Laurie Johns Weblog

The Seasons

The Kindergarten teachers in Gokseong asked me to teach the seasons. I dont mind reinforcing their curriculum, but I dont have materials, so I have to make my own. I nearly forgot to put something together, but had purchased pastels on one of my Gwangju outings and decided to put them to use the night before. I quickly drew the seasons with minimal details so we could add other visuals later, like an umbrella perhaps. I made other little laminated cards of clouds and mittens etc. so I could I ask the questions “When do we use mittens,” and they could reply “in winter” placing the mittens on the picture. Well, I have gotten so many compliments on those materials. The questions range from “did you draw those?” to “what did you do for a job in Canada” (most teachers coming to this area–Jeollanamdo province are from Canada). It makes me think I should develop curriculum and materials for Korean kindergartens void of cartoon characters. Maybe I will pose it to Jeyeon a woman who owns a Hagwaon (private school) in Gwangju who I meet on Saturdays to speak English with. Her father is a principal and perhaps they have some idea about how this process works.

I love Wednesdays because of the kindergarten. I teach only three 30 minute classes (10-11:30) . Adam told me I could hike to Dorim temple from Gokseong so I attempted that today, only I turned a bit too soon, missed the road entirely and ended up on a trail that took me past a tiny village inhabited by farmers. Farming and getting things to and from market is the greatest activity here in the south of South Korea. I ride the bus with many farmers each day, tanned and chatty. I always give up my seat to these women (they are mostly women) and I imagine what they talk about. I looked toward their dwellings on that hill just outside of Gokseong and thought about how I could live there amongst the chickens and crops. I wondered if any of those tiny houses had wood burners and if the Jeollanamdo office of education would find me a hillside hut (the office of ed. pays for our housing) if I requested one. Sometimes I think I need a little physical hardship to keep me balanced. I know how good my lentil soup (I make a pot every week) would taste cooked over a fire that I had made myself.

Every day in Okgwa

A former student of mine went on after high school to St. Johns University in Maryland. It was the perfect place for her and would have been for me too if I had any inkling whatsoever when I chose (and I use that word lightly) a college. What I remember most about her experience was a story about her roommate’s father. Heather, my former student, remarked that she respected this man because he held himself to the highest standard. I try to remember that when I want to judge harshly this culture. Jen says she hesitates to recommend anything because of my high standard, most people think I am impossible to buy gifts for, and another friend thinks I posses an elevated sense of decorum that no one can achieve–which leads eventually to my own disappointment. Okay, I am well aware of  the notion that when you point a finger, four others are pointing back at you, so I will proceed with caution. But excuse me for a moment while I try to understand just what in the world is going on here.

I’ve recently begun saying, “In my country, we don’t do that.” And I use it probably to the point of frustration for the Korean students. I am not sure if they feel judged, or they just think I am really odd but I use this phrase to justify why they cannot, in my presence: hit one another, yell at the tops of their lungs when we are doing “listen and repeat.” run into my classroom, talk incessantly to one another during class, follow me home and ask to come up…I think I really just want somehow to hold myself apart. Not to mention, again, that these behaviors are driving me mad. Ok, the following home is somewhat cute, but seriously, by the end of the day, I am longing for some quiet time alone.

My co teacher Ms. Kim explained a log I would have to keep in order to receive reimbursement to which I was entitled for traveling to 3 other schools. She explained I would need the principal’s, the vice-principal’s, and someone else’s (this someone else was unclear to me, but I figured they could figure it out because the title was there in Korean hangul) signatures in an official looking black book that she gave to me. So each time I visited a school, I took the log with me to gather the signatures. When I would take the thing to the principal etc. they would first look it over in puzzlement, then call others into the office, then question some of the signatures already written, sometimes sending me to another office, other times they would cross names off (from other schools) and write their own. This went on for 3 weeks, each time with the same results. It made me insanely frustrated because I knew I would have to keep this up for the entire year and they didnt seem to be letting go of their charade. I was beginning to believe that I was living in the film Ground Hog Day. Finally I went to Ms. Kim declaring something terribly wrong with the document since Koreans couldnt even seem to figure it out. That is when she explained that it was only my principal in Okgwa who would have to sign, so we started over from the beginning. But the seed had already been planted. I had already observed something in the Korean character that I had heard referenced many times…this notion of saving face. I am just beginning to understand that “saving face” is code for telling lies. If you can’t figure something out, for god sakes, don’t let on, just muddle your way through and hope that no one figures it out. It seems to be the case at the school in Ib Myeon also, where they have placed me with at least 2 other English teachers for every class. Each waiting for the other to take charge while the students run the show. I put up with that for exactly 5 minutes.

Something of this laissez faireness is expressed in the way that “old” meets “new.”  I knew I was coming to a village, but the village actually looks like a rather run down section of any large city in the US where foreigners are living. And once you step out of the downtown area it gets pretty old. You might even believe you were in the countryside except for the garbage  heaped on the side of the road sometimes contained in nothing (certainly not a rubbish bin) and loaded  on trucks like overworked donkeys too weak for the job. People are also constantly burning things that are toxic. Jen explains it this way:

…the thing about Korea is that while much of the country has developed at an unbelievably fast pace in the last twenty years or so…they have not developed in thought. They may have computers and cell phones and big screen tvs and all of the plastic and waste that goes with it but they haven’t gotten themselves there. Their thinking is way behind. They are nowhere near understanding the sort of environmental consciousness that has taken western societies many decades to begin to develop. New meets old in a crazy way. Like, you will see some farmer burning plastic on the side of the road and really he’s doing it the traditional way, except it’s not like, wood, it’s this stuff (think of it as a metaphor for technology) that has been dumped into a village that he has never left… so he just burns it and really has no idea what it is…..

So I try not to judge because are we not somehow responsible for this? I also struggle to recall Heather’s respect for the dad “who holds himself to the highest standard,” when I find myself driven mad. But shouldn’t we really being doing something about this problem? I look around Korea and sometimes feel that I can see from one end to the other…all wooded mountains, people settling in little vallies between (you rarely find structures aside from Temples in the hills) and I think I understand the denseness of its habitation and can sense the magnitude of its waste problems and there is a part of me that cant get over my own incredulity at their adolescent, simple-minded ways. Because now would be a perfect time to prevent the spread of unhealthy practices. Now would be the time to say no to plastic and particle board.  Now wold be the time to hold onto “old” sustainable ways. But its like they are children in a candy store. Plop an Ikea down in the middle of a field and watch this happen over and over. Why must we always go so far in the opposite direction, just to come back home?

Since I arrived in Okgwa one month ago, I have spent almost every morning on a little cement (it’s only painted to look otherwise) track a few minutes from my door.  Someone from home recently remarked, “you must be in great shape.” But that is not necessarily true. I dont run hard and I dont run far. I do it because it gives me a reaon to be outside at the time of day I love the most because its quiet and foggy. If you were sensitive to noise and worked in a Korean school, you would understand. Also it is a time when my creativity reins free. Practicing yoga does not do the same for me. It does not give me immediate access to my creativity, though it helps me to access deep concentration when I need it and it keeps my body open and my spine long. Mostly I practice yoga for the long-term benefits and because I know what it feels like to NOT practice. It is a discipline from start to  finish, where with running, the only thing I must be disciplined about is getting my shoes on and walking out the door. While I am running my mind is free to roam.

The other day while running I was thinking about the illusion of symmetry in the body. From the outside, the body is, for the most part, symmetrical, while on the inside the body is not. The organs especially lack symmetry, even the heart’s left and right ventricles are not the same. We are unique and wonderous creatures, less like machines, more like organisms with flawed and particular cells.  I cant say how, exactly, this put me in touch with my divinity, I can only say it has.

Just like the things we were meant to be, there are certain mistakes I think that we were meant to make–mistakes that urge us toward our potentials. It is my mistakes that move me most, not the moments of shining or elation. If we are honest with ourselves, we don’t trust in these moments anyway because only we understand the folly of their constitution. We move quickly beyond our accomplishments never allowing them to become a meaningful gauge of our worth. It is the moments where I have failed myself and others that bring me closest to myself.

When Caleb was old enough to have his own money and to purchase his own gifts for Christmas, Ailee and I took him to the mall. He was very excited to find one of those booths where they sell little glass figures of animals and he bought me three. I had a suspicion about what he was up to and I recall (to my embarrassment each time) how I tried to discourage him from making that purchase. I am surprised how painful these words are to write, because that act of discouragement is a betrayal that I can’t, and will never, forget. Whenever I think of it, I am sorry for myself and sorry for him. Sorry for not celebrating in his joy and trusting in his freedom. I still have those figures with missing limbs and parts: a penguin, a cat and a fish and they are more precious to me because they represent a flaw in myself which I must live with. A mark, not of something beautiful or symmetrical, but one that is raw and gnarly and you have to work hard to love those parts of yourself.

I have another such story. Ailee and Caleb both loved to dress up when they were small. We had all kinds of costumes, most of them handmade. For a Swedish festival I constructed something for Ailee to dance the maypole dance. While my mom was visiting in Madison one summer, Ailee put the costume on to her grandmother’s dismay. If I were to remind my Mom of this story, it’s quite possible that she would not even remember, and I hope that Ailee wouldn’t either, but I do. Because I wanted to please my mom, I suggested that Ailee find something else to wear, she refused, and I didnt really care, so she wore the costume out. And when we arrived to wherever we going (shopping I believe) Ailee began to squirm and fidget self-consciously and when I asked her what was wrong she said she felt silly in her costume and wanted to go home. Her little self-conscious act nearly broke my heart because I knew I had failed her. Failed to stand up for her freedom and failed to believe in her right to choose. And that moment of failure, too, has not left me.

So while I am running– and the fog helps me to feel that I am no where in particular, and my organs remind me of my lack of symmetry, and my mind wanders into the crevices–I feel myself in my flawed perfection  in a way that I may have just failed to even explain.

What kind of hat you asked…this hat, the kind that cost less than 1/2 lb of coffee. That isnt the phone behind me…its the intercom…and a beautiful red heart and calendar.

I know Im not making this up…I read it in a botany book somewhere, but there is a phenomenon whereby a dying fruit tree is stimulated internally to put out fruit in order to carry on the strain. Like its last big hoorah. Well, I feel like that fruit tree. Not because I am dying, but because I am slowly losing my ability to bear fruit. This makes me ripe with the need to put out fruit. Its crazy, but it gets stronger with each new cycle. Today I thought I was going to burst…so what’s a gal to do in this situation? Well, for me, the answers was to buy a new hat. A hat that, in fact, cost less than 230 grams of coffee in Korea. Somehow, buying that hat made me feel better.

smock

On Wednesdays I travel to Gokseong (a little bigger town–maybe 25,000) to teach Kindergarten and to do my banking. I sent more than 1/2 my pay home this month, so buying a hat that cost less than 230 grams of coffee was a splurge (I havent told you yet how much coffee cost in Korea…or cream…real cream for that matter). I really love the Kindergarten because the classes are big and I use a room that would make a great yoga studio…it might even be real, not simulated, wood on the floor. We sit all of us (about 30 of them, two teachers and me)  on the floor and sing and laugh and dance and speak English. And we will do yoga eventually, probably after I teach some animal names. So far I have worn my Linen Apron each time and one of the teachers remarked today “I cant believe you are not married” and “you are like Maria (Julie Andrews) from the sound of music. I have been compared to actresses before (Mrs. Robinson for example), but Julie Andrews…its got to be this austere linen smock.

I also bought 2 books today: Norwegian Wood and The Reader. I started the reader on the bus and I like it so much that I am forcing myself to plan my lessons for the morning, practice my yoga, finish this blog post and make my bed (which I forgot to do in my ripened state this morning) before I allow myself to read it because I am sure I will finish it this evening. It seems I dont sleep much lately anyway.

Speaking of harvesting things, I thought I should share how the rice is done around here. It is much easier with pictures…so here you go.

rice field in Okgwa

rice drying

I’m pretty sure its just bagged right there on the side of the road, but I didn’t witness this. I dont know where it goes next or what happens to it.

The fields are now being cut and I’ll be watching them to see what happens next. The chilies are dried in this same manner with trucks, cars, buses etc. whizzing by. Most of the work is done by little old ladies with dark rough skin walking at right angles. I’ve been teaching my students to “lift their hearts” to prevent this from happening.

Madison, WI circa 2004. Image courtesy Sweet William Images

Caleb attended a Montessori school in Madison Wisconsin for a year when he was in Kindergarten. I recall this conversation we had on the way home from school one day:

Me: What did you do in school today?
Caleb: We played married.
Me: How do you do that?
Caleb: Well, it’s when you are swinging next to each other and you get going the same…you go up at exactly the same time, and back at exactly the same time, and then you are married.
Me: I see!
Caleb: I married all the girls and then they all married each other.

I loved the insightfulnes of his 5-year-old mind. How being in synch, means being connected, joined…married. Sometimes you get out of synch, but with attention and intention, you can control the direction and the rhythm.

Rosemary, Lemon Thyme, Spearmint

Saturday, on the way to Gwangju

I realized I haven’t  included a portrait in a while, so this is what I look like now that I am settling into my life here in Okgwa, South Korea. I have a routine that helps me stay balanced. I am already feeling pretty comfortable in my job, so I don’t have to spend all my time thinking about it. There is plenty of time during the work week (refered to as desk warming here, at least amongst ex pats) to plan my lessons and prepare materials. It might be fun to take this gig on the road and see how far that gets me. Sonya (in Marin) suggested I come back and start a small school there. I’ve already done the numbers because I planned it while I was there. UC Berkeley, opening a school, permaculture classes, Yoga Garden–I’ve got my sites on northern California–that’s probably not going to change.

My schedule here looks like this:

So as I settle into my life, I settle into myself and I’ve noticed a shift in my focus. Yesterday I managed to see the beauty in my immediate surroundings and that surprised and delighted me. It was like knowing a place or a person for a long time and then suddenly they change. Only they dont really change, just something in you does. Barbara Ehrenreich has written a new book (Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America) that I dont agree with. I think everything depends on the way we think about it. You could walk past the same rose every day and not be moved by it, but when you tend it, care for it and feel compassionate about it, it is changed. The Little Prince taught me that. Something in my heart was lighter and I was able to find beauty in the following things:

An apartment on my walk to school

Meat truck

Corrugated rhythm

You may not find these things at all beautiful, as I didnt at first, but something happened when I wasn’t looking for it to happen and it surprised me and this has made me very happy, or did the happiness come first?

what it the chicken, or the egg?

Lentil Soup

I dont know Eva and I dont know Jen, but I am so grateful to have them in my life. Jen makes me laugh during our facebook chats and there is some kind of strange predictability to her words, and Eva supports me in my environmental sensitivities. Not to mention the loads of help they offer dealing with my teaching  job here in rural Korea. Eva and Jen are my predecessors. It seems the office of education has combined their two jobs and given me a combination of their tasks. So they know all the players and are showing me the ropes. And if you recall, they left me lots of things that I use every day.

Last night I made a lentil soup with some of their supplies and, somehow, that soup was the best meal I’ve had. I ate it with thick slices of French bread with butter. Butter is not eaten by Koreans making it an expensive luxury I have, so far, allowed myself.

I have nearly finished my first full week of teaching. I travel to 4 schools during the week. I like this because it allows me to see the countryside and also affords a bit of freedom. This job so reminds me of my first teaching job in Iowa where I traveled between 4 schools on my bike teaching 3rd, 4th, 5th, 6th graders German. It was exhausting at first and I recall coming home every day after school and going to sleep, leaving Rick with most of the dinner and bedtime tasks. The thing that tires me most here is the noise.

Two girls from Ib Myeon attend the Hagwon (private after school) that occupies the first floor of my apartment building. Today they attempted to follow me up the stairs with my bag of groceries (mostly vegetable for my soup and a dark beer that wasnt half bad) and couldn’t really understand my hesitation to invite them in. I finally had to tell their teacher, “look, I’m flattered, but now is my time to relax.” I will be good at seting boundaries by the time I leave this place.

Just beneath my window is the street where the taxi drivers line up. They’ve gotten used to the smell of cooking coming from my window in the early evening sometimes glancing up. I wish I could bake something (like chocolate chip cookies) to take down to them, but I have no oven (most Korean households do not). They all know me like every child in this town.

I’ve learned to close the doors to the bathroom and to keep them shut as I’ve pin-pointed it as the source of the toxic smell, but I still need to get someone over here to tell me what it is. It comes and goes and my fear is that Koreans are somewhat immune, as Eva and Jen report, to fumes that could kill. Apparently the children even run behind the big trucks spraying for mosquitos in the summer. How will the inhabitants of this developing country survive without access to half the cells that occupy their brains?

love note from a 4th grader

I got my first love note today, even before class was over An Yeong came over and handed it to me all folded up. I have seen this sort of adoration before; in the former East Germany kids asked for my autograph. They were not my own students, however, and I am not interested in maintaining celebrity status here, because I have earned the right to be much more than beautiful or adored.

Recall my first day in school when the level of noise confused me; gave me a headache? Not the same headache I get from the burning of toxic materials that happens outside my door, or the headache I get from an exhaust seeping through the ceiling of my bathroom, or the headache I get from riding inside a bus with windows that don’t open. But a headache from trying to think through the noise. I have heard a phenomenon called “bar ears” where bartenders can cut through the cacophony of sound and listen to any conversation they choose. I do not have that ability and am unable to detect the ever so slight difference between vowel and consonant sounds, not to mention that I am not accustomed to the contortions of the mouth and tongue required to speak the Korean langauge. When I ask a child his/her name, I want to hear it well and I want, to the best of my ability, to reproduce the sounds. Just as I want to be able to listen to their English pronunciations and have them hear mine.

Ok, so Korean kids are loud. They are loud because they’ve been allowed to be loud. And also there is nothing to absorb the noise–no wood or carpets or drapes. But even if it meets with resistance, they must be made to quiet down and I am just the right person to do it. I am not young or cool and I don’t really even care if they like me, but maybe that is just because they all do. But also I am the foreigner, so already I am different.

So how do I do it? Well, I started on the first day using my Montessori techniques (thank you Montessori de Terra Linda!). Because I didnt want to seem like too much of a tyrant, I decided to do it in a friendly way, taking the opportunity to, you know, teach them some etiquette as well as some English. How do we come into the classroom? Do we run? No, we walk. How many legs does this chair have? How many legs of this chair are touching the floor? How many legs should be touching the floor when you are sitting in it? When I am talking, what are you doing? Listening, teacher! When I am talking, what are you doing? Listening teacher! Ok, then, what are you doing (and doing most of the time by the way)?. And when all else fails, I wait. Wait for them to make the right choice, because nobody wants to disappoint. So after day two of teaching I think we have an understading, because I will, teach them English even if I have to channel my fifth grade teacher Mrs. Johnson. I think I have earned the right to be stern and finally appreciate the usefulness of that.