40 culture
“Ddong-gae Teacher. Mol-la-yo?” “Ne, mol-la-yo.” Yes, I don’t know. He laughs again. I start pounding on the door, calling out the other teachers’ names with nothing in return but silence. I grab a bucket and sit down for a minute. Sam starts throwing books around. “Sam, stop.” “No.” He throws a book at me. “Sam, I said stop!” He starts shouting at me in Korean and points at the door. The small bangs hanging just above his eyelids are wet, sticking to his forehead. He lifts up his shorts revealing his skinny, pale knees. A fly buzzes around his neck. He ignores it. “Move,” he says. For a seven-year-old his English isn’t bad. In fact, he’s probably one of the top students in his class. But the little jerk has absolutely no respect for me. This is a common issue for foreigners here. With the Korean teachers, it’s all bows and honorific phrases. But with the foreign teachers, it’s play time. They know they can get away with it because it’s part of my job to make sure they have as much fun as possible, which also means it’s part of my job to go easy on them. Not to say they don’t learn anything or that I’m simply an entertainer, but at the end of the day it’s about business. If the kids are happy, so are the parents, and if the parents are happy, then at least in the boss’s eyes you’ve done your job. It’s almost as if the paradigm of respect is eliminated with the sense of personhood. I’m a foreigner first and a person second, and the kids understand that. But speak a bit of Korean, and their eyes pop out. “Teacher, you know Hanguk-mal?” Suddenly you’re more than just the weird-looking guy they have to deal with for an hour everyday. The worst part is it actually feels good seeing their response, as if conforming to the culture is a prerequisite to personhood. But then again, maybe it’s just a comfort aspect that comes with relatability. I don’t know what to make of it. Sam sits down after a few minutes of playing with the lock. Dust begins to settle and reveals itself through the streams of light that seep through the cracks in the door. I pat down my pockets, looking for my phone, but feel nothing but a key and a pack of gum. I take out two pieces, put one in my mouth, and reach the other out to Sam. “No, Ddong-gae Teacher. I want food, not gum.” Lunch is starting soon and I’m pretty hungry as well. I put the piece of gum in my mouth and throw the wrapper on the ground. After banging on the door a few more times I sit down, put my back against the wall, and close my eyes. I doze off for what I think is a few minutes, but am not sure how much time has passed, I can’t imagine it being that long. Sunlight is still streaming through the door crack and it’s still just as quiet outside as it was before. I wipe my eyes, stand up, and start messing with the lock again. I try some number combinations that are surprisingly popular in Korea: 9999, 1234, 4321, 0000. Theft, and crime in general, is fairly uncommon here. My first week in the country my boss led us to the wrong car at the bus station and only realized it was the wrong car when his key didn’t fit into the ignition. It is nice leaving my bag out in places here that would be snatched back home in minutes, if not seconds. I bang on the door a few more times, shout out some names, and very ambitiously turn the handle. It’s quiet when I stop. Then it hits me, where’s Sam? “Sam,” I call out. I can’t see very far into the shed, just hints of color in between a mass of darkness that goes back about ten feet. Stepping over the books that Sam threw around earlier, I start looking for him. Spider webs stretch across my arms and
August 2014.indd 40
2014-07-29 �� 10:57:21