Striking a Balance

"This world is hard. I will not coddle you."

-Mr. Spencer, 9th Grade Physics

I have a student, John, and though he is not diagnosed, he is most certainly Autistic, perhaps even Asperger's. On his first day of class, he refused to come into the room for nearly 20 minutes, would not look at any of the students, and, once inside the classroom, often got up randomly wondering about the room. However, he quickly picked up on the class structure, completed his lessons correctly well before the other students, and enthusiastically participated in our weekly reading contests.

Because of his awkwardness, though, the students were reluctant to include him, and would often merely use him to help with their homework. Everyday they would ask if John was coming, and would sigh and become dismayed if the answer was yes; each student seemed to view his oddities as burdensome. I talked with the more compassionate students in the class, enlisting them to become friendly with John. I also talked with other teachers about his prior academic history, and asked the Korean staff to involve his parents. Unfortunately, the Korean hagwon educational system has very little compassion for Students with Special Needs, and virtually no system in place for aiding them.

Though I have a great deal of empathy for John, I find myself becoming more and more reluctant to coddle him. As the quote from my Physics teacher clearly states, this world is hard; it's a tough place were you don't constantly have a teacher helping you to make friends, or making excuses for your "odd" behaviors. More and more, when John arrives late and lingers in the hall, I let him stay outside until he comes in on his own. I do not prod the other students to include him, but instead, structure my class activities in a way where he will be included, and allow the rest to happen naturally. I also explain to the class that John has "special needs" but is very smart and a part of our class; they seem to understand that he is to be treated fairly, even if they do tend to ignore him more often than not.

I am learning that there is a fine balance between coddling, and tough love. I do not know if I will strike that balance with John this term, and I am still unsure as to how that balance is struck for students with disabilities. But my intuition tells me, that to constantly modify for and coddle John will only hinder him academically and socially. Better to treat him with compassion, and give him small opportunities for genuine success.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

During a discussion about cultural morals and notions of "good" and "evil", I decided to have my students create their own 10 Commandments. These commandments were to reflect their personal ideas about "right", "wrong", and what every person should do to live a well-balanced and happy life. This is what they came up with:

1. Try very hard not to kill anyone.

2.Keep the weekend holy by staying fantastic!

3. Respect the ideas of others.

4. Say good things about people, even when you don't really like them.

5. Do not lie, except about homework.

6. Remember that you are a beautiful person.

7. Do not commit suicide, it is bad for health.

8. Always back-up your computer!

9. Do not smoke...ever.

10. Eat well, play well, poo well.

The Spa Mistress

The spa experience in Korea is one that I highly recommend. Not only are the spas exceptional, they also embody an authentic representation of Korean standards for beauty. I haphazardly came upon my spa through a co-worker, when I was asking where I could tan in the winter.

Note: Tanning beds are very rare in Korea, as the Korean standard for beauty is a white and unfreckled complexion. It should also be noted that the average bra-size for a Korean woman is 32A, which culturally predisposes the Koreans to an often morbid fascination with large, tan, breasts.

That being said, I met with the Spa Mistress, an extremely beautiful Geisha-faced woman, in her early 40's, whose authoritative and classy air is enough to intimidate even this plucky westerner. Luckily for me, she speaks broken English, and is able to communicate well enough to understand "tanning", "eye-brow waxing", and "massage". Little did I know, I was about to witness the extent of her English (and her many other talents) when she showed me upstairs to the tanning room, and demanded, in almost perfect English, that I undress:

"Ok, now. Lotion for the skin, to keep soft. Take cloth off."

"Excuse me?"

"Take cloth off, I must rub on your back and front. For the skin to keep soft, so you not look like old grandmother." She said this making a "skin-a rabbit" gesture, with an authority that let me know there would be no argument.

I undressed hurriedly, and she began slathering lotion all over my back, neck, and buttox. She then forcefully spun me around, and squirted cold lotion all over my chest, shoulders, and stomach. At this point, I was completely mortified and convinced that I had just stepped into every American man's fantasy, while my Spa Mistress behaved as though this sequence of events was the most natural thing in the world.

"Ok, now the boobies."

"Excuse me?"

"Now the boobs. I will do the boobs."

And she began rubbing lotion on my breasts rather aggressively. Now, I'm no prude, but having my "girls" rubbed vigorously by a middle-aged Korean spa owner is not exactly on my list of Top 10 International Fantasies, though it certainly started taking a turn toward the more erotic when she began whispering,

"Oh, they are very nice. Very nice. Big, and nice."

"Um, thank you." I said, through gritted teeth, not knowing if I was going to laugh or cry.

"Very nice. Like the Greek. Like Goddess. Yes! Like Big Greek Goddess!"

Then, giving me a slap on my well-lubricated bottom, she toweled her hands, and turned the knob on the tanning bed.

" Ok, 15 minutes. Turn over. 15 minutes more. Turn over again...flippy. You turn over when done...like chicken."

And with that, she left me standing alone, naked, and extremely bemused.

Why I Write Poetry

Someone asked me today,

"Why do you write poetry?"

Without even thinking, I responded,

"Why do you breathe?"

"Because if I didn't, I would die."

"Exactly."

To Know the Name of Things

I wanted to find a way to describe the weekly open-air market in E-dong, but the only words that came to me were in the form of a poem.

To Know the Name of Things

“Sam-ch'on won,” the fairy whispers,

as she hands me 3lbs of orangeripe,

to-ma-tos: Three dollars.

Tomatos are one of the few bits of produce

that I can actually identify, and name

in this bazaar of the bizarre.

The Korean market in my city,

is something akin to

Shakespeare’s Fairyland.

Everywhere there is color, smell, taste:

magenta, incense, butterscotch.

And the little women carry laced parasols

to block out the sun.

There are baskets pregnant with fruit,

and tarps draped over candy stands,

that undulate with the seabreeze.

I raise my arms up and down, merrily,

in concordance with the tarp, and the

trill of the market.

The Koreans stop, and smile;

confused, bemused grins,

as their deep brown eyes disappear.

One young man looks up as he’s cutting rope,

and glances at me-

But something startles him,

and he quickly takes a second look.

It is my eyes that have captured his attention:

Blue, and so out of place

amidst these dark-eyed

spirits.

But still it is bothering me that I

do not know the name

for the cocoa rock candy, that the vendor

lovingly sets in my hand,

“Try, try…” he urges.

And I cannot identify the luscious

plants and flowers for sale;

their spikes, blooms, and vines,

are as foreign to me

as I am to this place.

“Try, try…”, the Fairy King smirks,

with his round, tan face glowing.

I know that, contained within this sweet,

is a potion that will make me

fall in love with this place-

Make me want to stay forever,

and never wake up.

I slip the candy into my mouth,

and roll it on my tongue as I breathe,

“Nay, Nay…mmmm.”

Yes, yes…delicious.

And in that instant,

though I do not know what it is called,

I have tasted its very Name on my lips,

leaving no need for me to utter it here.

The Fairy King’s eye’s light with delight,

and he gives a courtly bow,

as the candy slips me further

into my unnamable dreamland.

Letting Go

"To live in this world, you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and when the time comes to let it go, let it go.”

- Poet Mary Oliver

Letting go is a concept that I have been researching and practicing for several years now. It is not a habit that comes naturally to humans; we tend to hold on and cry “never surrender!” to the most lost of lost causes. We hold on to all sorts of things: memories, bad relationships, comfortable jobs that no longer challenge our intellect. Culturally, American’s have an obsession with holding on to their youth; we buy skin care products and undergo plastic surgery to make ourselves appear younger. We shut away the elderly and infirm in nursing homes, so that we don’t have to be reminded that one day we, too, will die: That one day, we will be forced to let go of our vitality-of our very breath.

We humans are terrified to let go: to let go of love, beauty, and, at times, we even refuse to let go of resentment or pain. We hold on for dear life because all of these fleeting emotions, all of these very “mortal” things, somehow make us feel more comfortable and more alive. But what I am discovering, after years of college, boyfriends, good jobs, bad jobs, pets, best friends, grandparents, new countries, and drinking buddies is that, eventually, you must let EVERYTHING go. Your friends will move away, your drinking buddies will find a new bar, your grandparents will die, your beauty will fade, perhaps even your country’s system of government will collapse or your boyfriend will leave you.

Everything changes.

And, as the quote suggests, you must love all passionately and let all go when time and fate take it from you.

As I write this, I am reminded of my best friend Lauren. She has a fat and happy pugdog named Joey. For God-only-knows what reason she loves him as if he were her own child, and cannot conceive of one day being without him. When we were still roommates, I was discussing the philosophical idea of ‘letting go’ with Lauren, and I reminded her that Joey would someday die- that she would have to let HIM go! At this harsh realization, she became very distraught and refused to accept such a prospect. Then, after giving the idea some consideration, she determined that either she would have to die with Joey, or the obese pug would have to defy nature and live until his owner bit the dust. At this, I threw my head back and laughed. She was utterly unwilling to accept that death would one day take from her something that she loves.

And understandably so.

We don’t want to think about letting go of what we love; we don’t want to consider that it is even a possibility. But, I assure you, that it is not only a possibility, it is a certainty; at some point, you will have to say good-bye and let go of everything that you hold dear.

And what is the remedy to this seemingly somber and formidable fact?

To live and love now.

Right now.

And to let go of anything that stands in the way of doing so.

Community

Today, I visited the local Kimbap restaurant to purchase my lunch and dinner for 2,200 won (roughly 3 dollars); Kimbap is essentially a fat and delicious roll of seaweed and rice that you dip in a light soup broth. Inside, you find local egg, radish, carrot, greens, all sprinkled with sesame seeds and, since I need my protein, I ordered Chamchi kimbap which is the most exquisite tuna you have ever tasted.

Ironically, Mr. Kim owns Kimbap and works during the day, while his son, Mr. Kim Jr., works in the evening. Jr. is a 37-years-old Korean man who doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, and practices his English with the teachers who frequent his store on their way to work.

Being that this is my third visit to his establishment in one week, Mr. Kim determined that it was time for introductions.

“You American?” he asked, grinning.

“Yes.”

“What state?”

“Indiana.”

“Very pretty? Very green?” He guessed.

“Yes. Beautiful. But no mountains.” I made a sad face.

“Our mountains are beautiful…YOU beautiful. How old?” Mr. Kim was beginning to politely flirt with me.

“ Twenty-five.” I winked at him.

“OH! So young! Too young for Mr. Kim.” He laughed a deep-bellied laugh, all the while making my food right in front of me, his rhythmic hands chopping carrots and folding seaweed.

We talked for another ten minutes, and I could tell that he was purposefully taking his time hoping that I would stay awhile longer.

I didn’t mind.

“2,200 won.”

I handed him payment.

“Thank you very much! Will I see you again?” He handed me my kimbap and gave my a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Yes,” I promised, “very soon.”

“Every week?” He looked hopeful.

“Every week.” And, giggling, I gave a deep but girlish bow of respect before walking out the door.

Mr. Kim is literally three minutes walk from my apartment. My school is five. Everyday I pass Kimbap, as I pass the same mothers and children running their errands and being carted from school to school. It took them some time, but the children now greet me in English, saying “hello” or “how are you today?” The mothers, who ignored me before, now smile shyly or, occasionally, point to my dress and give me an approving look. The women here appreciate style and fashion.

In the evening, we venture to a local restaurant, The Grill, owned by the father of one of our students. Eugene is extremely accommodating; when we arrive a table is waiting for us, and we are typically serviced at the end of the meal with complimentary beer or french-fries. I accuse Eugene of trying to make me fat, and he sheepishly laughs.

To work, live, eat, and recreate within five miles of your home. To know the citizens of your town: the shop owners, restaurant managers, tailors, sports instructors, and the parents of your students. To see the same friendly faces on a weekly or even daily basis fills me with the most warm, loved, and familiar feeling. I could not put my finger on the appropriate term until I left Mr. Kim just today.

The word is “community.”

And I am a part of it.

Mirror on the Mountain

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of the acclaimed self-actualization novel “Eat, Pray, Love”, gives a startling account about a time that she caught a glimpse of herself in a pane of glass. Having finally defeated crippling depression and the agony of her divorce, she claims that this glimpse was deeply profound because, for the first time in her life, she recognized her own image as that of a friend. No longer did she feel self-doubt, self-loathing, or self-consciousness; she found her reflection pleasing and, more importantly, beautiful.

Western women struggle, almost on a daily basis, with self-image. I cannot recall a single female friend who has not articulated to me some dissatisfaction with their physical appearance.

“My arms are too fat.”

“I have thunder thighs.”

“I can’t wear this because it makes my ass look big.”

“I wish I had boobs.”

“I have a zit on my chin the size of Russia, I’m not going out tonight.”

Whatever the physical objection, every woman that I know seems to think that there is something WRONG with her appearance. We are never satisfied. We spend hundreds of dollars on cosmetics every year, buy miracle creams to reduce wrinkles or cellulite, and some of us even opt for plastic surgery, enduring excruciating pain in the name of “beauty.”

Keeping this in mind, allow me to pass on a bit of wisdom that my favorite Korean bartender imparted to me. Mindy is 39-years-old and owns one of the only foreigner bars in town. She is a brash, sexy, shrewd businesswoman, and a give-it-to-you-straight kind of girl, whether it be liquor or advice.

One evening when we were talking about the deep philosophical idea of happiness over a bottle of soju, she said to me:

“Hope, sometimes people are so worried about the outside, they don’t think about the inside. They dress up, and get the boobs. They wear high-heels and make-up, but they don’t take care of their heart. If you take care of your spirit and your spirit is happy, it shows on the outside too.”

Since I make it a habit not only to listen to my elders, but also to always heed the advice of Korean bartenders, I thought a great deal about what Mindy said as I hiked my mountain Monday afternoon. I thought about why I was hiking this mountain everyday, and how good it makes my body and spirit feel. I thought about all of the things I’ve done in the past two years to enrich my spirit, and to seek out my true inner beauty. I also thought about all of the ways in which I have placed far too much emphasis on physical beauty rather than the lasting beauty of my own soul.

As I was thinking all of these deep thoughts, I reached the top of my mountain and was caught quite off guard: there on the trailhead map hung a rear-view mirror that someone had removed from a car.

I stopped dead in my tracks as I came face-to-face to with my own sweaty, sticky, glowing reflection and I stared, quietly, for a very long time.

My hair was matted with perspiration and I wore no make-up; no eyeliner for my baby-blues, no foundation to cover blemishes. The sunlight glinted off the sweat-beads on my forehead as slowly, but very deliberately, a smile spread across my face.

Beautiful. I am beautiful.

These words sprang to my mind at the top of my mountain, as I recognized all of the inner beauty that I had worked so hard to cultivate over the past few years. In that face reflected back to me I saw all of the smiles given to dear friends; I saw lips that had kissed lovers and sipped wine, my father’s eyes that had cried so many tears of joy, and cheeks that had been bruised but healed. I saw ears that have taken in the laughter of unforgettable nights, and have listened lovingly to the woes of others. And I glimpsed the future, hoping that my children will inherit my crooked but genuine grin, or my barely distinguishable beauty-mark.

Beautiful. I am beautiful. And I wondered just how often the women in my life say that to themselves.

For a long time I stared at myself and marveled at the light within, reflected back to me in an old rear-view mirror, then quietly I whispered,

“Annyounghaseh-yo.”

“Hello,” in Korean, and giving a reverent bow of appreciation and love, I turned to face my mountain once more.

Recognition

To pause and recognize how far I have come, makes me giddy over how far I will go.

Getting Settled a.k.a. Finding a Local Bar

A good friend of mine, affectionately called Texas Dave, claims that there is one essential component to getting settled when you move to a new state or country. Aside from the obvious nuisance of securing a place to hang your hat

(in Dave’s case, a cowboy hat),

and a job to pay for said digs; the single most important aspect of New Towndom is finding a local bar.

The local bar is a Mecca for townies, and the best place to rub elbows, pick up strangers, shoot the proverbial shit, or just get sloshed. It is also the place to go when the day has been long, your patience is short, and you are feeling lonely, stressed, depressed, sexy, snarky, or any combination of the aforementioned.

So, taking my friend’s advice, I previewed several local bars that foreigners frequent in Pohang. There’s ‘Mindy’s’ which dubs itself an English Sports Pub and is the Navy and Marine boy’s hangout (Hello, my name is Hope. I’m not Semper Fi…but I can be for tonight). Here there’s no shortage of darts, pool, or soju cocktail. There’s also no shortage of testosterone, tight muscle shirts, and, I’m guessing, venereal diseases.

My daddy and Dave warned me about you, boys! So show me at least three condoms and a blood test, or I’m outta here…depending on how much soju I’ve had.

The Whistler is an eclectic mix of a sports bar and hooka lounge; it blares non-stop soccer games while the smell of mint and rose hang in the air. An Irish Carbomb costs 20,000 won (roughly 20 bucks), so stick with the mekju (beer) unless you brought a sailor who’s buyin’.

And then there’s ‘S Bar’, my favorite of the trio, which is owned by Tommy, a dapper Korean gentleman who sits at the end of the bar, sips scotch, and chats with all of the pretty women-sound like anyone we know? Just to spice things up, Tommy puts on what is called a “fire show” once a month, where the bartenders can show off their “flare”, Tom Cruise Cocktail style. I stumbled into ‘S Bar’, fully loaded and ready to make some new friends. On a whim, I struck up a conversation with Tommy and his premiere bartender, Rio. Rio is a gorgeous young Korean man who makes the girls squeal as he juggles 5 bottles of liquor, pours drinks, and lights things on fire. Hell, I’m no longer considered a ‘girl’, I’m a full-blown woman, and he makes me squeal like I’m back in pigtails and bloomers. I mean, this guy is good.

Really good.

So, in my drunkenness, I convinced Rio and Tommy that they should teach me “flare” in exchange for me teaching them English. Whether they were serious or just humoring a drunk girl, I’m not quite sure; but what I am sure of is that ‘S Bar’ is where I plan on hangin’ my hat, and neither Tommy nor Rio know what they’ve gotten themselves into.

Geonbae! Cheers!

Expatriotism

Today, my younger students confessed to me that they are very frightened about the mounting tensions between North and South Korea. They are sincerely afraid that their land will be invaded or that their fathers will be sent to war.

“Teacher, do you think they will bomb us? Do you think they will come here? We are so scared.”

I reassured them that they would be safe and, that no matter what happens, South Korea has many allies who would come to their aid. When I reminded them of this sentiment one student spoke up proudly.

“America, Teacher! America would help us. They like us. You like us!”

“Yes, Kane. America does like you, and my country would help you.”

As I said the words, “my country”, a warm feeling spread through me: It is still very new to be the minority and refer to yourself as a “ foreigner.” Over the past few years, I have criticized our country a great deal, and I still believe that we have a lot of work to do before we can truly claim to be the international torch-bearers of freedom and peace, but the recognition by my students that America would come to their aid, and their comfort from knowing that my mighty country would do it’s best to keep them safe, gave me a renewed sense of patriotism.

May America continuously strive to be a bright beacon for peace when it is threatened throughout the world.

A New Story

It’s surprising-the things you miss when you enter another world and life. For example, I never thought I would miss the comfort of proximity; of knowing that, if my loved ones needed me, truly needed me, I could be in a car, or on a plane and by their side within hours. I also miss the convenience of a quick text message, or casually stopping by an old friend’s house when you’re coming through town. In short, it would seem that I am missing the comfort and convenience of the familiar. And that is only natural.

The comfort of texting my best friend about politics or our latest workout endeavors. Or the convenience of living under the same roof with a roommate as we share our daily cup of laughter and complaint. The familiar bars, familiar people, and the familiar way that you feel when everyone knows who you are, and everyone is aware of your story.

Here, I have no story. I am a mystery, and that is both exciting and terrifying in equal measure. I can invent, and reinvent myself each day-I can live whatever life I want to live because the past did not follow me to this place. There are now lifelong friends, no old employers, former classmates, ex-boyfriends, or ex-lovers. There is no baggage. It is a place to feel light and unburdened. It is a place to carve out a new story with new lovers and friends.

Does this mean that I forget all, rejecting the old and dear? Certainly not.

It does mean, quite insistently however, that I am not as or who I was before. There has been a change- a shift. Gravity acts and falls upon me differently here, and so too life unfolds in a more clear and peaceful lilt. I embrace its synchronistic cadence, and I dance my new rhythm on a blanket of unencumbered and vital air. I have come here, it would seem, to dance a new story into existence. I can think of no greater challenge or honor.

Let it begin.

Hope Maybe

One of my 12 year olds, Jeff, dubbed me Hope Maybe today. At first, I was unclear of his meaning and, thinking that he was just mispronouncing my last name, I tried to clarify.

“Jeff, why are you calling me Hope Maybe? It’s Hope Gately. Gately is my last name.”

Jeff smiled sheepishly and shook his head.

“No, teacher. Not Hope Gately. Hope Maybe, because maybe you will bring us hope and maybe you will not. We will see, Teacher.”

Touche, kid. Touche.

Why, Teacher?! Why?!

I have a student, Rob, and I absolutely want to strangle the life from his body.

He is rude, arrogant, and a total slacker: all of the qualities for which I have absolutely no tolerance.

I will say this for the kid, however; he raises a valid point. Every time I tell him to do anything or give him direct instruction of any kind, he cries out in agony:

“Why, Teacher?! Whhhhyyyyy!?”

Good question, kid. As a matter of fact, I tell him, people have been asking that very same question since the dawn of time with no satisfactory answer. The only remotely compelling answer that I have for you is-

“Because I say so.”

Hangman

This is for my close friends. Especially Alex and Dawn.

Ok, so many of you joke about the poor Korean students who will have to put up with my terrible spelling. Luckily, I’m teaching reading so the kids caught a break there. However, when we were finished with testing yesterday I, forgetting my one and only deficiency in life, decided to play hangman.

Furthermore, I did not realize how flippin’ smart my kids are: I started them off with words like ‘tree’, ‘puppy’, and ‘poodle’ but, when it took them less than two letters to guess the word, I uped my game.

I threw ‘transition’, ‘conjunction’, and ‘Justin Timberlake’ at them-they weren’t even phased.

“Fine guys, you are too smart for teacher. You pick a word and whisper it in my ear.”

One of my male students, who I call Indiana Jones because he is always creating and escaping disasters, smiled wryly and beckoned me over.

“Chrysanthemum,” he whispered devilishly.

Come again.

“Chrysanthemum.”

What the fuck?!

Now, if I didn’t have any pride I would have admitted that teacher is not sure of the spelling. However, I have a great deal of hubris, so screw that.

I grabbed a piece of paper, wrote out what I thought was a remote version of the correct spelling, and put the lines on the board to begin the game. I mean, they don’t even have chrysanthemums in Korea!

I love my students to death, but the next time Indiana Jones throws me a curve ball like that, I’m gonna see if he knows how to spell “Parent/Teacher Conference.”

Some of the other words they came up with:

Vacuum, epiphany, translucent, refrigerator, and amphibian.

Which one did I screw up?

Refrigerator.

Sometimes I don’t know how I’ve made it this far.

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.

The "Oh, Fuck!" Moment

Ok, let’s play a little game. Imagine, if you will, that you really wanna see what you’re made of because, for God only knows what reason, you just feel the need to take it to the limit one more time (Eagles reference? Hell, yes). For visualization purposes, place yourself in the 11^th largest city in the world, in an obscure bus station, where you do not speak the language, you do not have a map or the proper bus fair, and absolutely no conception of where you are or where you need to be.

What you do have is 100lbs of luggage, a smile, and shear dumb pluck.

This is what I have dubbed the “Oh, Fuck!” moment, which is akin to Oprah’s “Ah-ha Moment” but not nearly as pleasant.

My father, in his infinite wisdom, was kind enough to warn me of this moment’s inevitability. Apparently, all foreigners experience this moment at one point or another. Particularly, if they have just jetted across the world, signed a one-year contract, and are now legally bound to stay within the confines of their foreign country.

Not to worry, though. I am, after all, Hope Gately. I’ve survived getting lost in downtown Indianapolis with Dawn, downtown Chicago with Chase, excruciating heartache, spider bites, two day hangovers, and ten years of customer service as a waitress/bartender.

I got dis.

Experiencing the Seoul bus station under these less than favorable circumstances is not something that I recommend but, as they say “when life hands you lemons…find someone whose life if giving them vodka, and have a party.”

Which is just what I did. First, and foremost, I collected myself: I straightened up, freshened my make-up, puffed out my chest, and strode to the most western-looking Korean in the bus terminal.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you speak English?”

A youngman carrying a Columbia hiking bag and wearing a Northface fleece peered up from his Iphone.

“Yes…” he said in a curious and helpful manner.

“Oh, great! I’m simply lost. I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. I have the name of my city, some won, and 100lbs of luggage. Would you be so kind as to help me?” I said all of this breathlessly, and in the most ‘damsel in distress’ way possible, having no idea if Korean men respond to this sort of feminine neediness. For all I know, he may slap me, shake my shoulders and scream “get it together woman!”

He did not.

Quite the contrary. Without saying a word, he took by backpack from my shoulder and instructed me to follow him. As we walked, he spoke in hurried Korean to several men standing nearby, who produced a dolly and hauled my luggage away. At the ticket booth, he purchased my train ticket without allowing me to give him any won whatsoever and, when I objected he merely waved a hand in dismissal. Then, at lightening speed, he ushered me to my bus, which was set to depart in five minutes.

“Sir, how can I thank you? Please, take the money that I have with me. Please.” I pleaded.

“No,” said my knight in shinning Korean armor, “ you are a guest in my country, and you are teaching my country’s children. Welcome, and enjoy your stay in Korea.” And with a deep bow, he strode away.

As I looked after, I called out the only word that I could pull from my limited Korean Vocabulary:

“Komapsumnida!”

Thank you.

*************************************************************************************

Over the Mountains:

The bus ride from Seoul to Pohang took me across the country of Korea, and was five hours in duration. At a later time, I will describe the beauty of this place in detail, but for now, I will say that there is a gentle and peaceful loveliness embedded in the mountains that instills a deep sense of purpose and serenity. They say, of America, that it is “God’s Country” and, if that is true, then Korea is God’s Getaway. He comes here to rest on the hills, and wade in the rice fields. He comes here to see the sun hang orange and burning over the earth.

A Pole, a Romanian, and an Italian Walk into a Bar

Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn’t it? Well, leave it to me to meet just such a conglomeration of characters while in South Korea.

My hotel serves a continental breakfast and, not about to eat alone in my room, I made my way to the breakfast bar. There I saw a handsome, dark man, with wavy chestnut hair. As I can’t resist the dark and handsome type, I asked if I could join him for breakfast. In a deliciously guttural tone he agreed and, to my delight, spoke the most chocolaty, latte, English-Romanian style.

Turns out, he and his friends, who would be joining him any moment, were in town for an opera competition. Lucky for me, I had on my Indiana University t-shirt, which immediately gave us our common denominator-Indiana University, School of Music, bingo! Even more astonishing was the fact that his Pole friend had studied at I.U. for three years. The Italian, who spoke little English, was smiling and agreeable as I chatted with his friends. But, wanting to include him, I pulled from my store of operatic knowledge ( which, in total, consists of the Three Tenors and the Pirates of Penzance) and asked him if he enjoyed Lucinao Pavarotti and Placido Domingo, to which he began speaking wine-dripping Italian at the speed of light and burst into Nessun Dorma there at the breakfast table. I cheered with my Romanian and Polish friend, as the rest of the room looked on in horror. Crazy Americans/Europeans.

I later learned that my Italian friend was so excited at my mention of Placido Domingo because he was on his way to Italy, in just a few short hours, to meet with the opera star. How thrilling! I told him that this information was an excellent way to pick up girls-well, nerdy, music savvy girls at any rate.

My Romanian and Italian had to catch their flight, leaving me with the pensive Pole. And here, let me pause and say that I have never met a Pole in my life. I do not know their temperament, nor do I know much of their history and what I do know is not something to be discussed over eggs and toast. Further, let me say that I was not completely certain of the correct term for this person’s heritage. I had heard, “Polack” in America, but this could be derogatory and, come to find out, it is indeed. The correct term is “Pole”; “Polack” being a term for a male person of Polish descent to connote anti-polish sentiment. This is the language education that you receive when you actually step outside of the U.S. and educate yourself.

Luckily, this Pole and I had something in common-Bloomington, Indiana. I began asking him about his stay in my beloved town. Had he enjoyed the School of Music, and did he have plans to return? Then the conversation took an immediate and magical twist. Apparently, Poland experienced a tragedy several weeks ago. Their President and his family had all perished in a plane crash, leaving the country bereaved and confused.

“ It was just devastating to my people. It just proves that you never know. That is why life is so special. So, important,” he posited.

I agreed with him, and expressed that this was precisely why I was traveling abroad-to suck the marrow out of life. To live in the present moment.

“Aw, present moment! Yes!” he exclaimed in rapt delight.

“Have you read Mr. Tolle’s book on present moment awareness. It is phenomenal. I met many spiritual people in the States, and learned of this concept. To live now, and to have joy in what you are doing.”

Well, it just so happens that I have read Eckhart Tolle’s books, and know all about the concept of present moment awareness. He was ecstatic.

“Oh, if only I had met you a week ago! We could have had some wonderful conversations. Oh, how good to meet someone who loves life!” and he clasped my hand.

See what I mean about deep conversations? They can take you anywhere.

“It is true,” I offered, “ we could have had many good conversations, but I am happy that we have met at all, and that we have had THIS conversation.”

My Pole friend smiled at me knowingly.

“Aw, yes. I am in agreement. At least we had this conversation, and now I must say good-bye.”

At which point, he kissed my hand and strode out of the bar.

A Pole, a Romanian, and an Italian walk into a bar…and they befriend an American girl. An excellent punch-line, if I do say so myself.

Heart and Seoul

So, I’m sitting in the back seat of a cab/minibus conversing with a cabdriver from Seoul. I have asked him three times now if he has any idea where we are going, and he just shakes his head and assures me,

“Understand. Understand.”

Well, I’m glad someone understands, because I sure as hell don’t. So, I guess I’m along for the ride. I trust this man, though. His eyes tell me that he will get me to my hotel safely-but for a price. And I’m happy to pay as he is knowledgeable of the city and keeps pointing out local flora and fauna as well as points of interest. I have learned in our exchange that he has four children. I joked that he must have two wives to have so many children. The joke was not lost.

Everyone is willing to help. Everyone is interested in you. I sat next to a young Korean couple on the plane, and from them I learned that I will be teaching at one of the most highly respected and popular language centers in Korea. They were also kind enough to point out the third longest bridge in the world, stretching across the Yellow Sea.

I must say that, when traveling in a strange land it is important to make friends and make them fast. Luckily, this has never been an issue for me and, since my cab ride will take an hour, my cabi friend and I have plenty of time for a deep conversation. Currently, we are discussing the tensions with North Korea. I have also discovered that my cabi likes Double Mint gum. Common Denominators.

The plane ride was surprisingly pleasant. We were served two meals: one traditional Korean dish, and an Italian assortment complete with Tiramisu. I had plenty of movies to watch, and even opted to try out Twilight in Korean.

No matter the language, Jacob Black still rings my bell, and taking your shirt off to reveal rippling muscles can be universally translated. I believe the phrase is “Hubba, hubba.”

I had a good deal of time to think on my long journey. Time to assess my motivations for teaching in a foreign country, time to ponder everything that I will miss about the states, and everyone. Essentially, I discovered that my true motivation is self-discovery. I find it difficult to learn a great deal about yourself when you are constantly bombarded with the same habitual cultural influences. Thrust yourself in a challenging and foreign situation, however, and you have to learn on the spot. You have to trust yourself, love yourself, and rely completely on your wits-and the good grace of Korean cabdrivers. As such, my foremost goal while staying in Korea is to learn all that I can about myself and the people who inhabit this mountainous peninsula.

As for those that will be missed. They are so dear to me that it hurts to write about them-I have pictures and memories and can only hope that life brings us together again one day. There are some that I am certain I will see sooner rather than later, and others that I suspect will go their own way, never to be encountered again. But what I am discovering is that you must feel blessed to have had a person in your life, in your presence, even if for but a moment. And, perhaps, in that moment with them you were both able to find the common denominator that links and binds you forever.

The Common Denominator

As many of you are aware, there is no one in the world who enjoys a “deep conversation” more than myself. In any circumstance or situation, whether it be a bar, a plane, or the line at Star Bucks; I will have a deep, life examining, soul shattering conversation with anyone, and I do mean ANYONE. I don’t care if you are from another planet and resemble some form of space paramecium, I will converse with you. And, in the event that we do not speak the same language, I will gesture, draw pictures, sing, dance, and smile…whatever it takes, to find what is known as the common denominator.

What do I mean by the “common denominator?” I know I may have thrown you with this math gibberish (Hope, talking about math…what?). But work with me here, and hearken back to your elementary days when fractions were the bane of your prepubescent existence. The common denominator is, essentially, any factor that that serves as a base for equal division. In other words, it is the factor that is most common to the numerator of each fraction. This number enables us to add and subtract fractions by making them more alike, and less dissimilar.

This is what I try to find during the course of my deep conversations; that one common thread or bond that I share with the other individual on which we can build a basis-a foundation. And, interestingly enough, during the hundreds of conversations that I have had with perfect strangers, acquaintances, and friends, I have discovered three common denominators that resonate with any human being no matter the race, color, age, or political conviction. They are, quite simply:

Area of Origin, Family, and Love.

By area of origin, I mean that people love to talk about where they’re from and they love to hear about where you come from, so that they can then determine if their home is superior to yours. This is an excellent basis for a deep convo because, once they tell you where they’re from, they will then divulge where they have been-which is always more interesting.

Family is the second phase of the deep convo. People may love their family, or hate them-regardless, they are more than willing to talk about them. Their children, their divorced and brooding parents, rebellious brother, promiscuous sister. Every human being on the face of this great planet has at least one family member that is desperate for intervention, and man do they wanna talk about it.

Love is a no brainer and, it is by far, the most common of the common denominators. If you get someone talking about their love life, you will miss your flight, have 5 more beers, and 6 grande mocha frappachinos before you’re through. People love to talk about love-whether they are in love, out of love, looking for love, or running from love. Love is simply the common thread that binds us all, and makes for the most interesting and dramatic of deep conversations. I have been in two situations in which perfect strangers have literally wept over love during our DC.

Today, my task on the airplane was to get Frank, my 50-something engineer from South Carolina, to open up and talk about love. We began with the first CD: Frank originated from New York and has been all over the world for his job. Then the second CD: Frank has a wife and one child-a daughter. After about 30 minutes of introduction and wise cracks about everything from the airplane food to the legalization of marijuana, it was time to cut to the chase. Frank had been divorced and, though he no longer loves his ex-wife, he loves his daughter very much. It was hurting him that his daughter blamed him for the divorce, as she had confessed to him that this had “ruined her life.”

I could relate, I come from a broken home, am an only child, and have a father with whom I am very close. So many similarities.

On the 2 hour flight from Indianapolis to Atlanta, Frank and I did not stop for a single breath. We had found our common denominators. More importantly, we hadn’t been afraid to “go there” and look for what we had in common.

As I travel far from home, and leave behind everything that is so regular to me, I remind myself that, though each human being is individual and extraordinary, we are all essentially the same animal. We fiercely defend our home, we worry about our family, and we love deeply. Essentially, the common denominator in any interaction is yourself.