Red is Dead!

For those of you who aren’t aware, in Korean culture writing someone’s name in red ink denotes that they are dead: Pushin’ up daisies, bought the farm, kicked the bucket, bit the dust, checked out. Adi-fucking-os.

I remember reading this somewhere, along with all of the other fun facts about Korean life, sometime back in the States when I was determining whether to come to Korea or to continue working at the sleazy local bar (No brainer).

However, on this particular day, I was preparing to administer a very important test that would determine the academic fate of my students and, for some of them, whether they ate supper or slept in the basement with the rats. Understandably, this being my first week of classes, I was nervous and, in all the hullabaloo, completely forgot about the whole “red is dead” equation.

This wouldn’t have been an issue, save for the fact that my sweet 12 year-old student, Tommy, had done poorly on the first part of the test and was now weeping quietly at his desk. Now, people in the States may have little concept of this, but think back to when you were a freshman in college and you freaked out over your final exams- now multiply that by 10, add an angry mother, and about 20 plus hours of studying, and you can begin to understand why Tommy is so distraught.

In an effort to console Tommy, while having the rest of the class pass up their tests, I patted him on the back and cooed to him that everything would be ok. On a side note, for those of you who have served or bartended, you can vaguely fathom running a classroom of 10-12 year-olds. Everyone needs you, everyone wants your attention and, instead of being drunk, they are all on sugar highs.

So, in an effort to keep peace, I gently took Tommy’s paper, while the other students were shouting, “Teacher! Why is Tommy crying!? Teacher! I failed!”

Amidst the chaos, I realized that Tommy had forgotten to write his name on his paper, so I grabbed a pen from my desk and quickly scrawled his name across the top. At which point, the entire room broke out into howls:

“ Teacher! Nooooooooo! Teacher, red is dead! Red is dead, Teacher! You killed Tommy!”

Fuck my life.

As I realized the cultural fallacy that I had committed, I looked to Tommy who, taking my mistake quite personally, began sobbing uncontrollably and pounding his fists on the desk.

“Teacher! Why you kill me?! Whhhhhhhhyyyyy!”

Tommy buried his face in his arms and refused to look up, as the rest of the students looked on in amusement. Instigators, all of ‘em.

At this point, there are two things you can do as a teacher: One, you can flee the scene, hop on a plane back to the States, and find another sleazy bar. Or, two, you can reach for your purse and dig for any manner of chocolate or candy to placate your distraught student.

I opted for the latter, and pulled out a shit-ton of hardcandy, toffee, and mints from my purse, slamming them on Tommy’s desk.

My other students seemed to recognize that this was an act of surrender, and grew quiet to see what would happen next.

“Here, Tommy. This will make you feel better. Candy always makes Teacher Hope feel better when she is sad. Try some.” (God, I sound like a kidnapper).

Tommy reached for one of the yogurt candies, unwrapped the foil, and popped it in his mouth. Mmmmm. At this point, he was smiling and there were no more tears. The other students had grown disinterested, and were now pulling out their high-tech phones and video games.

“All better, Tommy? You’ll do better on the next test.”

“Yes, Teacher. All better. But teacher, please do not murder me again.”

“No, Tommy. Teacher will not murder you again.”

Sigh.