Seven Things I Shouldn't Tell - Moments of Enlightenment

I've never written an anecdotal piece for the blog before. I think subconsciously I believed that essay-styled works would make the blog more real, more valuable. But what has my life been this past twelve months if not a collection of events made memorable by the fact that their surroundings are so far removed from my understanding? I tell stories for a living but I try and keep stories out of my non-fiction writing. Enough, I say. It's time that you, our readers, heard some of the atrocious things we get up to over here and why they should be shared in as much detail as our cultural experiences. And so:

The Bidet

There's a new coffee shop on our street that serves fat ham bagels and coffee without the burnt taste most Korean shops offer. After far too many of their peach teas I visited the little girl's room but little was not the word to describe it; I've never liked a bathroom in which, if the lock breaks, I can't stretch out my leg to hold the door closed. Thankfully, this lock worked and I stood feeling lighter and ready for more tea. After a search of the cistern I found no flush button; instead there was a dial beside the seat with twelve settings all written in Hangul. And here we have yet another example of why I wish I had learned more of the language.

I pressed the button bearing a wave design and the bidet function tucked beneath the seat sent a huge plume of water from the basin all over the opposite wall. I tried to hold it back with my hands and only succeeded in soaking my Converse from white to grey. After a quick mashing of another button the water started rotating, spraying my face, the mirror and the towel rack beside the door. By this point I was sure the waitresses would have come to save me, seeing that I was hysterical with laughter. Instead I was left to force the toilet lid closed and there, where the flush button is usually found, was the flush button. I pressed it and instantaneously the noise and water subsided. I towel dried my body, snuck past the counter and grabbed East by the arm.

'We have to leave right now.'

'Why?'

'I'll explain later.'

'Why are you all wet?'

'I'll. Explain. Later.'

The Sambuca

Last time I was in Itaewon I ended up being followed by an aggressive, black French man who wanted me to come home with him and, I assume, watch early morning cartoons on his portable television. I'm not crazy on cartoons so I declined the offer and was later found wandering deranged and furious through the suburbs. After this experience I decided to avoid that area of the city and focus my attention on non-rapist, friendly foreigners. These I found just last weekend while celebrating Saint Patrick's Day; friends from Incheon Island. Against my better judgement I accompanied them to Itaewon where I ran into a man I'd met months before. We chatted aimlessly, he bought me a beer, then promptly got into a fight with an army guy at the table opposite. The Korean proprietor wanted my friend arrested and I went with him to the security cameras to help point out the guilty party. As a thank you he gave me shots. Many, many shots. I gave several to an Irishman at the bar, another to a friend I'd arrived with, and drank one. Little did I know, it was Sambuca. Little do you all know, I'm allergic to Sambuca. After finishing the glass I left for the bathroom and returned with this to say:

'Something happened to the toilet.'

'What?'

'I threw up in it.'

'Brutal.'

No more Itaewon for me.

The Golden Bull

Not only does Cheolsan hospital have a convenience store that serves soju and beer, it also offers a gigantic golden statue of a bull in the parking lot. A friend visiting us for a fortnight, let's call him Edvardu, accompanied us on a late night rampage through the streets and we ended our high jinx at the feet of this glorious animal. East suggested we climb its back and another friend, appropriately named Michelangelo, passed up pitchers of Cass Red. From our vantage point we, all four of us, howled at the moon, sang Leonard Cohen and rubbed ourselves on the gold brass beneath us in the manner of sleepy lap dancers. While up there I could see the neon lights on the main street, people crossing from shop front to shop front, red reflections of taxi signs, and East perched between the horns bucking like a rodeo champ. I was truly happy in those moments because the ridiculous things we were doing translated directly into how much fun my life had become. It was beautiful to realise how complicated the realisation of happiness can be. We were chased away soon after by hospital security but not before I had a chance to do this:

The Landlady

Like most people who rent, we have a landlady. Unlike most people, she uses a computer translator to speak to us. Our washing machine broke last week and this has inspired many visits downstairs to request a repairman. My first trip created a conversation complete with hand gestures and the help of online Naver:

'Our washing machine is broken. Can you call someone to fix it?'

'Male errands talk school for communication you.'

'The washing machine. Its door is broken.'

'Male do talk. You work school?'

'No. I don't work at the school.'

'Male fix.'

'No, you have to call someone to come.'

'School?'

'Daniel works at the school. I live there.'

'Male school speak here. You no school?'

I left to avoid punching her; she's well aware that I don't work for any school and from this discussion I ascertained that she wanted East to deal with our problems because he was a man. At first I wanted to know why she, a woman in a very enviable position of power, refused to deal with another female in matters of business. Particularly because East takes pleasure in seeing how rude he can be to her without repercussion. Perhaps she just doesn't like the cut of my jib. An unfair opinion as I polish my jib every morning with spit and hope.

The Wheelchair

Early last year, East and I were crossing the street between our supermarket and apartment – a typically normal activity. On the way a Korean man in a wheelchair stopped us and made a series of insistent hand gestures. We slid by, nodding and smiling awkwardly, and he followed us to the crossing where he rolled out into the street, then back until his wheels almost touched our toes. He pointed to the other side and made a motion like he was shoving someone away from him. East reached out to touch the handles of his chair and the man nodded and cheered. When the light went green we pushed him across the road and upon reaching the pavement he took over once more, calling something over his shoulder we couldn't understand. For a long moment, all we could do was stare at one another and wait for enlightenment. Maybe he was suspicious of quiet, night time roads and needed help from the first person he saw? Maybe he was part of the moral police and if we had refused to help him he would leap out of the chair with a mind ray gun and having found us undeserving of life, replaced us with more caring individuals (think season five of Red Dwarf). Whatever the reason, every time I see a person in a wheelchair I have a desire to intercept their travel and drag them to the nearest crossing, just to show how much I care.

The Lesbian

This lesbian refers to me. In a desperate attempt to avoid male attention at one of the foreigner hot spots in the city, I once began a conversation with the words 'there are a lot of attractive women in here tonight'. I thought the surrounding men would see me as an untouchable being and leave me alone. Which they did but I hadn't considered that there may be actual lesbians in my vicinity. Moments later I felt breath on my ear and a pretty Korean girl touched my elbow.

'You come here often?'

'Wow, even Koreans ask that question?'

'You're American?'

'No.'

She looked me up and down and offered me a cigarette. I, being responsible, declined. It was then she brought out the big guns: clove cigarettes. I wanted to take her home then and there. Although if I had done this, I'm sure I'd have gotten her back and had nothing to offer but Vegemite toast and a tall glass of mango juice. We talked for a while about Korean food and the English language and I almost forgot the reason she approached me in the first place. Until that is, she started trying to touch my butt. To make matters more complicated the men I'd avoided in the first place took an interest in our budding relationship and started asking questions.

'How many girls have you dated?'

'Oh, a few.'

'Have you only ever been with women?'

'Mainly.'

'Do you like her?'

'Yeeeeaaaaaah.'

'The barmaid is cute.'

'Not really my type.'

'What is your type? I bet they look like you.'

Now this last part is actually true. If I were to be with a woman, I think she'd look very much like me. I'm not sure if that's shallow or sensible and I don't really suppose I'll ever find out. I escaped the bar, and my Korean love interest, by pretending to go out for food. One thing I learnt from the experience was to be careful how gay I make myself sound and who may be listening. Gay Koreans are everywhere, you know?

The Octopus (a.k.a The Z.O.O.L)

Beyond the video below, all you need to know about this section is that Z.O.O.L stands for Zany Octopus Operation Liberation. Hence, ONLY ZOOL!

Lara always washes down a good bit of thievery with a huge cup of fairy floss.

What the Job Is – Part 3 - Summing Up, Giving Up

Leaving Korea

Yesterday I had my first classes in two months. In the time between my English camp (a week of unsupervised, self-devised material in the first week of January) and now, I have prepared absolutely nothing for my students. I simply couldn't motivate myself to plan the lessons. Much to my chagrin, I also couldn't motivate myself to commit to my writing, instead using this extended period of time to surf the internet and watch as many movies as I could from the Oscar 2011 nominees.

Imagine my surprise then to find that yesterday was actually a joy – that my first year classes lifted my spirits even though the new found effort completely exhausted me. They laughed, they smiled, they gasped on queue. When they asked:

“Teacher? You have girlfriend?” I would reply, yes, I do, and the class as one would make 'wooo' noises, the girls giggling behind their hands and going on to ask is she pretty, what is my dream girlfriend, what do I like in a girlfriend. When the boys asked:

“Teacher? You have six-pack?” They would shriek and cry “no teacher no” when I made a motion to show my belly. I knew enough now to limit my answers about music and movies to things the students knew – Michael Jackson, Korean movies and K-pop groups which I have never listened to. My first years were interested in my answers, asked questions without prompting and had such a high level of English that I was completely shocked. One student, when told I was from Australia, asked why I sounded English.

“You know accent?”

“Yes.” he replied, in a way I think meant to imply 'derr'.

“My accent is light. Not strong. So I sound a little British.”

He nodded sagely. And it was only later, when I compared the questions of the first years with the interest shown by my Korean co-teachers that I realised – in twelve months my co-workers have not shown as much interest in me as just one of these new classes.

Coming to Conclusions

I've been trying to write this article for some time now. I started it several times in February, trying to reach a unified conclusion about my teaching experience. Over the course of the last eleven months I have written about engagement with the job, my unforeseen capacity for racism, criticisms of the ex-pat community and some misconceptions I had concerning bilingualism. But what was my beef? What was my final conclusion on this failed job?

Because this is a failed job. It is a bull shit job. It is a go-nowhere, play-act fake job. I do not know one teacher in Korea who values the job above the lifestyle teaching ESL in Korea allows. This seems the norm until you realise that the community is completely disenfranchised with the sole profession which defines it. This disenchanted mindset is not solely due to the unrest of the highly educated men and women who cannot find work back home, but it does factor in. Neither are the students to blame for, as is illustrated above, when you have learnt how to handle a class the students can be an absolute joy. I think even the grumpiest of ex-pats over here would admit that the difficulties of the classroom are part and parcel of any teaching job.

What makes this job difficult and frustrating, what makes it seem fake and saps your confidence is the relationship (or lack of one) with your co-teachers and your school. Strangely enough, I have come to agree with a quote from the blog of a foreign ESL teacher that I criticised earlier in the year. I use it again now, still highly critical of his rants but begrudgingly in accord with his opinion of the Korean teaching situation:

“I came here with good intentions. Something changes over time. Your belief that you are making a difference in the students’ lives turns into a lost cause. Your belief that they (students/teachers/admin) give a rat’s ass – disappears. Your belief that they are actually capable teachers – vanishes. You will remain, alone, to spend your year in purgatory. Teaching in South Korea is the midway point of nowhere.”

Just now, a particularly difficult student came into the staffroom with a senior English teacher. Upon seeing me (as he has in class many times) he said,

“Oh! Herro Danrel!” The teacher he is with, with whom I have never had any classes nor spoken with at all, laughs as she goes to her desk, not bothering to look over towards me as the student has. Perhaps I am being too sensitive to the student's greeting, reading explicit sarcasm where there is none. Then again, when the teacher's attitude towards me is so openly dismissive, it is easy to insert an insult where none is intended.

Being Nowhere, Being Ignored

They've remodelled the cafeteria at school. The wooden stools have been replaced with plastic molded chairs and the walls bear fresh paint and new cupboards. Like everything else at school, no one told me this was happening, nor did I have the slightest inkling that it was going to happen. Being within weeks of my contract's termination, my visibility has reduced to near zero – teachers ignore me when I arrive at school in the morning and do not invite me to come with them for lunch. I come to school late, leave early, take sick days that no one notices. I have become invisible, of no real worth and a burden not to be bothered with.

One of the best examples of this occurred during the deskwarming period over the winter. There were no Korean English teachers present so a younger Korean teacher was sent over to ask me what I would like for lunch. At this point I had begun eating by myself, often overlooked when it came time to order for the other teachers. So when I said that I did not want to eat lunch with my co-workers, that I was “okay”, she seemed inordinately confused. She left my desk and returned five minutes later.

“I think maybe you should eat lunch with us.”

“It is too expensive. I'm not hungry. I'll eat later.”

“I'm sorry, but I think you should eat lunch with us.” Relenting, asking for bibimbap, I returned to my movie and was tapped on the shoulder a half hour later. I understood what the problem was when I sat down and saw that the principal of the school was present. My food was put in front of me, unwrapped as if I didn't know how to do so, and then when we had all been seated the conversation went on without me. No one looked at me, or acknowledged me in any way. When I had finished my meal a lively conversation was going on and I thought it might be nice to try and make an effort – so when the chosen co-teacher asked,

“Are you finished?” (meaning, you can go) I said

“That's okay. I was wondering what you were talking about. I caught something about Korea? Or something about numbers?”

The Korean teacher looked around, terrified. “No no. It's okay. You can go.”

“But maybe I could stay? I'd like to know what you are talking about?”

“No no. It's okay. Maybe I think you should go.”

I left the school an hour after that. I didn't show up to deskwarm for the week. No one commented.

But my attitude has gotten worse too. My attempts at learning Korean have all but reversed themselves, with even the most elementary of words and phrases forgotten as I mumble my way from restaurant to pub to supermarket. Last weekend I went with my neighbours to Chuncheon, a rural area a few hours out of the city. We took taxis a lot, and I began to prefer the drivers with no English to the few that attempted to engage with us – a cabbie with some English asked me the same four or five questions I've answered a hundred times. A driver who does his job in silence allows me to ignore them, to pretend as if they don't exist. The streets, the Korean language and the Korean people have begun to form one fixed backdrop. They ignore me, I ignore them.

Overpaid, Overlooked

There are reports within the community of right wing Koreans who dislike foreign teachers in their schools. They say they are overpaid, under qualified and a disruptive influence within the community. I cannot speak to the last point except to realise that with a little research all racism sounds the same and is used to the same political ends. What I will say is that I completely agree with the first and second points – we are overpaid and most (not all) of the teachers who come here are unprepared for the job. But this is because we are an unused resource.

We are supposed to be co-teachers, helping to supplement course material and assist our Korean teachers. Instead, we teach self-devised lessons with no input given or offered by our co-teachers. We are supposed to be ambassadors, aware of the cultural differences and understanding of our host nation's ways. But this is the spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down. The cultural 'awareness' that the GEPIK program promotes in its orientation is a way to mask the uncomfortable reality of being at the bottom of the social pecking order.

We are supposed to be helping teach English. How can we when confronted by so little English comprehension in our staff rooms? Just yesterday, in my very first lesson back, with a class I had from last year (who were thus immune to my celebrity) a co-teacher asked a student to explain to her the instructions I had given to the class. When the bell rang and we returned to the staffroom she said she was very “embarrassed” because she could not understand. Yes, I thought, and incompetent. If she could not understand the activity, and would prefer to ask another student rather than the foreign teacher, why should any other student do anything differently?

What the Job Is

I have loved my time in Korea. Even at my job I am aware of being present at a very unique, very special thing. But if there was one way of describing the conditions I have faced, the position that I think all GEPIK and EPIK teachers face in public schools it is this: This job is institutionalised alienation. It's a lie perpetuated by overseas recruiters and Korean bureaucrats.

The recruiters say, “It's a dream job! You'll get to see the world! What an amazing cultural experience!”

The GEPIK co-ordinators say, “It's important to understand our culture! Try to be a good sport! You'll have a great time!”

The schools say, “Look. We have foreign teachers. They are not cheap. We are a good school.”

But the truth is that without the support of the teachers in the staff room, your job winds up being a joke. There's some great teachers, both foreign and Korean, that work together and dispel this myth in some places – but their work is hampered by a dialogue of cultural dissidence. The school pushes you, you push back, they put you behind a desk, you don't show up. This is a broken system. Someone needs to fix it.

My advice if you wanted to come to Korea? Do it. Definitely. But don't believe the hype. Prepare yourself to learn Korean. Prepare yourself for loneliness and uncomfortable working conditions. And most of all, be prepared to be rude. A language barrier and a cultural barrier is no excuse for being treated as burdens by teachers who studiously ignore us.

But me? I'll let someone else fix it. If there's one thing I've learnt this year its this – I'm not cut out for the ESL profession. I can't stand acting like I care when no one else does.

Daniel East is a centralised, low pressure front English teacher.