.  But I was exhausted and wanted my bed, more than anything.

Interpreting my hesitation as lack of comprehension, he made the motion of eating rice from a bowl.  But of course I understood.  This was an advanced class; he was speaking English.

I thanked him, explained my tiredness and declined.

At home, I put the plastic bag on the table, opened it.  There was a plump loaf of fresh bread, and a note, written in pencil:  “Professor, please take a bite!  I am sorry to be late!  Professor, I baked this bread.”

I set it on the cutting board.  Suddenly realizing I was famished, I sliced off a hunk with the very good knife the university had provided me.  I ate one piece, then sliced off another.

Fresh bread.  It was, in fact, delicious.

 

 

First Days in Korea–5

February 27, 2000

Last night, the maintenance guy came to fix my heat. I was so glad! I was rolled up in the fancy bedspread I’d dragged into the living room.  I was watching TV–mostly CNN, but also a Korean game show that featured kids being given clues by adults, and a very strange English lesson that repeated a dialogue:  “Why are you in a hurry?  Because I’m late for work.  Why are you late for work?  Because I couldn’t get up.  Why couldn’t you get up?  Because I worked late last night.  Why did you work late last night?  Because I was late for work yesterday morning.”  The people were British or American, but their  intonation was unnatural, robotic.  The man who was late for work looked like a chronic alcoholic, complete with red, blotchy face.

There’s English and Korean music TV, maybe even French.  One show features dancing that looks Indonesian.  And there are several sitcoms in Korean, which I don’t understand at all.  I watched an Arnold Schwarzenegger/Danny DeVito movie dubbed in Korean–if you can imagine!  Later, an old black-and-white British movie in English with subtitles in Korean hangul.

But back to me, and my problem of freezing to death in my apartment, not wanting to bother Dan.  (He might be drunk or get mad; I’ve seen his temper flare up; no thanks.)  I didn’t want to bother Professor Park either.  But I was thinking I was going to get sick, maybe get pneumonia and die in Korea.

So I’m rolled up in the bedspread in front of the TV, thinking maybe I can survive the night this way.   I think of campers, of Jack London.  I’m an adventurer!  But then, tomorrow’s going to be another day of freezing; why do I have to wait?

I start dozing off, falling forward.  I’m in two straight-back office-type chairs, one to sit in, the other for feet.  It’s my only living-room furniture.  The phone rings.  It’s Professor Park!  She’s calling from her home near Seoul, to ask if everything is okay.  No, I say.  It’s cold.  I’m afraid I’m going to get sick.

Oh no, she says.  What to do?  What to do?

Maybe nothing can be done, I say, regretting my words immediately.

Oh no, what can we do, she continues, thinking out loud.  And by the way, her English is perfect.  Then she comes up with a plan.  Find Korean people in the building (oh my God).  Knock on doors upstairs and down until they answer.  She even gives me the exact words to say in Korean, “Munjeh-ga itsumnida.”  It means “There is a problem.”  She’s terrific!  She tells me to get the man of the house to come and look at it.

Are you sure? I say skeptically.  Yes.  Then call her back.

Gingerly I go downstairs, ring bells.  No one answers.  I come back to my next-door neighbor.  I’ve never seen who lives here.  A woman answers.  She seems nice, lets me in.  I give my message.  She calls Park.

This woman is studying or working.  She appears to be a professor.  Everything is neat and square in her place–stacks of copies on the table, bed, bookcases, and books, almost all in Korean.  These don’t seem real to me, somehow.  But of course they are; I just have no clue what they’re about.

She comes over in her slippers, calls someone, calls someone else–on her little cell phone; I guess everyone here has one.*   She has a little address book with pictures.  She writes down for me, Min Ju Baek, with a number.

I thank her and she leaves.  I think he’s coming but no one comes.  Was I supposed to call him?  I call Park.  In the middle of our conversation, he comes.  Knock, knock, knock.  “School!” he says.

“Min Ju Baek?”  I say, opening the door.  He responds with what appears to be the Korean equivalent of yeah.

He is a far cry from the maintenance men I know at home, with their torn jeans, dirty caps and swaggers.  This guy is well dressed, for one thing. He wears clean, brand-name-embossed sweats, pure white sneakers.   Also, their is no indication that he might be on drugs or hung over.  And he is in such good shape!  He jumps onto the heater with an animal grace.  He moves to the floor where the heat is supposed to be, works sitting back on his heels, then stands up in one graceful motion.  He zooms around my apartment,  paying me no mind.  He sings to himself a little.

We communicate with very few words, me throwing a couple Korean ones at him, he using some English, some Korean.  It’s amazing that we can talk in this way.  When he lapses into Korean sentences and paragraphs, though, I lead him to the phone, and Park.

Everyone is happy–especially me; I finally have heat. And Ji Yeon Park is very relieved.  She’s so nice, sweet, smart–and a really good problem-solver.  I’m so lucky to have her.

 

_______________________

* In the year 2000, very few people that I knew in the U.S.  had cell phones.  In South Korea, everyone did–except me.  But I had a land line in my apartment.

First Days in Korea–3

February 24, 2000, 7 p.m.

Random thoughts:  The floor is the warmest place.  I’ll get in shape here, walking up and down the hills to work.  Dr. Park is overworked, and she complains–but cheerfully.  She thinks we work more than at other universities in Korea.  It’s not hard to believe; I’m teaching 21 hours.  She has 14, plus an administrative assignment.

We had a bizarre little English faculty meeting, with some chat in English, some Korean.  At first I was nervous.  Then I realized that I was not expected to participate–and I began to enjoy the positive side of not knowing the language.  It’s kind of fun just sitting there not understanding anything while two colleagues talk.  These faculty meetings are going to be a lot less stressful than the ones at home!

I met Professor Lee, a handsome, tall man, Director of Language Labs; Professor Kim–also some kind of administrator; Professor Kang–Chair of the English Department, pretty, nervous, sarcastic, oddly flirtatious; Dan Lavelle–the returning American professor, dressed in a suit, smelled like booze.

Professor Kang was sophisticated in a grey suit and high heels.  I had chosen a denim jumper and white shirt, which was normal attire at home, but here I felt sloppy.  Professor Park wore a dark-colored pants suit, not sophisticated, but more professional than I.

 

February 25, 2000

Dan, the other American professor (I’m called Professor too, here; I love it!), told me he asked for fewer hours this semester, acknowledging that it means less money.  He needs the time more, he said.  I could really understand that; it’s what I want too!

But they’ve given me a killer schedule, 21 hours of teaching.  I can’t believe they could be so cruel.  Yesterday I thought, this is going to kill me.  How can I do it?  But I didn’t complain.  How can I complain?  I was depressed last night, thinking, I don’t care about travel one bit, just get me out of here!

This is spring term though.  It has to get better.  The weather will get warmer and prettier.  Life will be easier.  Won’t it?

Some of the challenges here are fun.  I pick up words from conversations--Yongeo, English; chigeum, now; onje, when.  Inspired by my former students in the United States, I walk into stores, speak in gestures and one-word sentences.

The post office lady asked me if I wanted coffee.  “Kopi?” she said as I was leaving.  I said no, flustered and taken by surprise.  Coffee at the post office?  Probably she wanted to practice her English though.  Next time I’ll say yes.

First Days in Korea–2

Note:  I’ve decided to change the names of all the people I mention in these Korea blog posts.  No real names are used.  It’s just easier that way.  I don’t know who would object and who wouldn’t.

 

February 24, 2000, cont’d.

At the airport Arrivals area, I spotted a young student with a sign, my name in big letters.  I smiled and nodded.  His name is Young Sam.  He’s the first person I’ve met here in Korea.  Professor Ji Yeon Park (female, my Korean faculty mentor) told me he’ll be my helper, cleaning my office, for example.  Wow, sounds good!  He was tentative about speaking to me in English.  On the long van trip, Professor Park kept encouraging him to talk to me.  It was tiring for us both.

It was about a two-hour trip to the university.  I saw buildings outlined in neon.  Professor Park said they were motels.  We stopped at a place on the highway that had bathrooms and a store.  Young Sam bought us drinks, banana milk.  I’d never had it before, but I liked it.

The driver, Mr. Cho, suggested going out to eat before they took me to my apartment.  We went to a fairly fancy although rustic little restaurant that looked like a mushroom.  The servers bowed to us when we walked in.  They brought us glasses of warm water, which seemed unusual until I realized it made sense to drink warm water in cold weather; we Americans are the crazy ones, drinking cold water with ice in the winter!  Dr. Park ordered food and more food, salad, kimchi, beef, rice.

I was not hungry when I got to my new apartment, which is spacious, with living room, two bedrooms, a bathroom,  full kitchen and a balcony.  I had imagined small boxlike place with paper screens.  I might have seen that in a movie.  This was much better!

 

 

 

 

Good Memories of an ESL Teacher

I’m cleaning out files. A lot of them are from my years as an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher at the Center for English as a Second Language at Southern Illinois University.

Some of these files make me remember how busy I was, with multiple tasks to juggle every day. I gladly get rid of those. But others remind me of the joy of walking into a classroom with a variety of young people from all over the world and making a little community with them, teaching them English and learning about their cultures and personalities.

This “Grammar Goodbye” that I wrote for one class is an example of the happy memories.  It’s a kind of prose poem. Look at the first letter of each line for the hidden message.  (I think most teachers feel this way.)

In the Grammar 4 class, Abed and John sit together on the side, watching and talking.

Little Mohammed enters, smiling his dazzling smile. “What’s up?” he says, cheerfully unaware that he is late. “The sky,” says Abed, not cracking a smile.
Older Mohammed, such a good student, is already working, with a few other students, on Exercise 12, number 14.
Veronica asks a question about number 3. John asks when the next semester will begin.
Everyone laughs. Then Samuel raises his hand to ask another difficult grammar question the teacher can’t answer.  (Maybe he will teach English grammar some day.)

Adri uses color on her homework papers—pink for subjects, green for verbs. She’s a genius, according to Baheir.
Look at Nadiath, eating ice cream in December! Is she crazy? No. She’s very smart. She just loves ice cream.
Listen to Song Dong. He doesn’t talk very much, but sometimes he sighs very loudly. His sighs say everything.

Over in the corner, Hannuo hides, thinking she won’t know the answers.
Finally Jun makes his entrance, dancing and singing to himself, so carefree. (He was made in Japan! Yay!)

Yes, Hannuo, you do know the answer. Don’t worry!
Oh good, Baheir is here. He had to go to Egypt to find a parking space.
Unique is the word for this funny, lively group of students. I will miss you all!