It's 6:45 and I'm awoken by a terrible noise. My alarm clock? No...it's that other alarm...Scott's butt. As the smoke clears, I rush around the apartment getting ready, eat my Cornflakes (oh how I miss Frosted Mini-Wheats) and run out the door. I exit my apartment building and am confronted with a sea of teenagers heading to school. I struggle to wade through the sea. Imagine going into a sports stadium as all the fans are going out. Not pretty. "Hello....hello....nice to meet you....hi....," I respond to each eager student. They love testing their English skills on the mysterious yellow-haired girl--possibly the only one they've ever seen in 'real' life. Apparently as foreigners, teaching English doesn't start and stop at the doors of the school- if we are outside the confines of our apartment we are fair game to every Tom, Dick and Mr. Kim.
After parting the Korean Sea I now face my next challenge: the bus. Once I'm at the bus stop I have to stay completely focused; this is no time for relaxing. In Korea, you've got to be ready, wave that bus down and maybe even run for it, or you'll be left in the dust. Or in my case, on this day, beat down the door. Despite my upside-down signaling skills (Koreans motion people over with their palm facing down, resembling a shooing motion--quite confusing for the ignorant foreigner) the bus creeps on by. I was confused (my typical state of mind in Korea), but quickly snap to and follow the other Korean's lead (my SOP in Korea) and bang on the door. The driver reluctantly opens the door and I throw elbows with nearby grannies just to get on (most Koreans will ignore you and push right past you--unless you've been introduced you don't exist). And... I'm in.
Time to pay. One of my favorite things about Korea--the T-Money card. This little pink card does it all. After putting money on the card you can use it for the bus, taxis and at pay phones by simply placing the card near the reader, even through leather--no swiping necessary. It's amazing...that is, unless the reader makes a hideous beeping noise and yells at you (politely, of course) in Korean. Frantically, I smoosh my purse up against the reader again. More Korean babble! I'm getting the death look from the massive line forming behind me. One more time...yes...the single, quick beep--it's music to my ears. I turn around and....
The bus is packed, as in sardines packed. The only way another person would fit is if they sat on the driver's lap. The next 20 minutes are precarious. The driver weaves in and out of traffic in an effort to get in the left lane (which is by no means faster), only to instantly head back to the right, because the next stop is approaching. Why-I have no idea!?! I like to think it's some sort of challenge he has for himself. It takes every ounce of balance and concentration just for me to remain standing...in 3 inch heels, no less. Succeed I must though, because I refuse to be the foreigner who started the human domino effect on bus 300.
Aaahh (sigh). Twenty stressful minutes later I arrive at school. I have two hours to prepare for my classes that day. That should be just enough time to frantically finish making all my materials. Wait..."There's an assembly right now," Bruce (my Korean co-teacher, AKA babysitter) informs me. So much for my prep time. I suppose sitting confused, "listening" to Korean in the cafeteria for an hour is much more important than getting ready for my classes.
Once I get through my day classes I begin preparing for tomorrow. Then I hear a dreadful noise: a small herd of giggling, screaming....students....they're back! Why?! After five minutes of confused communication with the 3rd graders I gather that they are scheduled to have after school English study. Oh crap. I, of course have nothing prepared, as I was not aware of my hour and a half class that afternoon. Just another fun game the Koreans like to play with foreigners: Don't Tell Them Anything Important. I pull something out of my @$# and squeak through (yet another one of my SOPs in Korea).
All in all it was a good day...I've lowered my standards, or changed them I suppose. I'm just happy to make it to and from school alive each day. Drivers here really are.... Anyway, luckily I have Scott. Seeing him at the end of each day always makes me feel better...that is, until I ask him how his day was....
~Mindy
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Thursday, June 12, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Corn Flakes with Steve Perry and my Double Neck Flying 'V'
What the hell is that noise?
The alarm clock does its dirty work at the god-awful hour of 6:45 (a normal, if not late, time for most). I reach over, blind and nearly deaf, to turn off its damned blaring. It is a cliched start, to a rather un-cliched morning.
But I am not ready to get out of bed just yet, so I roll back over and close my eyes with a yawn. Mindy is up almost at the sound of the alarm and jolts out of bed. She has found it wise to jam her usual 1 hour of morning prep time into an alarming 45 minutes. A feat that any woman would find impressive. I like to give myself a full 1 hour and 25 minutes to get ready even though I can get ready in under 15 minutes.
I use this time in the following way. This is my morning:
I finally step out of the bedroom door to a radiant and formless blond blur; that runs, scampers, jolts, and slides across the floor. No words are exchanged, but if there were I am sure they would never be heard, as anything moving that fast cannot receive or transmit sound of any kind. The laws of quantum physics would not permit it. As I stretch and take in a deep breath I scratch places and saunter to the bathroom for my morning ritual. I will spare you the details.
I step out of the bathroom, eyes still half shut, and shuffle to the computer ensuring I am not hit by the whizzing blond light. I manage to avoid one of its countless passes - no doubt sparring me certain death. Making my way from the bathroom to the computer is like a very deadly game of Frogger. When I am lucky enough to make it I sit down in the computer chair, and bolt forward as the cold wood of the back touches me - the speed of my movement shocks me momentarily. I don't like to move fast in the morning. I manage to find some good music after a bit of searching.
Ray Charles? Na. Chopin? Na. Balenescu Quartet?...No. Today we need something special.
A little "Journey" should do it. Rock me Steve Perry.
Hitting play, I sit back, pleased with my selection and let the sublime incantations of some of 80's best rock wash over me like a warm blanket. I am at peace with the world. Visions of Trans-ams, tight acid washed jeans, mullets and Molly Ringwald dance around in my head. Suddenly jerked from my trance, the blond light whips by me and briefly touches my cheek. It faintly resembles a kiss, but leaves a searing pain from contact at such high speeds. Blowing by me, it slows down slightly before reaching the door - I recognize it, it is Mindy. I wave goodbye and before she reaches top speed again I hear a faint and trailing, "Love you! Have a goo.....". Soon to follow, I hear the screaming of small innocent Korean children on the street below. The Blur stops for no one.
I slowly pour a bowl of corn flakes and continue to listen as Steve Perry belts out "Don't Stop Believin".
In one slow motion I raise a defiant fist in the air and join him. He brings a tear to my eye that drops into my cereal. Steve Perry can make a grown man cry. I put the box of corn flakes, and my fist, down and munch away. Dabbing my eyes with the back of my hand. Occasionally, I "sing" unintelligible lyrics through the mush in my mouth:
'ust a small 'down griril. Bon and waised in Sous Detroit...hidin fomewhere in da niii'ight...da da da..don stob bewevin!!
Inevitably, around 1 min into the song, the spoon is taken from my cereal and morphs into a Double Neck Flying 'V' Guitar. This transformation leaves drops of milk spattered across the floor in a testament of my loyalty to 80s music. At this point, if I had a collar, I would pop it.
I finish my cereal, clean the milk off the floor, and realizing I just air-guitared in my boxers, I decide to get dressed. My eyes are open and I am cognizant enough to make decisions so I make my way to the closet. I look up and down and use a milk-stickied hand to grab a pair of old hiking pants and a button up shirt. I pull it over my shoulders, button it up, walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth, finish and realize I still have 10 minutes left. I hear Steve Perry who is now singing "Oh, Sheri".
Putting on my shoes and strapping on my pack I pause just before the door and one last time I raise a fist to the ceiling and listen. Eyes closed. Head bobbing in rhythm. I do an entire windmill downstroke on my Flying V. It is this dramatic motion that prepares me for the day. I grab my keys and walk out the door.
This is my morning.
-Scott
The alarm clock does its dirty work at the god-awful hour of 6:45 (a normal, if not late, time for most). I reach over, blind and nearly deaf, to turn off its damned blaring. It is a cliched start, to a rather un-cliched morning.
But I am not ready to get out of bed just yet, so I roll back over and close my eyes with a yawn. Mindy is up almost at the sound of the alarm and jolts out of bed. She has found it wise to jam her usual 1 hour of morning prep time into an alarming 45 minutes. A feat that any woman would find impressive. I like to give myself a full 1 hour and 25 minutes to get ready even though I can get ready in under 15 minutes.
I use this time in the following way. This is my morning:
I finally step out of the bedroom door to a radiant and formless blond blur; that runs, scampers, jolts, and slides across the floor. No words are exchanged, but if there were I am sure they would never be heard, as anything moving that fast cannot receive or transmit sound of any kind. The laws of quantum physics would not permit it. As I stretch and take in a deep breath I scratch places and saunter to the bathroom for my morning ritual. I will spare you the details.
I step out of the bathroom, eyes still half shut, and shuffle to the computer ensuring I am not hit by the whizzing blond light. I manage to avoid one of its countless passes - no doubt sparring me certain death. Making my way from the bathroom to the computer is like a very deadly game of Frogger. When I am lucky enough to make it I sit down in the computer chair, and bolt forward as the cold wood of the back touches me - the speed of my movement shocks me momentarily. I don't like to move fast in the morning. I manage to find some good music after a bit of searching.
Ray Charles? Na. Chopin? Na. Balenescu Quartet?...No. Today we need something special.
A little "Journey" should do it. Rock me Steve Perry.
Hitting play, I sit back, pleased with my selection and let the sublime incantations of some of 80's best rock wash over me like a warm blanket. I am at peace with the world. Visions of Trans-ams, tight acid washed jeans, mullets and Molly Ringwald dance around in my head. Suddenly jerked from my trance, the blond light whips by me and briefly touches my cheek. It faintly resembles a kiss, but leaves a searing pain from contact at such high speeds. Blowing by me, it slows down slightly before reaching the door - I recognize it, it is Mindy. I wave goodbye and before she reaches top speed again I hear a faint and trailing, "Love you! Have a goo.....". Soon to follow, I hear the screaming of small innocent Korean children on the street below. The Blur stops for no one.
I slowly pour a bowl of corn flakes and continue to listen as Steve Perry belts out "Don't Stop Believin".
In one slow motion I raise a defiant fist in the air and join him. He brings a tear to my eye that drops into my cereal. Steve Perry can make a grown man cry. I put the box of corn flakes, and my fist, down and munch away. Dabbing my eyes with the back of my hand. Occasionally, I "sing" unintelligible lyrics through the mush in my mouth:
'ust a small 'down griril. Bon and waised in Sous Detroit...hidin fomewhere in da niii'ight...da da da..don stob bewevin!!
Inevitably, around 1 min into the song, the spoon is taken from my cereal and morphs into a Double Neck Flying 'V' Guitar. This transformation leaves drops of milk spattered across the floor in a testament of my loyalty to 80s music. At this point, if I had a collar, I would pop it.
I finish my cereal, clean the milk off the floor, and realizing I just air-guitared in my boxers, I decide to get dressed. My eyes are open and I am cognizant enough to make decisions so I make my way to the closet. I look up and down and use a milk-stickied hand to grab a pair of old hiking pants and a button up shirt. I pull it over my shoulders, button it up, walk to the bathroom to brush my teeth, finish and realize I still have 10 minutes left. I hear Steve Perry who is now singing "Oh, Sheri".
Putting on my shoes and strapping on my pack I pause just before the door and one last time I raise a fist to the ceiling and listen. Eyes closed. Head bobbing in rhythm. I do an entire windmill downstroke on my Flying V. It is this dramatic motion that prepares me for the day. I grab my keys and walk out the door.
This is my morning.
-Scott
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Xenophobia and Sitting in the Back of the Bus
First and foremost, I would like to take a moment to discuss the utter tragedy that was the voting for "Who is Coolest?" I find it hard to believe that I lost to a sadistic dictator and a short, overly opinionated blond haired woman. For the sake of democracy I, as Supreme Blog Dictator, have made the results null and void as I fear there was tampering with voting machines. There were also rumors that lobbying was utilized by certain parties and I would like to take this moment to take a stand against those that would dirty the good name of democracy for personal gain by utilizing these means. I would like to submit the following evidence order to further the case of tainted voting: my own mother did not vote for me. My OWN mother! I am not so much saddened by my loss as I am saddened that the democratic system - a system that has evolved from ancient Greece, through the Parliaments of England and the cantons of Switzerland- has failed you, the people. Please, do not weep for me, but rather weep your country's declining morals. I can only hope that the next voting opportunity will breed the best of my constituents and those eager to play an active role in the democratic process.
For future votes, steps have been put in place that will keep such outrageous transgressions in check and in line....with the Supreme Dictator's wishes.
Speaking of voting I have been riding the bus a great deal in Korea (poor transition, I know). Living amongst South Korea's 48 million people in a space the size of Washington State requires a comprehensive understanding of public transportation. I do not have this understanding and am therefore completely lost. Failing to know which bus to take can lead to you ending up in the wrong place with NO idea how to get back and even less of an idea how to communicate this to anyone. This is important because everyday I take a bus and I am confronted with a difficult question, "Where do I sit?" Simple? No. Never before my morning coffee. I have sat in the front because of its quick and easy access and I am lazy. I have sat in the middle on days of indifference. And I have sat in the back on days I wish to retain my anonymity as a minority. On one such day of decision making Mindy and I chose to situate ourselves in the back of the bus. It was quiet, comfortable, the seats were wider, and we felt slightly more "chauffeured". Plus, the "carnival ride feeling" was greater in those seats. It is hard to understand this last one unless you are in my head. These qualities beg the question, "Why is everyone so up in arms about sitting in the back of the bus?" Personally, I like it just fine! It is through this lens that I would like to begin the following discussion. It is entitled, "What the Hell is Up with Korean culture? Or Racism as Examined through Honest Personal Reflection."
I have a Masters in Political Science and Comparative Politics. I have studied other cultures. Aren't I supposed to be more "learned" and tolerant. I am not and I must not have gotten my money's worth because for brief moments here I feel like a racist. I heard you all let out a collective *gasp*! Well, have you ever been told one thing when someone actually meant something else because they were too embarrassed to say the truth?!... of course you have! But have you ever lived in a culture who is populated with many - not all, but many - people who strictly follow this rule? Probably not and if you have and don't feel that way I am going to kindly ask you to stop reading my blog because you are better than I am and I can't stand that! Before I go any further, I need to stress, that no, of course I am not a racist towards Koreans and, I would like to think that I am not towards others as well. I am simply being honest and giving voice to the part of me that has, at times, these types of reactions. This is not to say that I condone these brief thoughts they are just natural reactions to being gawked at, singled out, being out of the cultural loop, being alone, and not understanding. Ironically, this post is an attempt for me to understand. Further, as all my posts go, it should be read with a grain of salt.
My greatest frustration comes when asking for directions or help at work from those that can understand me. Many times when I ask a Korean if they know something the answer is always a resounding "Yes", or a variation of the affirmative. The problem is that with many people the answer is always this way, which means one of two things: 1) I am always getting what I want from them 2) they are lying and being nice. As much as I wish it was Door #1 all evidence points to Door #2. Yes, we have all experienced this from people in the States. In fact, maybe some of you are more prone to this type of "yes" mentality. I for one, have my moments with it. What I am addressing though is culture not occurrence. Yes, degree does make a difference. This comes from the Korean tradition of "saving face." I heard about the phenomenon of "saving face", but had no idea it was so pervasive and overt. Much of the younger generation is much less ruled by it, but I work with adults as bosses, so this leads to problems. I am talking about a culture that is institutionalized and that will tell you what you want to hear to the point that you will be misled and lost because of the fear of saying, "Gee, I don't know." All because that person wants to save face. Get a spine! I can't describe to you the frustration of teaching in a class and asking for materials that you need, being told they have them, then finding out, all too late, that they never did. Or, being given directions to a city far away only to find out they never knew the directions in the first place and just, essentially, made them up. "Oops, sorry I just didn't want to say 'no'. Hope that didn't cause you any trouble." It is infuriating for someone such as myself: It is something that is foreign to me, that I don't understand, and that, naturally, as a result of these factors, I don't like.
My tolerance for things such as these is made even weaker due to other cultural differences. For instance, women are relegated to more a 2nd class citizen here. In that states women are slowly making there way out of the economic disparity with men though they still make 80 cents to a man's $1. In Korea, many women are quiet, humble, polite, laugh with a hand over their mouth and are submissive to the man of the house.....Hey, sounds like a good dream I had once!! Ha, kidding. In fact, it is really denigrating and frustrating. Mindy is looked over and not asked to participate in any of the sporting events when I am around because I get asked and she is not even considered because she is thought to not want to play. If I am not around, she is not asked at all. In so many ways, women, in my opinion, are treated with a great deal of disrespect.
"Why are you complaining, women can't play sports! You are supposed to sit there, cook and look pretty damnit!"
Yeah, you go machismo.
Further, from what I have seen, men do not like to be criticized by women in front of other men because it can make them feel denigrated. Really, well tit for tat my friend, too bad you invited Mindy over here because she is going to give you an earful! Let the denigration begin! Am I an ignorant foreigner who does not understand the subtleties of another culture? Yes, I am. Does this mean I can't give me two cents worth? Well, apparently that depends on who you are asking.
To keep this from becoming anymore than the novel that it has become let me close this up. I like the back of the bus and some people, for good reason, don't and that is OK. But just because I prefer the back of the bus don't try to make me enjoy the front just because it is the culturally sensitive thing to do. I do have my moments of xenophobia and I don't like them. I am going to work on being more tolerant. But I can appreciate our differences without embracing them.
....Ok, it is here that I have now gotten to the real point of this email. I am lobbying for your vote in future elections. Be it out of pity or the justified disdain of past results, I am going to appeal to your better half....Vote Pelton in '08.
-Scott
For future votes, steps have been put in place that will keep such outrageous transgressions in check and in line....with the Supreme Dictator's wishes.
Speaking of voting I have been riding the bus a great deal in Korea (poor transition, I know). Living amongst South Korea's 48 million people in a space the size of Washington State requires a comprehensive understanding of public transportation. I do not have this understanding and am therefore completely lost. Failing to know which bus to take can lead to you ending up in the wrong place with NO idea how to get back and even less of an idea how to communicate this to anyone. This is important because everyday I take a bus and I am confronted with a difficult question, "Where do I sit?" Simple? No. Never before my morning coffee. I have sat in the front because of its quick and easy access and I am lazy. I have sat in the middle on days of indifference. And I have sat in the back on days I wish to retain my anonymity as a minority. On one such day of decision making Mindy and I chose to situate ourselves in the back of the bus. It was quiet, comfortable, the seats were wider, and we felt slightly more "chauffeured". Plus, the "carnival ride feeling" was greater in those seats. It is hard to understand this last one unless you are in my head. These qualities beg the question, "Why is everyone so up in arms about sitting in the back of the bus?" Personally, I like it just fine! It is through this lens that I would like to begin the following discussion. It is entitled, "What the Hell is Up with Korean culture? Or Racism as Examined through Honest Personal Reflection."
I have a Masters in Political Science and Comparative Politics. I have studied other cultures. Aren't I supposed to be more "learned" and tolerant. I am not and I must not have gotten my money's worth because for brief moments here I feel like a racist. I heard you all let out a collective *gasp*! Well, have you ever been told one thing when someone actually meant something else because they were too embarrassed to say the truth?!... of course you have! But have you ever lived in a culture who is populated with many - not all, but many - people who strictly follow this rule? Probably not and if you have and don't feel that way I am going to kindly ask you to stop reading my blog because you are better than I am and I can't stand that! Before I go any further, I need to stress, that no, of course I am not a racist towards Koreans and, I would like to think that I am not towards others as well. I am simply being honest and giving voice to the part of me that has, at times, these types of reactions. This is not to say that I condone these brief thoughts they are just natural reactions to being gawked at, singled out, being out of the cultural loop, being alone, and not understanding. Ironically, this post is an attempt for me to understand. Further, as all my posts go, it should be read with a grain of salt.
My greatest frustration comes when asking for directions or help at work from those that can understand me. Many times when I ask a Korean if they know something the answer is always a resounding "Yes", or a variation of the affirmative. The problem is that with many people the answer is always this way, which means one of two things: 1) I am always getting what I want from them 2) they are lying and being nice. As much as I wish it was Door #1 all evidence points to Door #2. Yes, we have all experienced this from people in the States. In fact, maybe some of you are more prone to this type of "yes" mentality. I for one, have my moments with it. What I am addressing though is culture not occurrence. Yes, degree does make a difference. This comes from the Korean tradition of "saving face." I heard about the phenomenon of "saving face", but had no idea it was so pervasive and overt. Much of the younger generation is much less ruled by it, but I work with adults as bosses, so this leads to problems. I am talking about a culture that is institutionalized and that will tell you what you want to hear to the point that you will be misled and lost because of the fear of saying, "Gee, I don't know." All because that person wants to save face. Get a spine! I can't describe to you the frustration of teaching in a class and asking for materials that you need, being told they have them, then finding out, all too late, that they never did. Or, being given directions to a city far away only to find out they never knew the directions in the first place and just, essentially, made them up. "Oops, sorry I just didn't want to say 'no'. Hope that didn't cause you any trouble." It is infuriating for someone such as myself: It is something that is foreign to me, that I don't understand, and that, naturally, as a result of these factors, I don't like.
My tolerance for things such as these is made even weaker due to other cultural differences. For instance, women are relegated to more a 2nd class citizen here. In that states women are slowly making there way out of the economic disparity with men though they still make 80 cents to a man's $1. In Korea, many women are quiet, humble, polite, laugh with a hand over their mouth and are submissive to the man of the house.....Hey, sounds like a good dream I had once!! Ha, kidding. In fact, it is really denigrating and frustrating. Mindy is looked over and not asked to participate in any of the sporting events when I am around because I get asked and she is not even considered because she is thought to not want to play. If I am not around, she is not asked at all. In so many ways, women, in my opinion, are treated with a great deal of disrespect.
"Why are you complaining, women can't play sports! You are supposed to sit there, cook and look pretty damnit!"
Yeah, you go machismo.
Further, from what I have seen, men do not like to be criticized by women in front of other men because it can make them feel denigrated. Really, well tit for tat my friend, too bad you invited Mindy over here because she is going to give you an earful! Let the denigration begin! Am I an ignorant foreigner who does not understand the subtleties of another culture? Yes, I am. Does this mean I can't give me two cents worth? Well, apparently that depends on who you are asking.
To keep this from becoming anymore than the novel that it has become let me close this up. I like the back of the bus and some people, for good reason, don't and that is OK. But just because I prefer the back of the bus don't try to make me enjoy the front just because it is the culturally sensitive thing to do. I do have my moments of xenophobia and I don't like them. I am going to work on being more tolerant. But I can appreciate our differences without embracing them.
....Ok, it is here that I have now gotten to the real point of this email. I am lobbying for your vote in future elections. Be it out of pity or the justified disdain of past results, I am going to appeal to your better half....Vote Pelton in '08.
-Scott
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