Kwon interpreted pretty much what I thought they were going to say: Follow me to this room. Change into this hideous floral hospital gown, thick flannel and of course way too short, and wait. In the changing room I wanted to ask the nurse if the gown came in pastel sky blue for men, just to break the ice. Instead I helped her pronounce medical terms like white blood cells, hemoglobin, cardiovascular. In Korea, an English teacher is never off duty.

They were punctual at HM: Wheeled me into the surgery area precisely at 11:30, gave me the lowdown on my tests from Monday (all normal enough), did a skin check, inserted an IV needle into my arm and walked me into the surgery room. It was a nondescript place, four walls and a window lacking both character and color. The multi-headed surgery light suspended from a heavy gray boom like a blue-eyed sleeping alien; a simple operating table with green sectioned cushions. I didn’t even see the tool tray. I probably didn’t want to. Dull white walls, a few plaster cracks and some shoddy trim work that could have at least used some caulk, stuff only a carpenter would notice, really.

The surgeon was young, perhaps in his mid thirties. Tidy and calm, the proper dose of Korean reserve, handsome and perhaps a bit deferential, as I was to learn later. He asked if he could pray for me before sticking the needle in my spine that would render me oblivious to pain. I said yes. The thought of a long needle up my spinal cord would give me the shivers if I thought about it much. So I accepted his prayer and offered up my own pagan version. He got me in a fetal position and the nurse cradled my body so that I’d stay in that position during the insertion of the needle. That was nice. Too bad they don’t operate on you like that. Once prone again, they tilted the operating table back so my head was below my belly, letting the anesthesia run up my spine. In short order I felt my toes tingle, then I realized I couldn’t move my legs. The freakish sense of paralysis, reluctant abandon – mercy. They re-leveled the table, then the surgeon proceeded to daub my abdomen with a cold liquid to find out if I was numb. He asked me, “Can you feel this?” I kept saying, “Yes,” which confounded him.

Was this the time to get nervous?

Several minutes later, when I still thought I felt a little something when he daubed my abdomen with his freon swab, he proclaimed me ready for surgery. He talked me through the shaving of my pubic hair, the ultrasound, and just before making the incision, told me that I would feel sensations, him working on me, but no pain. I was lying like a horizontal crucified Jesus, right arm splayed on one side table inside an automatic blood pressure monitor, the left splayed on another cold metal table with a heart-rate monitor clipped to my finger. Hardly what I’d call a comfortable position. The ugly green hood went up, a thick course canvas, the kind of material we used to keep baseball bats in. Now I could only see up, to the sides and with effort, behind. Morbidly I wanted to watch, but I suppose there’s a reason they don’t let you. When the incision took place and I felt no pain I did my best to relax into the rest of the procedure, but that was difficult given the radio playing a mish-mash of Korean pop, rap and dull plastic metal with a glut of commercials in between: female voices giggling like sprites inside a coke bottle, effervescent in their lack of sincerity. Far be it for me to tell a surgeon how to work, but it surprised me that he listened to this crap during surgery. If I could have understood the lyrics it might have been distractingly amusing, especially the rap stuff. Korean teenagers who have surely never even met a black person doing rap. Puts those American suburbanites to shame!

The surgery lasted 90 minutes. During the whole procedure I could feel work going on in my abdomen, but that felt strange, since I knew that that wasn’t where the incision was, as my hernia is inguinal, above my right pelvic bone. During the last thirty minutes or so, the sensations began turning to pain, as if some rabid squirrel was inside my gut, foraging for a lost nut. Pain during surgery? I hadn’t bargained for that, cut rate price or no. I was trying to breathe through it, much like I do when my massage therapist digs into my recalcitrant muscles. But she digs through the skin, with massage oil and the promise of gentler rubbing to follow. This guy is literally under my skin, traction tools plying my skin and pulling on my innards. He’s telling me to relax. Yeah Dude, easier said than done. He asks if I’m in pain. I say yes. He says sorry. Involuntarily I grunt, “Gwen-chan-ah-yo,” which means, “That’s alright.” What I really want to say is, “What the fuck!” But I don’t know how to say that in Korean. Besides, my life is in this guys hands and stainless steel tools; thought of course I tend to trust men with tools. He seems calm and collected, so I figure the pain is normal.

Twice during the procedure, the assisting nurse calls for another nurse in that unique Korean sing-song way: “Twee-un-ahhh,” or something like that. “What?” I’m thinking. What’s she doing out there and not in here anyway; and why is the door open (it must be if she’s shouting for her); isn’t this room supposed to be hermetically sealed against germs, shouts and passers-by?

The pitter-patter of earnest little feet. A sneeze. Some rummaging. I can only hear.

I can’t see the surgeon and he can’t see me for the big tent in front of my face. I don’t like this. I want to see his face working. I want him looking at me to see how I’m faring. I want the nurse holding my hand, rubbing my neck or shoulders, helping me relax through the pain. Koreans have beautiful eyes. If I can just look at her eyes instead of the pale white ceiling or my fist clenching and unclenching against the pain and the growing numbness in my fingers. In the States you can go to a dentist where you’ll get a neck rub, ears “soothed” by New Age piano music, mouth rinsed with Chamomile tea, all while getting a root canal.

But this ain’t the States. No sissy nation. Koreans are stoic. They study like computers; work like machines. Drink like wrestlers. I remind myself of this. I remind myself of all the dental work I got done here without anesthesia, let alone George Winston. Teeth, guts, what’s the difference? Well, imagine your guts in traction, being stretched back into place after a slow, two-year migration; the clink of metal, the whine of synthesizers, a milk commercial (“oo-you, oo-you, oo-you!”) and the click of staples, or are those scissors snipping sutures? Are we almost done thoughts every minute or so. The temptation to beat your head against the table. The resistance. Holding back the, “Owwww!”

“Twee-un-ahhh!” and a few perfunctory commands in a language you don’t understand.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, clink, clink.

“The operation is almost complete,” the surgeon assures me. I look at the clock. It’s one thing I’ve got to focus on. It moves like a cork on a still lake. Some sixteen year old with too much mascara and plastic hot pants is careening two octaves above high-C from the stereo some painful love song. Like she knows pain.

Tick-tick-tick….

“Breathe.”

Somebody please hold my hand!

Sissy. You’re in Korea. This will end —-

Finally, just like on M.A.S.H., the snap of gloves.

“The surgery is a success,” says the surgeon with no particular emotion. His tone of voice is as steady and nonchalant as a barista telling you your latte costs five bucks.

“Thank you,” I whisper in English. Actually it was more like a desperate, breathless gasp. I’ve got no stomach for Korean right now. I feel like I’ve got no stomach at all, but I’m forced to find that in fact I do. As they hoist me from the table to the gurney I’ve got to clench what I can feel of it to make the transfer, trying not to cry. I don’t know what the tears that want to come out are about: pain, relief, need, some deep maternal absence released from the opened body-emotional? In this place, in this moment, they seem simultaneously warranted and irrational. But in this place the tears of a 187 centimeter tall wei-gook won’t be understood, the novelty of my even being here notwithstanding. If you ever go in for any kind of surgery, bring a loved one with you. Someone who will understand and appreciate the look in your eyes, pre or post-op. Someone to absorb the relief, a channel for your emotions, however simple, to flow through.

“Come on En-so-kneeee,” the nurses sing. After a bumpy, hasty ride down the hall, one more time from the gurney to the hospital bed in my room, two slight Korean women try to move me. I’ll have to help if this is going to be successful. So I use the muscles that still work – my arms, leveraging with my elbows. One renegade tear down my right cheek.

On my bed now, where I’ll have to lay relatively motionless for the next four hours getting an awful backache that no Korean nurse will tend to. Korean nurses don’t tend to patients, their needs – not beyond the basics of the job anyway – your pills, your shots, your IV, your instructions: “Move body, okay. Move head, no!” But my head’s about all I can move painlessly, but still not enough to see the phone and to dial the number to call them. What about a call button? That would be novel. I try to massage my back, place my fist below the small of it, a fulcrum below the ache, but it doesn’t help. Moving can be quiet agony, if only because shouting would hurt more. I need a family. That’s what Koreans use. The family are the nurses; they hang around in shifts, tending to your needs. Later, I ask the nurse to raise the foot of the bed. She obliges grudgingly. It’s not her job and she’s not my sister, and besides it requires that she get on her knees and twist the crank against the weight of my legs. They’ve got the fanciest electronic gadgets you can imagine in Korea, and in my bathroom a special hemorrhoid toilet that looks like it would do wonders to your anus, but the hospital beds are straight from the fifties. Hand cranks for chrissake. Next time, when I’m mobile again, I turn the crank myself. It’s kind of quaint in an arcane way, like a motorcycle with a kick start, a dial phone.

I was told to rest in bed for four hours. I did. Precisely four hours later, a nurse comes in and says, “Rest time over, walking time now.” She doesn’t help me up. The pain of getting out of bed, all that force in the abdomen required to rise, is almost blinding. My head spins, or is it the room? I grab the handle of the IV tower on rollers, shuffle slowly over to the entry where I’ll have to manage getting into my too-small slippers, way down there on the foyer tile, four inches lower than the raised floor. I cough and that’s about enough to knock me down with pain. But it’s time for walking and my nurse is no longer waiting. Off to the nurse’s station to surf the net or giggle with co-workers I muse, too disoriented to be irritated. If I fall I’m fucked so off down the hall I go for the slowest walk I’ve ever had, one hand on the IV tower, the other on the rail lining the beige papered walls. Each step is quieter than the previous, like autumn leaves falling that last soft swoop to the ground, gently against the pain of contact. I’m parched, having not been allowed to eat or drink a thing since the night before. The water tastes like sex going down. I drink three cups filling my belly with life, relief and pride. The walk back to bed a little easier. I’ll do this every hour, perhaps a little more.

Rest time over. Walking time now.

Actually, I got plenty of rest. And the progress of my recuperation went just as the doctor had said. By the next morning, fortified with food that puts American hospital food to shame (I know, like that’s hard), and with the aid of pain shots that would be administered only if I requested them, I was able to amble at a clip of perhaps a quarter mile an hour, instead of a tenth. My trips to the water cooler were frequent, perhaps because they had to be. No nurse was going to bring me water or tea, move my IV from the stationary tower to the mobile one, twist my crank; so knowing it was expediting my recuperation, I was glad to be doing these things for myself, even if I still felt like being babied, even if getting in and out of bed, squatting on the toilet and ambling down the hall like an octogenarian still sent shivers of antagonism down my newly sensate spine.

By the time my friends started showing up for visits, I was pridefully taking care of myself and offering them water and tea. They brought me brownies, mango juice, almonds, a coffee mug so I didn’t have to drink out of a disposable piece of paper. They watched me wince during the occasional cough or laugh; offered sympathy through dark, worrisome eyes. If I were in the States I would have gotten super blue-green algae, HerbPharm tinctures, gourmet chocolate, back rubs and a warm hand or two to entwine with. Hugs. But this would have all been offered at home, for despite the eight grand or so the hospital would have pilfered from me, they would have kicked me out a few hours after surgery. The nurses weren’t as helpful as I would have liked, but it was nevertheless comforting to remain in the hospital under qualified medical supervision while I inched my way back to normal.

Now, two days removed from the hospital, I’m sitting on my sofa on the seventh floor of the Herb Motel in Mugeodong, my angle of repose a counterpoint to the angle of my laptop screen, ticking away in relative comfort while smoking an Esse Gold that by rights ought to have some herb in it. If only I was home. But I’m not, and even so I’m really quite grateful that I have friends here that set up this low-cost adventure of mine, and to the best of their abilities and cultural allowances, have seen me through it.

I’m doing so well that I walked a good mile today through the fall foliage of Ulsan Grand Park on my way to meet Kwon, Rae and Claire downtown for lunch and coffee. Of the four of us, I was the only one with any real energy to spare, the three of them threatening to fall asleep after cake, cookies and coffee. So, I’ve been in good hands all along, even if the hands seemed a little calloused at times, the equipment a little B-movie. Tomorrow morning I go to the hospital to have my bandage changed, and on Thursday I get the stitches removed, at which time I’ll be free to head to Seoul for a little R and R. Then home again, where, all things considered, I would have much preferred to have this surgery done in the first place.

Next time . . .

Should misfortune dictate.

Traveling here was of course exhausting. It’s no fun being on a cramped plane for ten hours at a stretch; doubly so when you’ve got a cold and there’s an infant behind you trying out the screech mode of his vocal chords every thirty minutes or so. I think there should be a special compartment on airplanes for children . . . like in the baggage hold.

Okay, just kidding.

I arrived at both Narita and Seoul earlier than scheduled. In Narita it meant I had more time to kill before my connecting flight, which meant that I could make more visits to the smoker’s lounge. Interesting place, the international smoker’s lounge. You really get to see what it looks like to have this addiction: all these people entering the smoky domain like pilgrims entering a holy temple after days on their hands and knees in the blistering sun.

Ahhh, salvation! (Cough-cough)

As in an elevator, nobody talks, nobody looks at each other. You hear the gentle hum of exhaust fans keeping the room from becoming a noxious cloud. You hear eager fingers opening fresh packs of duty-free Parliaments. The clicking of lighters. Deep inhalations . . . sighing exhalations. Curious, momentary glances at the tall white guy smoking something that he takes out of an old, beat up gum tin. It has no filter. He unconsciously blows smoke rings. Occasionally a woman enters. All eyes will be on her for a while, for some because she’s a woman and Asian women shouldn’t’ smoke; for others because she’s a woman in a hazy room full of men.

Every time I visualize myself in that lounge, I can’t help but wish that I didn’t smoke. There’s something rather desperate and even pathetic about the whole scene. It’s a lot less seedy than an opium den of course, but there’s an aura about the smoker’s lounge that seems somehow similar to that of an opium den. There is no escaping the fact and full force of your addiction. It’s written on every face around you, as if you’re in a hall of mirrors, minus the distortion. I look around and ask, “Is that me; is that really me?”

I guess so.

Knowing that I’ll be spending three days in a hospital where a smoking lounge may be hard to find, it occurs to me that this would be a good time to give the quitting business the old college try – again. Even if there was a place to smoke, I’d feel a little pathetic asking a nurse to plop me in a wheelchair and roll me someplace where I could suck down an Esse Gold or two. I’m sure there’s some drug I could ask for instead, one that would keep me in bed, where I’ll belong, oblivious of nicotine withdrawal and whatever post-op pain I’m bound to be in.

Morphine comes to mind. So does opium . . .

Hummm.

Anyway, back to airports: Despite the extra security for the G20 summit, I got through customs in Seoul quite quickly. My bags even arrived in the first 20 percentile of luggage, which is unusual. Seems like my bags always come toward the end – like Charlie Brown always getting a rock in his Halloween satchel instead of candy.

I found the limousine bus my Korean friend Sean told me to take to his neighborhood with no problems, and an hour later found myself at 11 pm. on a bustling street in Seoul watching a skirmish between a (presumably) drunk guy brandishing an invisible stick and a taxi driver. For the Summit – which is a really big deal here – there are small troupes of riot police stationed here and there to keep the peace. They look like they’d rather be just about anywhere else, like they had been plucked out of college algebra class for civic duty. The skirmish taking place 50 meters from their police bus was of no interest to them, nor to me, as all I wanted to do was locate my friend and get some rest.

Getting someone to lend me their cell phone so I could call Sean was a bit of a trick, as most people were impatiently waiting for buses, transfixed by the impending brawl, or just passing by. There were no pay phones about, so I had no choice but to bother someone to use their’s. It took two different calls with two different phones to alert Sean as to my whereabouts (the first call got cut short as the man’s bus arrived 30 seconds into the call) but he did find me in relatively short order.

We then wheeled my luggage to a nearby restaurant for some grilled beef, veggies and kim chi. Yum. I didn’t realize how much I missed Korean food until I found myself sitting cross-legged in front of a low table filled with the delights of Korean cuisine. I was too tired to really enjoy the food fully, and the beer and soju went straight to my head, but I was nevertheless happy to be on solid ground knowing that a flat surface was awaiting my exhausted body and foggy mind.

Too bad I didn’t sleep but a few winks that night. Jet lag is weird – you feel like you can’t possibly keep awake another minute, then you end up staring at the ceiling all night. Of course, a snoring friend doesn’t help. I was doubly as tired as he was, but I lay there envious of the depth of his slumber when I could find none of my own.

The next morning I found some bad expensive coffee and then went about trying to get a prepaid phone so that I could communicate with people. You’d think given how technologically advanced the Koreans are, that it would be easy to find a temporary phone, but you’d be wrong, as I was. Every store I went to directed me to a different store. When I finally found one that would sell me an old phone and prepaid minutes, they decided against it since I didn’t have an alien registration card. My passport simply wouldn’t do. You can’t even get a phone in Korea without having a Korean sponsor you. Some places won’t even let me use my bankcard without also showing them my resident ID card, which of course, I no longer have. I guess I was also supposed to close my bank account when I left the country. I feel a bit subversive, keeping it and even using it, as if I had the right to.

Not being a resident meant that I had to get a friend to get a phone for me, and since Sean was too busy for that I would have to wait until coming to Ulsan on Saturday before getting a phone, which meant of course, borrowing a stranger’s phone again once arriving at a bus stop in order to alert my friend Niki where to find me. I found a woman with a cell phone in each hand, and figured she wouldn’t mind sparing one of them for a minute, which was true. Niki and I located each other, found a motel to drop my bags in and proceeded to look for a place where Niki’s ancient cell phone could be turned into a operable communication device for me during my stay. As in Seoul, so in Ulsan. Every store directed us to another store, except in this case they said we had to go downtown to the big stores, but only during banker’s hours, which meant no phone till Monday, which was of course unacceptable. Learning my lesson from Seoul, I continued dragging Niki to store after store till we found some cool young dude who could set us up. It worked —–

Sort of.

For, once getting the dinosaur of a phone connected, I quickly learned that that battery held a charge for all of five minutes and that there was no English mode, which almost rendered the phone unusable.

I’ve finally gotten the phone business resolved though, as my former employer, River, let me use her extra phone, which was already set up as a prepaid phone. On top of that I also got to teach a couple of River’s classes both on Monday and Tuesday, as she is feeling under the weather. It was a lot of fun to see the kids again and the teaching came easy; as if I’d only gone on a week’s vacation, except of course that there was a certain amount of hullabaloo about my surprise visit.

On Monday, prior to my visit to Boston Prep, I went to the hospital to have a few tests and get scheduled for surgery. It’s a brand new hospital called HM. Their motto is Health, Happiness and Humanity, so I suppose they should be called 3H instead, but they’re not. In any case, if mottoes are to be trusted, I’m surely in good hands. But since I don’t pay heed to mottoes, I was comforted to learn that the hospital was modern and cozy, more than a little less sterile than other hospitals I’ve seen, and the staff was very friendly. As a result, I’ve haven’t the slightest amount of trepidation about this upcoming procedure, which will take place at 11:30 am on Thursday (6:30 pm PST on Wednesday).

That’s tomorrow. Today I’m off to run some errands, maybe get a little pre-op exercise, and then, I hope for a quiet evening at home before going under the knife tomorrow. There’s of course more interesting things to tell, as this is Korea, but other tidbits of weirdness will have to wait till later. I’ll let you all know how the surgery went as soon as I’m coherent enough to write an email.

Till then be well.

Her thoughts a catherine wheel

Of sparkling chaos.

I don’t normally like teaching kids this young, as they tend to have minimal English skills and a maximum quotient of innocent disrespect for their teachers. They’re first graders after all, full of energy and joy and a desire to play and generally goof off. But the kids that comprise this class are unique. All of them speak English quite well, and while they are all predisposed to defying my suggestions and orders, they nevertheless can –  with a strong dose of patience and perseverance on my behalf – be corralled into a semblance of order and focused education. They’re also sweet and amusing, so I like them, and feel fortunate that my days start out with them.

The three kids are Kai, Connor and Sally. They are all eight years old by Korean reckoning, which means come January 1st, 2010, they will all be nine, since all Koreans get one year older on the first of the year. In Western parlance, they are six going on seven.

Kai is the most unruly of the bunch, but he’s also an endearing fellow, in a taxing sort of way. Despite my repeated requests against such things, he keeps bringing food into the classroom, and tops and Pokeman cards and other childhood detritus. He’s not much for studying. He’d much rather spin a top on the Formica table or puts stars on the board next to his name so that they’ll cancel out the “X”es I always give him for “bad” behavior. (Three exes and you go out of the room, holding your hands above your head for three minutes) But he does it in a playful, “I can’t help myself” sort of way that is generally accompanied by a sheepish smile when he gets caught –  which is always. He’s a pain in the ass, truth be told, but when he zeros in on you – or his work, forsooth! – he’s a really beautiful kid. And that smile he’s got is just ridiculous.

Connor’s the smartest of the bunch, at least on paper, which is to say his homework is almost always spot on and his capacity for learning is quite high. He’s got an impressive vocabulary on account of his ability to remember words well – if not for the fact that he studies all the time, and even goes to a second English academy. On the other hand, he’s a total goof ball. He loves tongue twisters, tangents and jokes as much as he likes chocolate; and he can converse ad infinitum if I allow him to, which I don’t of course, being an egalitarian teacher and all. He is also prone to fits of dancing, and I gotta say he’s quite good at it. We sometimes sing songs in class and he often has a hard time keeping his eyes on the page for wont of swinging his hips about and doing a hula thing with his hands. He can also juke, bob and jut his head in all kinds of crazy ways, as if his neck were a slinky spring. He’s fun to watch and makes us all laugh, but I want him to focus on the text while we’re singing so he can practice his pronunciation. Of course, I really want to just let him spread his joy about the classroom too, so I do my best to strike a balance. I’m sure his parents want him to be a doctor or lawyer or some such thing, which is probably what he’ll be. It’s too bad though, as he would certainly make a top notch entertainer if he chose that route.

Of course most Korean kids don’t have such choices at their disposal. I’m not even sure they have the awareness of choice at their disposal. In the States we get to at least dream of being astronauts and rock stars, race car drivers and zoo keepers. In Korea you dream realistically and conventionally, of being a scientist or engineer, a teacher perchance. Many kids say they want to be dentists. Ask them why and they’ll tell you it’s because they’ll make “much money”. When I ask them if having their noses in someone’s mouth all day, causing them great pain, would be a fun way to make money, they look at me like I’m a Martian. Dentist equals wealth. Nuff said.

I don’t know what Sally wants to be because Sally doesn’t know yet what she wants to be. But then maybe that’s one of the reasons why I like her. Most kids already have a notion come first grade what professional direction they’re likely to take. Sally’s too confused by the world to commit just yet, even if the commitment doesn’t amount to much. I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for her because she seems to be a kid for whom happiness proves a bit illusive. It’s sad because she’s a great kid – cuter than three buttons and smarter than a whip – and she’s got an edge to her that I figure is going to serve her well later in life, if it doesn’t already do so.

Being in a class with two strong-willed boys and no other girl to team up with puts her at a bit of a disadvantage. She demurs a lot to the boys, and on the surface you’d think she was the lesser student in comparison with the self-styled genius known as Connor. But I have had the good fortune of teaching her one on one a couple of times on account of the boys not being in class those days. It surprised me to find that her English, and her intelligence in general, was in fact a fair deal higher than both the boys. She doesn’t show it when they are around, which is a bit surprising given the competitive nature of Korean children. On the other hand, she is the only girl in a class of boys, and that’s unusual. I only have one other class with that demographic. The girl, Elie, is clearly smarter than the two boys, but she’s so quiet and so demure it’s almost as if she isn’t there. She speaks with the bravado of a mouse, so I need absolute silence in the class to hear her (not an easy thing to achieve). Even with relative silence I need to lean closer to her to hear her, which means the boys don’t hear her at all.

Sally, on the other hand, participates equally in class unless she’s in a bad mood. Kai can bring that mood on her in a hurry. He’s got a knack for getting under your skin, winning smile notwithstanding. He usually sits next to me, at a close proximity right angle. Sally sometimes likes to sit closer to me, and if she gets to class first the chair’s hers. But Kai has unceremoniously lifted her bag off the chair, placed it on her usual chair and kicked her out of “his” seat on a few occasions. It’s a punk-ass thing to do and I let him know as much, while relegating him to the other side of the room for punishment. But he can be defiant, and such defiance has rankled Sally on several occasions.

On one such occasion I was able to witness, in the span of a few minutes, her eyes shift from glorious sunrise to pool of tears to venomous death-stare. Kai’s a bit oblivious to this kind of rancor. Having a pretty deep edge of his own, he’s usually willing to fight to the end to achieve whatever means he is after. It’s as if that smile of his is a shield against life’s galling winds. It’s interesting to watch Sally deal with this stonewalling of his. I’m sure if I let them they could stare each other down until the cows came home. Too bad class is only thirty minutes long and I’ve got material to cover. It’d be interesting to see who’d  flinch first.

I’ve seen this stare-down phenomenon several times in various classes. It seems to be a cultural thing wherein a kid, instead of calling out her counterpart on the playground, simply stares him down in class. I have tried to break this spell several times only to realize that it’s something that needs to run its course. Sometimes a kid is just trying to remind his counterpart who is older, and therefore, who is right – regardless of facts, subtleties or circumstance. Other times it’s a younger kid saying, “I don’t care who’s older, you bitch, you don’t fuck with me like that.” It’s interesting watching the loser slowly turn to mush. There’s a look in the eyes that unmistakably conveys their acquiescence. Sometimes it’s a subtle downcast glint of apologetic guilt. Other times it’s a confused look that says, “What – what did I do?” Sometimes it’s a slow swelling of tears. Once I saw a second grade boy give an older girl the death stare while tears were dripping steadily from his lashes. Though the girl still felt she was in the right, her remorse was evident.

Unlike most kids at this school, Sally seems to have an unsatisfactory home life. Her parents both work and, if what she tells me is true, don’t seem to pay a lot of attention to her. You meet this kid and you’d think it would be hard not to want to be engaged with her. But I suppose there is no shortage of cool kids that don’t get the kind of attention from their folks that they’d like. Of course, it’s totally common that Korean children don’t get to see much of their dads, as they work a lot, and are generally not responsible for the raising of the kids. The mothers are in charge of all things domestic, including – if not especially – education. Sally’s father apparently doesn’t have a good job in a high paying field like most of the kids at this school, so her mother has to work as a piano teacher, and according to Sally, doesn’t much care for it. Could there be some resentment that the father doesn’t make enough to provide for the family? In any case, she’s got an underdog quality to her that I relate to. Can’t help but to want the best for her when I see her.

Connor’s dad is a boiler mechanic. And while this is not exactly the kind of job that the kids at this school would consider highly respectable, I love the way Connor announces his father’s occupation –  without shame or regard for status or money and all the rest of it. His mother’s a housewife and that’s always a comforting thought here in Korea. This is not a culture well suited for two working parents. With all the studying these kids do, and all the lack of play, having a stable and supportive environment at home is a very necessary thing. Kids here are like little education robots. Unlike in the States, where kids are shuttled from soccer practice to play dates to environmental awareness pow wows, kids here are shuttled, if they don’t walk, from one academy to another. Connor is no exception, but it seems that he is well cared for nonetheless, which makes him a joyful and exuberant kid who’s fun to be around.

Kai’s dad is apparently a heart surgeon. I am not sure of this as Kai tried to explain what he does by pounding his heart a few times. I know his dad’s a doctor (and his mother a housewife) but the heart surgeon thing is an inference, as Kai doesn’t know how to say “heart surgeon” in English, if Korean. Kai has a sister who’s a year or so older than he is and I teach her as well. She’s a soft spoken kid as sweet as a field of flowers in the spring (except she’s like that year round). So whatever’s going on at Kai’s home, it’s a good thing, cuz it shows up in the kids.

I have a Monday ritual in which I ask all my students how their weekend was. It’s just a way to get them to talk more, while I talk less, but it is also provides me with some insight into Korean culture. They don’t usually report a fascinating or fun filled weekend, though on occasion some kid will tell me about a trip to Everland, which is a huge amusement park in Seoul, or perhaps a ski trip. Sometimes it’s just a trip to Grandma’s house to make kim chi, or a day trip to Chung-ju, the nearby tourist trap. Maybe they went to a movie. Usually they at least get to watch a little TV or play some video games; on occasion they’ll actual play soccer and get a little exercise.

Sally, however, never seems to have anything to report at all. When I ask her what she did over the weekend, she just replies with a resigned and matter of fact tone, “Nothing.” I used to try to press her on the subject, figuring that she must have done something other than study, but she seems not to want to talk about it. It doesn’t help that Connor’s dad makes sure to do something cool with his only son just about every weekend. I suspect in hearing his tales, Sally gets a little jealous, though she’ll never let on. Not to the other students at least.

It kind of makes me want to kidnap her on a Sunday and take her to the playground. But, of course, I’m just a teacher and as such must treat all my students with equanimity. It’s not just that we are not supposed to have favorites (though of course we all do), we are also supposed to give our attention, compassion, good will and discipline to all the students equally, even the ones we can’t stand. It’s a good thing to keep in mind and a good practice for a teacher to have. Secretly my heart bends a bit deeper toward the students I like more, but just as a student will keep her necessary secrets to herself, so must I show that I care equally for all my students. The interesting thing about this practice is that, in effect, I do exactly that.

So, perhaps the coolest thing about being a teacher is that by practicing oneness, you live oneness. The kids are all equal and by extension, through my relationship with them, I am equal too. Over time the kids seem to get this and embody it. The relationship between the students and the teacher becomes a little less formal and a little more real. As a result they come to trust you, allowing themselves to be their affectionate, joyful, frustrated, sullen, vibrant selves. They come, they engage; they go, they disengage – like little freaking Zen masters, they’ve got a helluva lot more to teach adults than most adults care to countenance. So the more my relationships to these kids develop, the more I realize how much I like kids. There’s something immediate and real about them. You don’t have to spend any time trying to figure out what they are about, because what they are about, for better or for worse, is right there on their sleeves. Given the difficulty I’ve had trying to figure out Korean adults, it’s no wonder I enjoy – or at least appreciate – the time I get to spend with my students.

May there be mirth, joy and peace

For all those you love.

Granny’s getting battier every day. Usually she only talks to Jesus when she’s in her room, looking at the painting on her closet door. But lately she has been talking to him all the time, no matter where she is. It’s usually about how bad her grandchildren are and why he stuck her with such hoodlums. She’ll pause for an answer while looking up in the sky, then nod her head. Then she’ll turn and glare at us, as if Jesus just gave her a great and terrible idea for punishment. Just the other day she snuck into Garret’s room while he was asleep and busted a wooden spoon over his head. He had it coming of course. After shooting her in the leg with the staple gun he’s lucky she didn’t staple his mouth closed. Good thing she doesn’t know how to use a staple gun.

Reggie was over the other day and he farted right in front of her. He’s always farting of course. It’s all those refried beans he eats, so he can’t help it. But he was standing right next to her in the kitchen when he let out a long, juicy ripper. She looked at him aghast, wagged her finger at him and said, “There’s a time and place for that young man!” Poor Reggie had no idea what she was talking about. He hadn’t learned yet that in our house, if you have to fart, you go to the bathroom. At least that’s how Granny wants it. Garret and I usually pass silent ones if we’re near her. That way she can’t know who did it. We can even say it was her, which really gets her riled up.

Reggie wanted to get revenge, so two days ago he brought a whoopie cushion to the house. He blew it up and put it under the sofa cushion, right where Granny always sits. We were sitting in the living room while Granny was boiling apples, then she came and sat down on the sofa and the whoopie cushion went, “bluuuuuup!” We all turned and looked at her in unison, with fake surprise on our faces. Poor Granny had this confused look on her face like she just shat her pants, but it couldn’t be possible since she didn’t recall shitting. Garret then wagged his finger at her and said, “Granny! There’s a time and place for that.” She waddled off to the toilet to check her panties, I guess. We laughed our heads off, and we weren’t even high.

I did get high with Reggie again yesterday. It was totally cool. We went to the beach and watched the sunlight reflect off the water, and watched the spray of the waves shoot into the sky. The sandpipers play chicken with the waves. Garret wasn’t around, which meant that we didn’t have to listen to his know-it-all talking all the time. We just sat in silence, or walked along the beach pointing and ooohing and laughing. Man, the world is so much more interesting on pot.

Dad’s coming home tomorrow from his business trip. I’m going to have to find a safe place to hide my weed. That is if Reggie ever shows up. I already gave him my money. Now I am wondering if he just made off with it. He’s pretty cool for a Mexican, but some of his friends don’t like me. Maybe they just took my money and told Reggie to quit hanging out with Gringos. They don’t like Gringos in general, I think. The other day down by the Thrifty, that big scary dude with the permanently bloodshot eyes, Pedro, beat the shit out of Chris LeCour just because. Man, I could beat the shit out of Chris LeCour, not that I ever would. But it goes to show you how mean some of these dudes can be.

I’ve been waiting here for half an hour now. I’m starting to get paranoid. Maybe the pigs have caught Reggie. They’re always going after the Mexicans. Reggie’s brother, Raul, is in jail. I don’t know what for because Reggie won’t say. He just says he’s innocent and the cops have it in for the wet backs, even thought they aren’t wet backs. I always thought Raul was a cool guy. Kinda weird thinking about him in jail.

Oh, here comes Reggie. I hope he scored.

In fields of trash and stone ~

Spring’s dormant splendor.