Thursday the soldiers and their tent were gone, as were the sandbags piled on the pedestrian walkway to the school (on the north side only, of course), though traces of spilled sand left the walkway looking more like a beach boardwalk. Also gone, at least from the home pages of CNN and BBC, were any articles about the ongoing name-calling and fist-shaking here on the peninsula. I often feel that I’m living on the set of someone else’s reality show, or am an unwitting actress in a foreign film with no subtitles. The constant fog of this life is both visual and audible. For whatever reason, the sky is perpetually hazy here, as if we’re in a dome someone clapped over a smoker-friendly AA meeting. Recently, on a very rare clear day when the sky was a cerulean backdrop to the leaves and azaleas instead of a yellowish-grey one, I found myself squinting, as if my eyeballs would shatter with the intensity of color. It’s the same with what I can hear. As rare as clear days are moments when I understand what people are saying around me. I went to a Mexican restaurant in Seoul several weeks ago and sat next to a table of Americans. Just as I squinted at the colors, I winced at the sounds, which were so intrusive to my ears, used to the white noise of incomprehensible Korean. How distracting to understand overheard conversations! I wonder if, when I go home and can see for miles and understand what everyone says, my brain will explode.
As I type, right now, there is a male voice shouting urgently on a loudspeaker from a moving vehicle, and already he’s out of hearing range. I’ve seen little blue pickup trucks cruise slowly through town with loudspeakers blaring, and what they’re shouting about is obviously the strawberries, or melons, or apples, they’re selling from the back of the truck. I’ll be blissfully ignorant on the day that those words become warnings and alarms about pending attack rather than descriptions of juiciness and sweetness. I wonder how I’ll know if we go to war. (“WE”??? What’s this “we” stuff, kemo sabe??)
But things seem to be settling down between the Koreas. Lee Myung-bak (the South Korean president) has what seems to be an unpopular aggressive attitude toward North Korea. The more I read and from the little I hear, South Koreans seem to view North Korea not as a hated foe, but as a wayward sibling, who maybe joined a motorcycle gang and robs gas stations and decapitates kittens. South Koreans, instead of hating that wayward sibling, seem to want him to come home and mend his ways and be forgiven. Maybe it’s about cultural solidarity, here in probably the most homogeneous culture in the world. Or maybe they just don’t want to irritate the wayward sibling, seeing that his motorcycle gang has over a million members, and they’re all armed and dangerous and led by the poster child for Weird and Whacked. But what do I know.
In other news, students were writing a sentence about what their best friends can and can’t do. My co-teacher for the class (there are four Korean co-teachers I work with) called me over to a desk, laughing. She said “I don’t remember the word! If we eat many things, we can (she made a gesture as if expelling something from her butt) put the gases into the air?” “Fart?!” I said. Yep. Apparently this student’s best friend can’t study but she can fart. I’m doing important work over here, people.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Soldiers and Vice Principals and Swimming Tigers
May 26, 2010 8:37am
Yesterday after my first class I glanced out the window and saw a helmeted soldier in green cammo walking across the dirt activities field of the school. At the southeast corner of the field, several more soldiers were erecting an army green tent. Two military vehicles sat beside the field. This on the day that the president of South Korea had severed ties with North Korea, or North Korea had severed ties with South Korea, or some antagonistic propaganda was flouted from one side of the peninsula to the other. I left my room for the school hallway, hoping to run across one of the few English-speaking teachers who might tell me what was happening, but came back to my room as uninformed as I’d left it. Now, though, a new gym class had started on the field, and the PE teacher stood blowing his whistle rhythmically at kids who ran back and forth kicking soccer balls. Behind them more soldiers walked, guns slung over their shoulders. Did they even belong to the same dimension?
I’ve felt more intrigued than fearful over the escalation of hostilities between the North and South, though I live only about 30 miles from the DMZ and can hear with increasing frequency helicopters thrumming low over the hills. The attitude seems to be one of complacency among the Koreans and expats I work and communicate with. Just more blusters and threats and chest-pounding and territory-marking; another day in the life in a country where, technically, the war never ended.
But my intrigue led me once again to the hallway, and into the main teachers’ office, where I found one of the English teachers at her computer. I asked her about the soldiers in the field, whom she hadn’t even noticed. She suggested we ask the Vice Principal, who sat at his desk by the window. The Vice Principal is the most emphatic and emotional person I’ve seen here, and I am consistently fascinated by his facial expressions, gesticulations, wild-eyed shouts and indignant questions. I have no idea what he’s saying, ever. He’s the kind of man whose jacket sleeves are too long on his suit, who wears a large gold ring with a green stone, and often has some sort of glittery decoration on his ties. When angry or thoughtful, he draws his chin into his neck. His hair always looks like it’s been through a tornado. I have learned from other teachers that the Vice Principal is obstinate, demanding, unreasonable, chauvinistic and sometimes unkind. But to me he always smiles and waves, and often attempts a greeting in English, just as I bow and wave to him and slaughter a Korean phrase or two to try and impress him. I’m almost as intrigued by him as I am by the conflict escalating around me.
The English teacher, who speaks English haltingly, incorrectly, and cheerfully, peered out the window by the Vice Principal’s desk and asked him something in Korean, then indicated me. The Vice Principal smiled and proceeded to speak at first in normal tones, but as he warmed up (he has been told that I thoroughly enjoy watching and listening to him talk) he began to rumble and emphasize and wave his hand around and nod his head, much to my pleasure. He spoke directly to me, while the English teacher stood nearby and smiled and nodded. I also smiled and nodded; we were as cheerful a bunch as if we were discussing yard gnomes at a garden party. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand what the Vice Principal was saying, and the English teacher seemed to realize that, since she made no effort to translate. Finally, the Vice Principal pointed skyward, made emphatic helicopter sounds and plucking motions, and with a final round of grins, nods, and bows, I left the office completely reassured.
The rest of the day I taught students ‘can’ and ‘can’t’. I played a video of trained tigers. The tigers can swim. The tigers can jump. Can the tigers play computer games? The tigers can’t play computer games. Can they drive a car? No, they can’t drive a car.
This morning dawned the clearest cloudy day I’ve seen. The air feels scrubbed, and while clouds cling to the low hilltops, they’re separated by bright blue patches, free of the usual filter of haziness. The sun shatters the leaves into sequins of yellow and green, and the breeze makes them shimmer. The tent in the school activities field is still there, draped in camouflage netting, as unobtrusive as a duck blind on a dance floor. One of the English teachers has two sons in the military, and, I’m told, wept on her drive here from Seoul this morning, in heavy convoy traffic full of young Korean men headed north. But the bell rings, and while mothers are weeping and dictators are threatening and vice principals in glittery ties are gesticulating, the students must be taught what is possible and what isn’t, for the tigers and other creatures of the world.
12:37
It’s lunchtime and the air is vibrating with helicopter sounds, as it has been all morning. During my first class, as I leaned over a desk to show a student where to write “She wants a big house with a garden. She is interested in gardening.” I saw, just outside the window, two soldiers with guns crouched behind a pile of construction materials. Workers are building an addition to the school, and cranes and cement trucks, loads of wood and scaffolding material have been part of the school scenery for a couple of months, now. I could see that the tips of the guns had orange plastic; they weren’t real. It was only a practice drill, and the Korean English teacher was visibly irritated with me for pointing them out. Before my next class started, five or six girls clustered around my desk, practicing small English phrases and giggling. I asked them if they were afraid about North Korea, thinking they were probably otherwise emotionally occupied as any 13-year-olds would be. But, surprisingly, they reacted. Kim Jong-il, he is crazy man! Her—her! (one of them pointed out a girl sitting at a nearby desk) Her cried last night! Very scary! Teacher! Teacher! (one of them open-handed smacked the USA map I have on the wall behind my desk with urgency) Go home! Too dangerous! I walk outside with my camera after class and zoom in on the two soldiers standing at the entrance of the school. Because I’m far away, and because they’re in shadow, I can’t tell if the tips of their guns are orange or black.
Yesterday after my first class I glanced out the window and saw a helmeted soldier in green cammo walking across the dirt activities field of the school. At the southeast corner of the field, several more soldiers were erecting an army green tent. Two military vehicles sat beside the field. This on the day that the president of South Korea had severed ties with North Korea, or North Korea had severed ties with South Korea, or some antagonistic propaganda was flouted from one side of the peninsula to the other. I left my room for the school hallway, hoping to run across one of the few English-speaking teachers who might tell me what was happening, but came back to my room as uninformed as I’d left it. Now, though, a new gym class had started on the field, and the PE teacher stood blowing his whistle rhythmically at kids who ran back and forth kicking soccer balls. Behind them more soldiers walked, guns slung over their shoulders. Did they even belong to the same dimension?
I’ve felt more intrigued than fearful over the escalation of hostilities between the North and South, though I live only about 30 miles from the DMZ and can hear with increasing frequency helicopters thrumming low over the hills. The attitude seems to be one of complacency among the Koreans and expats I work and communicate with. Just more blusters and threats and chest-pounding and territory-marking; another day in the life in a country where, technically, the war never ended.
But my intrigue led me once again to the hallway, and into the main teachers’ office, where I found one of the English teachers at her computer. I asked her about the soldiers in the field, whom she hadn’t even noticed. She suggested we ask the Vice Principal, who sat at his desk by the window. The Vice Principal is the most emphatic and emotional person I’ve seen here, and I am consistently fascinated by his facial expressions, gesticulations, wild-eyed shouts and indignant questions. I have no idea what he’s saying, ever. He’s the kind of man whose jacket sleeves are too long on his suit, who wears a large gold ring with a green stone, and often has some sort of glittery decoration on his ties. When angry or thoughtful, he draws his chin into his neck. His hair always looks like it’s been through a tornado. I have learned from other teachers that the Vice Principal is obstinate, demanding, unreasonable, chauvinistic and sometimes unkind. But to me he always smiles and waves, and often attempts a greeting in English, just as I bow and wave to him and slaughter a Korean phrase or two to try and impress him. I’m almost as intrigued by him as I am by the conflict escalating around me.
The English teacher, who speaks English haltingly, incorrectly, and cheerfully, peered out the window by the Vice Principal’s desk and asked him something in Korean, then indicated me. The Vice Principal smiled and proceeded to speak at first in normal tones, but as he warmed up (he has been told that I thoroughly enjoy watching and listening to him talk) he began to rumble and emphasize and wave his hand around and nod his head, much to my pleasure. He spoke directly to me, while the English teacher stood nearby and smiled and nodded. I also smiled and nodded; we were as cheerful a bunch as if we were discussing yard gnomes at a garden party. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand what the Vice Principal was saying, and the English teacher seemed to realize that, since she made no effort to translate. Finally, the Vice Principal pointed skyward, made emphatic helicopter sounds and plucking motions, and with a final round of grins, nods, and bows, I left the office completely reassured.
The rest of the day I taught students ‘can’ and ‘can’t’. I played a video of trained tigers. The tigers can swim. The tigers can jump. Can the tigers play computer games? The tigers can’t play computer games. Can they drive a car? No, they can’t drive a car.
This morning dawned the clearest cloudy day I’ve seen. The air feels scrubbed, and while clouds cling to the low hilltops, they’re separated by bright blue patches, free of the usual filter of haziness. The sun shatters the leaves into sequins of yellow and green, and the breeze makes them shimmer. The tent in the school activities field is still there, draped in camouflage netting, as unobtrusive as a duck blind on a dance floor. One of the English teachers has two sons in the military, and, I’m told, wept on her drive here from Seoul this morning, in heavy convoy traffic full of young Korean men headed north. But the bell rings, and while mothers are weeping and dictators are threatening and vice principals in glittery ties are gesticulating, the students must be taught what is possible and what isn’t, for the tigers and other creatures of the world.
12:37
It’s lunchtime and the air is vibrating with helicopter sounds, as it has been all morning. During my first class, as I leaned over a desk to show a student where to write “She wants a big house with a garden. She is interested in gardening.” I saw, just outside the window, two soldiers with guns crouched behind a pile of construction materials. Workers are building an addition to the school, and cranes and cement trucks, loads of wood and scaffolding material have been part of the school scenery for a couple of months, now. I could see that the tips of the guns had orange plastic; they weren’t real. It was only a practice drill, and the Korean English teacher was visibly irritated with me for pointing them out. Before my next class started, five or six girls clustered around my desk, practicing small English phrases and giggling. I asked them if they were afraid about North Korea, thinking they were probably otherwise emotionally occupied as any 13-year-olds would be. But, surprisingly, they reacted. Kim Jong-il, he is crazy man! Her—her! (one of them pointed out a girl sitting at a nearby desk) Her cried last night! Very scary! Teacher! Teacher! (one of them open-handed smacked the USA map I have on the wall behind my desk with urgency) Go home! Too dangerous! I walk outside with my camera after class and zoom in on the two soldiers standing at the entrance of the school. Because I’m far away, and because they’re in shadow, I can’t tell if the tips of their guns are orange or black.
Blame and Repercussions and Your Favorite Sport
May 20, 2010
It’s an interesting time to live 30 miles from the DMZ. A two or three-hour bike ride would find me staring down the collected barrels of the world’s 4th largest standing army, headed by a deified dictator who is something like a paranoid 13-year-old Saddam Hussein in a Muppet costume. Today is a more-than-typically hazy and warm one. Newly-sprouted leaves and fading azaleas fidget in the breeze and filtered sunlight. Half an hour ago the results of a report by an international panel were released, blaming North Korea for the sinking of a South Korean ship on March 26th. Forty-six soldiers were lost or killed.
I live northeast of Seoul, in a valley considered rural though clusters of 30-storey high-rises dominate the view in every direction. A river runs through town, home to herons, egrets, broken umbrellas, rubber sandals and plastic bags. South Korea has the 22nd-highest population density in the world (USA comes in at 178th) so land is at a premium. With hardly enough space for the living, the dead have been relegated to the steep hillsides, beneath meticulously landscaped cemeteries they’re quite unable to appreciate. My apartment is a 20-minute walk from the school where I teach 800 uniform-clad middle-schoolers a week to repeat after me, that “Jaemin’s favorite sport is basketball. He plays it three times a week. Sujin can play piano. Sujin can’t play the violin” and so on. Once the soul-shatteringly cold winter ended, I explored some back alleys and paths in my neighborhood and found a trail along the ridgeline which I could use as a scenic route to school, adding only 25 more minutes to the walk. The trail climbs immediately up through the low terraces of a cemetery. Shiny black granite blocks stand next to weathered marble statues like mournful kings, and grass-covered burial mounds separate small monoliths on the backs of fierce-looking turtles. Gaudy plastic flowers stick out of small granite vases, and, in the beginning of this month, faded in comparison with the forsythia and azaleas bursting like carnival spirits from the ground.
Five minutes from my apartment, in the woods behind the cemetery, is a concrete bunker; an underground tunnel with a weed-choked entrance and a spiderweb-choked interior. A friend and I crouched through the entrance one cold night after a heavy, wet snow. With soju on our breaths and headlamps on our heads we entered the tunnel. About fifty feet long and three feet wide, the tunnel ended in a small square area with windows cut in the concrete at ground-level. War would be fought from insect-eye-view. Facing north, of course. There are, that I’ve seen, at least three of these bunkers within fifteen minutes of my apartment. The 75th infantry is about a mile away, and when I hike up Cheolmasan I can sometimes hear drilling and firing practice echoing up from the valley. There are often cammo-clad soldiers at the bus stop and payphones outside my building. They look hardly any older than my middle-school students. Jaemin can run. Jaemin can shoot. Jaemin can fight.
North Korea has emphatically denied any responsibility for the sinking of the Cheonan, and has threatened “all out war” if punished. I’m not sure what this means exactly, but today the students passed notes and doodled on their textbooks and dozed and repeated after me just as they always do. One of the Korean teachers seems worried, because her two sons are currently serving their compulsory two years in the military. The others seem slightly worried, but in a back-of-their-minds, other-things-are-more-important (like conferences with parents, grading, discipline issues) kind of way. A lot of people seem to be brushing this aside as another instance of strutting and blustering which will fade as surely as the bright pinks and purples of the azaleas are doing. I’m not scared or worried; in fact I’m going camping tomorrow on Cheolmasan, from where I can see Kim Jong Il’s mountains. I’ll take my cues from the people around me, though without a shared language that might be difficult. For now it’s just another interesting moment in a country with many such interesting moments.
It’s an interesting time to live 30 miles from the DMZ. A two or three-hour bike ride would find me staring down the collected barrels of the world’s 4th largest standing army, headed by a deified dictator who is something like a paranoid 13-year-old Saddam Hussein in a Muppet costume. Today is a more-than-typically hazy and warm one. Newly-sprouted leaves and fading azaleas fidget in the breeze and filtered sunlight. Half an hour ago the results of a report by an international panel were released, blaming North Korea for the sinking of a South Korean ship on March 26th. Forty-six soldiers were lost or killed.
I live northeast of Seoul, in a valley considered rural though clusters of 30-storey high-rises dominate the view in every direction. A river runs through town, home to herons, egrets, broken umbrellas, rubber sandals and plastic bags. South Korea has the 22nd-highest population density in the world (USA comes in at 178th) so land is at a premium. With hardly enough space for the living, the dead have been relegated to the steep hillsides, beneath meticulously landscaped cemeteries they’re quite unable to appreciate. My apartment is a 20-minute walk from the school where I teach 800 uniform-clad middle-schoolers a week to repeat after me, that “Jaemin’s favorite sport is basketball. He plays it three times a week. Sujin can play piano. Sujin can’t play the violin” and so on. Once the soul-shatteringly cold winter ended, I explored some back alleys and paths in my neighborhood and found a trail along the ridgeline which I could use as a scenic route to school, adding only 25 more minutes to the walk. The trail climbs immediately up through the low terraces of a cemetery. Shiny black granite blocks stand next to weathered marble statues like mournful kings, and grass-covered burial mounds separate small monoliths on the backs of fierce-looking turtles. Gaudy plastic flowers stick out of small granite vases, and, in the beginning of this month, faded in comparison with the forsythia and azaleas bursting like carnival spirits from the ground.
Five minutes from my apartment, in the woods behind the cemetery, is a concrete bunker; an underground tunnel with a weed-choked entrance and a spiderweb-choked interior. A friend and I crouched through the entrance one cold night after a heavy, wet snow. With soju on our breaths and headlamps on our heads we entered the tunnel. About fifty feet long and three feet wide, the tunnel ended in a small square area with windows cut in the concrete at ground-level. War would be fought from insect-eye-view. Facing north, of course. There are, that I’ve seen, at least three of these bunkers within fifteen minutes of my apartment. The 75th infantry is about a mile away, and when I hike up Cheolmasan I can sometimes hear drilling and firing practice echoing up from the valley. There are often cammo-clad soldiers at the bus stop and payphones outside my building. They look hardly any older than my middle-school students. Jaemin can run. Jaemin can shoot. Jaemin can fight.
North Korea has emphatically denied any responsibility for the sinking of the Cheonan, and has threatened “all out war” if punished. I’m not sure what this means exactly, but today the students passed notes and doodled on their textbooks and dozed and repeated after me just as they always do. One of the Korean teachers seems worried, because her two sons are currently serving their compulsory two years in the military. The others seem slightly worried, but in a back-of-their-minds, other-things-are-more-important (like conferences with parents, grading, discipline issues) kind of way. A lot of people seem to be brushing this aside as another instance of strutting and blustering which will fade as surely as the bright pinks and purples of the azaleas are doing. I’m not scared or worried; in fact I’m going camping tomorrow on Cheolmasan, from where I can see Kim Jong Il’s mountains. I’ll take my cues from the people around me, though without a shared language that might be difficult. For now it’s just another interesting moment in a country with many such interesting moments.
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