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.