Many of these miscreants carry nicknames constructed from the raw material of their exploits, like gangsters or Marines. In 1-2A there is Jong "Monster Chicken" Gwan, so named because upon being asked what color the cute animated mouse on page 24 is, he starts flapping his arms in the air and screaming like a chicken at the top of his lungs. In 1-2P there is the infamous Gyu "Moola" Jin. In the early days of my tenure in Korea, Gyu-jin liked nothing better than to calmly leave his seat, walk up to where I was writing on the chalkboard, and throw a steely fist into the vicenity of my groin just as I was asking him why he was out of his seat. Gyu-jin was nicknamed "Moola" because "Moola" is the Korean word for "I don't understand a damn thing you are saying." You can guess how many times Gyu-jin says that word. Some days it's the only word that leaves his mouth.
Between 1-2P and 1-2A is this inexplicable twenty-minute break. The normal break between classes lasts five minutes, just enough time to get a swig of water and a breath of air before starting the next class. In some ways I appreciate the break. I can go get a plate of dokpokki, or retrieve of forgotten roll book, or print a few backup crosswork puzzles. However, the long break between classes allows me just enough time to get thrown off guard by the next class. I leave 1-2P warmed up and ready for the next class, take the twenty minute break, allowing me just enough time to let my guard down, and then I get clobbered by 1-2A.
A few days a week in December I didn't have any notebooks to retrieve, puzzles to print or dokpokki to eat, so I would spend the time idling in the lobby. I'd try to spark a conversation with the receptionists, who would use the handy language barrier to disengage me and return to browsing clothes online. Most days the cleaning lady, Bok-shim, ambles out of either the boys or girls bathroom with a bucket and a mop grasped in her old hands, which are protected by arm-length pink rubber gloves stained orange at the fingers with prolonged use. Despite being only three sentences long, my daily interaction with Bok-shim is always a warm, friendly experience.
"Annyong Haseyo, Bok-shim," I say and smile sheepishly. She sets her cleaning impliments down by the water fountain.
"Neh, neh," she allows. "Annyong Haseyo," she says and returns my smile while taking off her big pink gloves, her wrinkled face a picture of perfect contentment and patience.
"Bon gap sumnida," I continue, knowing my Korean is much too polite to use with Bok-shim, as we are well-acquainted. "Neh, neh. Bon gap sumnida," she responds knowingly.
"Onil Kibuni Joayo?" I ask. Back when I first said this Bok-shim's mouth dropped open like a broken pickup truck tailgate and she began laughing. I live for that laugh. It is not a laugh of mockery or embarrassment, it is the joyful laughter of a good teacher enjoying watching her student learn. I can hear the years of Bok-shim's employment with ESS in that soft chuckle, and when she laughs I can feel the presence of the dozens of Native Speakers who have stood in front of this pink-gloved sage and practiced their newfound Korean language skills.
Usually following this daily exchange I try experimenting with a few new phrases I am trying to learn. Bok-shim listens and corrects me or gives me that reassuring laugh and responds. The response usually stumps me and Bok-shim spends the next few minutes trying to break it down for me. That's the problem with learning a new language: You can pick up a phrase book and ask how to get to the grocery store, and you'll probably get an answer, but you won't be any closer to finding the grocery store.
Gavin is the only other denizen of the twenty-minute break, emerging from 1-2B a few minutes before or after I leave 1-2P. He grins as I round the corner, "Moola" and Dong-ook shouting "Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones!" after me. We stand by the water cooler, trade war stories from the previous classes, relate any new phrases we've picked up, and watch each other's stuff while one or both of us runs upstairs to get whatever we've forgotten. Children walk quickly past us, mumbling a quick "hello teacher," or "hello Mr. Averill/Jones," as they race to get a few minutes of free time with their friends before class begins.
I feel like a schoolyard bully: Standing by the water cooler, guarding the only way into and out of the hall leading to class. Don't worry, I'm not stealing anybody's lunch money. Instead, I'm harrassing them to correct their English or shouting "hey! How are You?" after them. I know most of the miscreants and the overachievers by heart. It's the average kids who slip through the system without incident that I don't know by name. They walk by, uttering a terse "hello teacher," and I'll recognize their face but I won't know from where or what name to put with that face.
Mr. Kim had a New Year's ceremony on Friday night with the children in the Best Jr. program (middle schoolers). They met in the auditorium around 5PM, lit candles, and listened to a long speech by Mr. Kim. Then they wrote long essays (in English, of course) about their New Years resolutions. Gavin and I took a few photos and I shot some footage with my video camcorder.
The above photo is curtesy of Gavin Averill.
After they had written the letters and Mr. Kim gave another speech, they all walked up to the stage and pushed their candles onto metal spikes in the shape of ESS.
It was all highly orchestrated, of course.
After everyone had skewered their candle, the top Best Jr. students (some of which I recognized as being the worst English-speakers in the school) gathered around the wax bonfire and blew it out.
As it was the week before New Years, I gave into my cornball impulse and asked the kids in my better classes to write about their hopes and dreams for 2006, as well as their resolutions. My results were so consistant I thought the children were copying off of one another. A few examples:
"I want to be taller than now."
"I will be a kind girl."
"I will study hard."
"I hope I win a good grade in my exam. Please."
"I want my family to have health New Year."
"I will spend money for sell a phone."
"I'll not play computer much more."
A few exceptions to the rule:
"I want magic school to invite me." --Harry Potter fan in Advanced Three.
"I hope my brother has good Navy life."
"I think Santa is a very bad man."
"I hope to have many goldfishes."
"I hope Korea win World Cup."
"I want my father to resolve to come home early in 2006 so we can play."
"I want my mother to resolve to make me happy with money in 2006."
"I wish grandpa give me the gum."
Me too. Grandpa was always stingy with the gum. What's with that, anyway? Well, that about does it for...Oh, wait! Almost forgot! From the country that resolved for 2006 to more better be Engrish go...The Korean Files!
"Narco the Thinking Dog" ...Takes on crime with the help of his trusty sidekick, Boozehound! --Pencilcase.
"Hear salon" ...I don't want to know what they cut there. --Hair salon.
"Exclusively Professional" ...If you don't have enough money there's an ajumma out back with a weedwacker. --Hair salon.
"Design club fancy polio" ...For the stylishly crippled. --Pencilcase.
Well now, with the students' New Years resolutions, you've had an extra-large helping of Korean Files! I hope you enjoyed it. In 2006 I resolve to be a better teacher, blogger, son, friend, and God (to the tiny inhabitants of my stomach lining). I resolve to exercise more, motorcycle less, and always give my bus seat to someone in need of a place to put their ass. I would resolve to eat better, but I'm in Korea. I have to WORK to find unhealthy food here. Until next week, friends. Peace. --Notes
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