Blog Backlog

These few paragraphs are from a couple of months ago. I decided to post them separately from the newer stuff I'm working on because they aren't terribly deep topics, and having this backlog of notes in my journal keeps me from digging into meatier stuff.

Anyway, these are random ideas and observations that I jotted down. I couldn't make them cohesive. Story transitions are hard..

"Family Nice"

On the first night I moved into my apartment, it was my hagwon (private school) director herself who showed me the place.  She took one look inside the room, saw the leftover bed sheets, empty pantry shelves, lack of toilet paper, turned and said, “We’re going to E-mart. You need food and new blankets.”  It was already eight o'clock at this point.  I tried to tell her, “No, no, it’s fine. Really.  I have an Asiana Airline blanket from the flight, and the teacher who left gave me some ramen.  I’ll be okay.” But she wasn’t having any of that. 

We hopped in her car and drove to the E-Mart, which is basically like a Wal-Mart, except four stories high and less obese.  We went to the food court, where she refused to let me pay for my food.  Then (and keep in mind that it’s around 9 o’clock at this point), she took me grocery shopping and picked up some blankets and pillow covers.  She also threw a 20-pack of toilet paper in the cart for me.  Apparently, this is a tradition for the new people moving in.  You get them tissues.  

Because nothing says "I care" like giving someone a freshly wiped bum.

By my math, the twenty rolls should last me into early 2014.

I thanked her again and again for going out of her way to get me settled.  The new school year was starting, and I knew she had been working well into the night for the past few weeks in preparation.  She dismissed that she had done anything noteworthy, explaining, “In Korea, you will find that we are ‘family nice’."

“Family Nice.”  The literal translation gives a nice little shine to it, don't you think?

One-Note Notes to Myself That Don't Need Further Embellishment

The Art of Eating

Learning to use chopsticks reminds me of when I first started playing guitar in middle school; it’s all about muscle memory. It’s the same idea, except now I get to do all my practicing in public, and strangers don’t come up and replace your guitar with a fork if you suck at it.

Old folks at Korean restaurants: "Here, let me get you some silverware since you have all the finesse of a tree stump.

Grocery Shopping

Can never tell what's going to be expensive or cheap.  Pomegranate juice?  $20.  A brand new colander? $.03. Also, I keep hitting my head on the overhang in the checkout aisle. Today was the fifth time in two weeks.

Atrophying English

I noticed the decline in (or should that be "of"? [Prepositions are the first casualty.]) my English when I first got here, but now I can't tell if the decay has leveled off or if I don't have the cognitive capacity left to realize that I sound like a freaking caveman.

I was talking with my friends one night about how Korea still holds a grudge against Japan from being occupied for so long. I said, “Yeah, It's weird. I’m pretty sure that Japan forgived the US relatively quickly after Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” Wait a minute… I thought. Something sounds strange about that sentence, but I can’t my finger on it…

Another time, I wanted to compliment a student, so I said, “Gordon, did you draw that picture? Wow, you’re such a great...draw-er."

Yes, I know what this is. No, I'm not stupid.

And this is an excerpt from a conversation I had with my coworker about how uncoordinated our students can be:

   Me:  “These kids have no motor skills.  They just clop around like baby cows.” 

   Coworker: “You mean ‘calves’?”     
   My mind: Why, yes. Yes, I do mean that.

Awkward Teaching Moment

Kids were fighting because one of them called the other a poo-poo head or something. I don't know. It's hard to care sometimes. 

   Me: “We don’t say bad words to friends. Have you ever had a friend say bad words to you?"

   Kid: “No, but my dad says it to me all the time.”

   Me: Uh...Ok. Nice talk.  And I can't report anything like that to anyone?   I'll let you go play now.

July 11th Late Night Note to Myself

I think my bones have calcified after sleeping on these rock mattresses for five months.

Gran Torino

Gran Torino is one of my favorite movies, but it always bugged me how bad the acting from the Asian actors is in it. It really takes you out of the story. Turns out that native English-speaking inflection is hard to master, and that that's actually how most of the second-language English people from Asia (that I've met) sound when they talk. Now I can enjoy the movie again.

I'm Not Sure You Know What That Means...

Our class went to a Korean children’s play on a field trip, and the overture was “Springtime for Hitler” from The Producers.  I'd say that's a pretty adult-oriented start to a story about a spider who recruits a bumblebee to help win the heart of a lovely butterfly.

But Korea loves its western music, regardless of appropriate content or context.  They play it everywhere. In the stores and on the streets.  Home Plus Express is a grocery chain that you can find in just about every collection of multi-storied buildings in any decently sized town.  Every time I've been in there, they play this cheesy jingle that goes, "Home-uh Stoe Pruh-suh sam na di mi go/Home-uh Stoe Pruh-suh!"  

Translated, that's "Home Store Plus (gibberish)/Home Store Plus!" It's actually pretty catchy.

When HPE isn't playing that, they'll pump electronic dance music so you can hear it crystal clear in the dairy aisle.  It'd be like going to an eye doctor's where the muzak's all Metallica and Slipknot. I think the best way to show you how alien it can feel to be here sometimes would be to give you the chorus to one of the songs they played while I was grocery shopping one afternoon:

"All day and all night, I just wanna f***."

(Crazy dance beat breakdown)

"And I just wanted some ramen and mayonnaise, but this is cool, too, I guess."

At first I thought, "Should...should I tell them what those songs are saying?" But since then, I've decided that it's way more entertaining to watch oblivious moms and kids walk around town while LMFAO tells them all that "We're in Miami, biiiitch." Thanks for sharing, guys.

"Ajummas, Come Out to Play-ee-ay!"

I guess you'd need a little background on the stereotypical old ladies in Korea. They're called "ajummas." It means "old women" or "elderly mothers," but it can also be used in a derogatory way. They're notorious among foreigners for pushing and shoving you aside when you get on the subway, staring you down with their loathing, piercing eyes, and yelling at you in rapid-fire Korean for accidentally violating yet another one of Korea's inscrutable social norms. 

One Sunday as I walked hungover to the convenience store down my street, tired and still just a little bit under the influence, I was met by a surreal scene, made even more so due to my clouded head. 

An all-out turf war was unfolding between two gangs of ajummas decked out in matching garbage collecting gear: trash picker-uppers, yellow volunteer vests, garbage bags, dyed black hair complete with perms, and giant bonnets to top it all off.

I swear I wrote that description before going to Google to find this picture.  I searched for "Ajumma," and this was the fourth image result. 

They stood on opposite sides of the street that I was walking down, just screaming at each other. You'd think it would be about something important, but as far as I could tell, they were fighting over who would get the honors to pick up the trash that was in the roadside gutter. I couldn't tell you what they were saying to each other, but I knew it was none of my business. 

I passed between them, that vicious gauntlet of vitriol, got my Gatorade, and spent the rest of the day reeling from the fact that recovering from a night out takes about five hours longer for every year older you get.

^^ (That's a Korean cutesy face. They use it in texts, emails, everything.)

Went to the Family Mart at 10pm on a Sunday night. I'm guessing they usually aren't terribly busy then. I walked in and saw the high school girl working behind the counter getting macked on by her boyfriend. Cuddling, hugging, holding hands. (No kissing. That would be indecent.)

They both froze, with the same amount of terror in their eyes they'd have shown if I were one of their parents coming home unexpectedly early from a night out. Red-cheeked, the boy quickly threw up the counter divider and walked out the door like he had somewhere else to be. I felt guilty, you know, like I had somehow been rude for barging in on them, and I didn't want to hold up their night, so I hurried up and paid.

As I was walking home, I looked down an alley next to the Family Mart to see the boyfriend hanging out in the dark, just biding his time. I walked a few more steps, then turned back to see him rushing back to the store to continue their mack session. Good for them, I thought. They aren't going to let something silly like work ethic stand in the way of their love. ^^

"Foreigners! Foreigners Are Here!"

One day in my first month here, I walked home with Brandon, the 21-year-old son of one of my coworkers. We were coming up on our road when a pudgy, 10-year-old Korean kid with glasses saw us and stopped in his tracks. 

"My God," he must've thought to himself, "a white person...and a black person?! Walking together?!?! This is simply too much. Cancel all my appointments. I must investigate further." 

As soon as he started following us, he started shouting something in Korean. Over and over. Loudly. Annoyingly. I wanted to know what it was. Luckily, Brandon’s been living overseas for the past eight years, so he told me with a laugh, “He’s saying: ‘Foreigners! Foreigners are here!’” No one else was around to hear it besides me and Brandon, so I guess the kid just wanted us to know that, you know, we're not from around here.

We reached my apartment building first, so I said bye to Brandon and walked to my front door. Please don't be there. Please don't be there, I thought. Sure enough, he was still waddling right behind me. I turned around, put my two hands up towards his face, and said, “Stop. Do not follow me.” He cocked his head to the side and stared with empty cow eyes like he had no idea what that meant.

Somehow reminded me of this scene in Jurassic Park.

Needless to say, he didn't stop and instead followed me into my building.  My flat is on the second floor, directly at the top of the staircase—a straight shot from the front door.  I didn’t want the kid to know where I lived, so I kept walking until I was in front of my other coworker’s place, who also lives there. Better this kid murders Vincent than me, I figured..  He took a few steps up the stairs and got bored or maybe tired.  Did I mention he was pudgy?  

To make things stranger, he turned around and started opening and closing the front door to the building.  Because of the way the place is set up, this made giant “WHOOSH…BANG. WHOOSH…BANG” noises as the change in air pressure slammed every apartment door in the building against its frame.  It was a strange encounter to say the least.

That night, I had a nightmare that the kid was standing in my room, watching me sleep.  Woke up half-conscious around 3am, convinced that the jacket hanging from my wardrobe handle was him.  I didn’t fall back asleep until six in the morning. 

There is no purpose to this story. Thanks for reading.

제 이름은 차드위키 우드스 입니다

(My name is Cha-duh-wee-kee Woo-duh-suh)