Yak Guts

First Impressions

I see them everyday as I walk the twenty minutes to my place of work. They both work for one of the many restaurants in my neighborhood. Their main purpose is to act as an informal posse of traffic cops; when the restaurant gets busy, they direct the flow of traffic on our narrow little street. Past the butcher shop, across the street from the gargantuan Methodist church, and next to the greasy fried chicken kiosk, they stand guard. The older one is usually deposited between the traditional Korean restaurant and the chicken joint; he occasionally tries to hawk up business for the Korean restaurant during the slower times but can best be described as apathetic in his efforts. He also possesses the unique talent of being able to sleep standing up; as I am passing him one day, I cautiously peer under his broad sandal hat, and I discover that he is fast asleep. The younger one acts as an informal bouncer, but also runs out on food deliveries. I have seen him vrrrroooooom!ing about the neighborhood on one of the "scooter terrors" that roam Seoul's sidewalks in search of fresh pedestrian prey. I refer to the two men as simply “the restaurant guys.”

The younger restaurant guy speaks passable English, and always greets me or waves when he sees me; he asks me a new question each time I see him. I have noticed that he reads extensively during the restaurant’s downtime. He is frightfully skinny, but he has a very pleasant and good-natured face. He is not at all handsome, but his physical appearance reflects a certain joy in life that American men of a similar age appear to lack. He appears to be in his mid-to-late twenties. I decide that he was once a child with a sunny disposition. He is also rather bold for a sober Korean; most Korean men appear to be afraid of waegooks, especially the women, and will not even approach them…at least, not without being solidly fortified by soju. This young man makes eye contact and smiles when he sees me. He is not afraid of me, nor is he particularly flirtatious; he is likely simply curious about the random white girl who has suddenly appeared in the small villa apartments above the flooring company next door to his restaurant. The older man is more reserved; he does not make eye contact, but he does smile and wave on occasion. Later on, when it gets colder, he will offer me free hot coffee on frigid winter mornings.

But it is sweltering summer now, endlessly humid, and hopelessly hot. Korean women tend towards the more formal end of fashion; skirts and capped-sleeve cotton blouses are more often the choice for summer attire than shorts and a T-shirt. I have discovered that this is an absolute practicality as well as a cultural preference; I begin to wear cotton A-line skirts rather than khaki slacks to work and discover that skirts provide built-in air conditioning from the damp summer heat…

Yak Guts

I have a very bad summer cold. After two days of suffering with a mind-numbing fever and a deep racking cough, I emerge from my apartment, fully-armed with my Korean phrasebook. I am determined to find a pharmacy. I notice that the older restaurant guy is standing at attention by the entrance of the traditional Korean restaurant, and I purposefully stroll over to his post. I thumb madly through my translation dictionary, searching for the word for “pharmacy.” I find it, but it is written in Han-gul (Korean). I am still new at reading Korean script, but I am getting more proficient daily.

“Yak Guts?” I weakly quiery.

He looks at me as if I am speaking in Swahili.

“Eh?” He blinks his droopy eyes.

I consult my phrasebook again. Ah! “K” sound, not “T” sound.

“Ah! Yak Guks?” I try again.

He stares at me blankly.

“YAK GUK,” I state firmly.

“EH? Ahhh, yak GUK!” His face momentarily brightens.

He points to the left, then gestures a turn at the corner and a right cross at the next...street…I think. I carefully mimic his motions, and affirm, “Yak guk.”

He stops, shakes his head firmly, and says, “Wain-juk!”

I stare at him, confused.

He points to the left. I point to the left, and stare at him with a furrowed brow.

“Yak guk?”

“A-ni-o! WAIN-JUK.”

He again points very emphatically towards the left.

I stare at him stupidly. Are their two pharmacies on the same block? I wonder. Ah! Maybe he is telling me the pharmacy’s name: The Wain-juk Pharmacy!

“Yak guk?” I squeak out again, and point to the left.

“A-NI-O….WAIN-JUK, O-RAN-JUK!!!” he shouts impatiently, and wildly motions first towards the left side of the street, then towards the right side of the street. Close to tears from frustration, delirium, and general physical weakness, I shuffle off in the general direction that he has indicated. I am in no mood to deal with Grumpy Old Men.

“ORANJUK, ORANJUK!!!” he shouts after me, pantomiming that I need to cross the street. I turn the corner at the end of the block, and I immediately spot the pharmacy; I still have no idea as to what he is trying to tell me.

Mercifully, the pharmacist speaks English. I return home, and gulp down my hard-won cough medicine. It is faintly licorice-flavored, and not unpleasant at all. I also down an entire bottle of water for good measure.

Four hours later, I wake up, and I am ravenously hungry. I am also completely out of food, as I have stayed in bed all weekend and not done any grocery shopping. I reluctantly drag my aching body out of my air-conditioned apartment. McDonalds is only a short walk away…

The restaurant sentinels are both on guard tonight, and the older one waves at me. I am determined not to acknowledge the Old Yeller, but he speaks to me first.

“Yak-guk! Wain-juk! Oran-juk! Hahaha….!”

I still do not understand what the hell he is saying, but in the interest of international relations, I smile and nod politely. He points to the center of his head, taps it several times, and then points back to me.

I scowl at him, and begin to turn away. He touches my arm, and points to his head again, and makes a very alarming sound vaguely resembling the birth pangs of a constipated elephant.

“Apayo?”

Ah, “yo” is a verb ending. I know that. Suddenly, I understand.

I point to my nose and chest, and make coughing and gagging gestures. He understands.

I smile and continue on my journey.

When I return, he is still standing at his post, and the younger man has joined him. I wave cautiously, and as I cross the street, they both approach me. The younger man points at my greasy McDonalds bag and giggles like an adolescent schoolgirl. He snatches the bag from me, opens it, and pretends to swoon as the smell of stale French fried wafts through the steamy air.

The older man clicks his tongue at me, shakes his head, and points to his appointed restaurant.

“JOOK,” he states firmly.

Another ‘juk?’ Oh no...

He then inquires about my cold.

"Ho-su-pee-tal?"

Apparently he knows a few English words.

“No. Two…days… no….eat.” I show him “two” with my fingers, touch my lips, and cross my arms in front of my chest in a big “X.” I feel like a one-woman freak show.

He tsks again, then offers me a stool to sit on. I decline politely.

“What, is, your, name?” I ask, slowly and clearly.

He looks both alarmed and puzzled at the question, but the delivery boy saves the day. He says something rapid-fire in Korean to the older man, and they both laugh.

“Ah! Seo.” He ghostwrites the Korean characters of his name with his finger on his palm and shows it to me.

The younger man introduces himself as “Choi.”

“Miss? Missee?” Seo points to the third finger on his left hand.

“Miss.” I smile broadly, wave my naked ring finger, and patiently brace myself for the next question. Here it comes…

“Ay- gee?”

Koreans always ask marital status and age upon first meeting a stranger, so I am not completely unprepared for the bluntness of this question.

“Twenty-nine.” The demure maiden looks down in mock shame.

“I firty-seven,” says Choi. It takes a moment to register - he's thirty-seven. Up close now, I notice a few deep grooves around his mouth. I also notice he is not as emaciated as he first appears; he has a nice, pleasant, lean, and slightly muscular build, but the odor of stale cigarettes also lingers in his clothes. I later learn that he was once a competitive martial artist.

Seo points at Choi, makes a dismissive face, and then points to himself.

“Pretty!” he chortles.

"How old are you?" I ask, turning the tables.

"Pretty!" He repeats, and vamps for his close-up.

"Pretty?” I make a face.

“Fritty!” He carefully spits out his “F.”

“Fifty?” I inquire, starting to comprehend.

"FRITTY!" he barks, mildly annoyed.

I then realize that Seo is very like a Midwesterner encountering a foreigner with an accent for the first time - he just repeats his words louder and louder.

"Forty," Choi chimes in helpfully.

I stare Seo up and down critically, and shake my head sorrowfully, "Ah! Too bad! Too old!"

Choi roars at his friend's stunned expression and thwacks him on the back several times. Seo cracks a big, yellow grin, displaying uneven, ragged teeth. Quite a charming smile, when it came down to it.

Feeling vindicated, I chuckle, wave broadly, and scoot off to my apartment with my much-scorned McLooty.

Choi and Seo, Oct. 31, 2005

TEACHING JOURNAL: Critical Thinking 101

One of the greatest complaints I hear from other teachers about Asian immigrant students is that they have limited to non-existent critical thinking skills. This is primarily due to the Asian style of teaching by rote and repetition (aka "drill and kill") rather than comprehension and analysis. This style of education should not be completely dismissed by Western style teachers, however - it is one of the many reasons why the Asian nations leave Western nations far behind in the dust when it comes to mathematics and scientific principles. The problem with this kind of education lies in the sectors requiring more innovation (scientific discovery) and problem solving (engineering), rather than cold, hard facts. Some economists have gone so far as to suggest that Asian workers will never be profound innovators, but will instead continue to rely on darn good imitation technology for economic growth.

This summer, I have begun teaching an English Literature class for incoming high school sophomores. We are required to finish one novel a week, so the pressure is quite intensive. The novels range from the classics (Tess of the D'Urbervilles) to modern fiction (The Kite Runner). The ongoing theme for our class is "The Human Condition." Although I had no say in which novels were assigned, I did find this theme to be a consistent, as the novel choices literally take the readers around the world and through space and time. The stress on international stories and writers (thank you, California political correctness!) is actually not a bad thing for developing critical thinking, I have found; it forces the readers to try and understand radically different viewpoints and character backgrounds, including political situations and alternative lifestyles.

There are two native-born students (male) and two fairly recent immigrant students (female) in my small group, and the differences in critical thinking abilities so far is subtle, though definitely present. We just finished reading Lord of the Flies. I myself had not read it since high school; I remember learning to HATE the book through too much close reading, so I was determined to focus on themes and archetypes, rather than reading comprehension and random plot points. Accordingly, each class period, we breezed through the required course multiple-choice questions (most of which were esoteric and/or downright silly) and focused instead on discussion and inquiry into motives and themes. I gave a fifteen minute lecture on the Nature vs. Nurture debate, and asked the students at the end of the week to write a literary analysis of Lord of the Flies and whether the events, characters, etc. of the novel support one side or the other particularly.

I have found that, in general, my native Korean students are very reluctant to open up and challenge an argument (or each other), especially if one classmate is perceived to be the class genius or teacher's pet. As I have only fours students, I instead focused on each individual student justifying each answer or opinion expressed. No one was allowed to repeat anything another student had said, and I got some very interesting answers as a result. I do not necessarily think that dead silence is a bad thing, by the way; it shows that the student is thinking.

As for the essays I received, well, it's clear that no one has been taught how to correctly format a reading-analysis essay (spawning this week's writing class focus!). That said, there were some attempts at real critical thinking. We still need to focus on, well, focusing our topics and using concrete examples, but I was impressed with the amount of thought that was put in to the actual content. That said, I also found a lot of my original "lecture language" fired back at me a bit too obediently; I would like to see more thought put into the issues that I and the other students raised, such as the nature of evil in Lord of the Flies. I suspect that this will come with time as we get deeper into discussion about "The Human Condition."

This week, we will be studying Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.

The Vacation (June 2007)

Disclaimer: The following story is a work of creative non-fiction. All of the events are as true as I remember them to be, but some creative license has been allowed as pertaining to the timeline, people involved, and some conversations. Names and certain minor details have been changed or disguised to protect privacy.

Hong Kong? Tokyo. Maybe. Ah - Mongolia by horse trek. Tibet. The more exotic, the better. Get me out of here!

I cautiously sipped my coffee as I screened through the vast internet of possibilities. My stomach had been grumbly all night, and the coffee wasn't helping. This vacation was long overdue. What to do with two and a half weeks of vacation?

Urghhhh. The coffee fought back. OK, maybe the coffee was a bad idea, all things considered. I put on my sandals, and went out the door.

Byeongjeom has never offered much in the way of entertainment for non-hookers or young people, but, as I reasoned it, it was better than staying indoors. I strolled under the public bathroom (which most people might call a freeway overpass), past all of the anmas (low-class brothels), and through the veritable gauntlet of boshintang joints (boiled dog meat - for virility). I noticed that one of the anmas has its doors open in broad daylight. I peered inside. The small room is divided by cheerfully-patterned curtained alcoves, much like a hospital room might be divided "for privacy." Must be airing the place out, I thought to myself. The green-haired hostess saw me staring, so I hurried past.

I stopped at the Family Mart on the corner to buy milk. For some reason, the thought of drinking milk seemed mildly repulsive at that moment, but I needed it for my cereal in the morning. I purchased the milk, queasily trying not to think about its taste or smell. My energy and enthusiasm for shopping suddenly evaporating, I returned to my apartment. I turned on the A/C, and lay down on my bed.

Five hours later, I woke up. I had missed lunch completely, but somehow I wasn't hungry. In fact, my stomach felt very queer. I pulled a package of mandu (vegetable and pork filled dumplings) and put on a pot of water. When it was boiling nicely, I added the mandu. I ate about four pieces of boiled mandu when the queer feeling in my stomach finally evolved into full-blown nausea.

I am a person who would rather die than throw up - to me, it is a matter of dignity and self-respect. To vomit means to lose the battle; I was this way as a child, and I will be this way until I die. Send me a sinus infection, pneumonia, a head cold, or any other annoying disease you want - I can take it. But mess with my stomach, and I am knocked to the ground.

I held it in for as long as I could, but it would not be denied. Sweat poured into my eyes as I grimly held on to my dignity. Then, my abdomen began cramping. Food poisoning? I wondered, as I dashed to the bathroom. Both the cramping and heaving were uncontrollable; I did not know whether to sit or crouch over the rim of the toilet. Somehow, I managed to avoid making a mess. After it was over, I lay curled up like a fetus on the floor, my arms wrapped firmly around my stomach. I had never been so miserable in my life.

For three more days, green bile continued to spew out of my body in any and every way it could. I did not eat, but I did keep myself hydrated as much as possible. Each day I trudged down to the Family Mart to buy a 2 liter bottle of Pocari Sweat (a sports drink), and I forced myself to drink at least one bottle a day. I had learned this trick from a bout with bronchitis; neither the local doctor or his nurse had been unable to find a usable vein to give me liquids through an I.V. (a genetic inheritance from my mother), so he had prescribed two full bottles of Gatorade per day to keep me from getting too dehydrated.

On the third day of illness, I decided it was time to see my doctor. I hailed a taxi, and spent the next half hour in agony as the taxi driver hit every pothole, and there are many, on the way to Bongdam-eup.

I sat in the waiting room for about five minutes before the waves of nausea became uncontrollable. Just as the doctor came out to call my name, I held up a cautionary hand, grimaced, and dashed for the squatter bathroom down the hall just outside the clinic (which had no toilet).

If there is anything more miserable than vomiting over a Korean squatter toilet, I don't know what it is. A squatter is basically a porcelain-lined hole in the ground, and if one doesn't quite have the knack for squatting while doing his or her business, one can end up with quite a nasty dunk into everyone else's filth. Given the state of this rural squatter, it was clear that cleanliness was NOT next to Godliness in this particular building, at least as far as bathrooms were concerned.

After the waves of green slime subsided, I returned to the doctor's office.

"Oh, you look bad, " the perky nurse tcchhed sympathetically as she escorted me in.

Dr. H. was one of the few English-speaking doctors in Hwaseong-si, and he had a very mild-mannered demeanor that instantly put his patients at ease; nothing seemed to ruffle him. He seemed a little puzzled over the green bile issue, and never quite gave me a firm diagnosis except to say it was probably not food poisoning. As a precaution, he prescribed a round of antibiotics, and asked me to check in with him often until my symptoms improved.

For the next two weeks, I periodically returned to the doctor's clinic. Sometimes I just checked in, but occasionally, he gave me an IV of fluids as well. My symptoms gradually improved, but I never quite fully recovered. Whatever "it" was had gotten a hold on my system and did not want to let it go.

Three days before I was scheduled to work full-time at our university's summer camp, I began to eat limited amounts of solid food. I had ceased the vomiting and diarrhea, but my stomach seemed to retain a sense of unease.

As it turned out, this was all part of the calm before the storm.

TEACHING JOURNAL: Generation 1.5 Students

It is both my pleasure and privilege to be currently working with several Generation 1.5 students in my classes and one-on-one tutoring sessions. I will be journaling my experiences this summer in order to bring attention to "silent demographic" that has been creeping into American public schools and causing some consternation among teachers. Having worked both locally and abroad in the ESL/ELD and mainstream English composition industries, I will also be working "aloud" (in written format) on creating some sort of teacher-training methodology for teachers who encounter this special group of students.

I have reprinted part of an article I wrote for The Examiner last year below to offer one definition of a Generation 1.5 student below.

A Generation 1.5 student:

• was born in a non-English speaking country.
• immigrated to the United States as a young tween or teenager (age 12 and up)
• usually has studied for three or more years in the United States or another English-speaking country
• frequently speaks two or more languages fluently
• does not speak English at home with their parents (although they may speak English, or language hybrids - such as Spanglish or Konglish - with their siblings)
• may (or may not) get placed in ELD classes in high school or college, although they may exhibit some ESL- like difficulties, particularly with written language
• do not have formal training in academic English (reading and writing) or American history
• are usually oral or auditory learners
  

More information on the challenges facing Generation 1.5 students (and part two of my Examiner commentary) can be found here.

Korean Drama 101

Korean dramas ("K dramas") hold a special place among Asian entertainment aficionados - they often have high production values, engaging (if somewhat conventional) plots, and a wide demographic appeal.  Playing a major part in the hallyu wave from Korea, K-dramas have become popular throughout Asia, the United States, and even South America.

Korean dramas typically run 16 episodes, but can run much longer if a series becomes popular enough (such as PRINCESS HOURS) or shorter if the series is a bomb. There are seldom second seasons (with the exception of some of the historical dramas), but that seems to be changing lately; talks are in the works for a second season of 2004's romantic comedy hit FULL HOUSE, for example. The longer mini-series format of most Korean dramas allows for more complex plot and character development than usually present on most American television.

Korean dramas can be roughly classified into four distinct thematic categories:

Romantic Comedy:  Lighthearted and playful, Korean romantic comedies offer viewers a golden opportunity to leave their brains at the door. There is almost always a comic love triangle, an oddball character or two, and a happy ending. The target for these dramas is usually teenagers and young adults, although older viewers might also get a kick out of the goofy hijinks of the characters. Popular examples of this genre are: FULL HOUSE, MY GIRL, and YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL.

Comedy Drama: Perhaps the most popular drama genre from the new wave of Korean exports is the comedy drama format. Comedy dramas are more serious in tone than romantic comedies (albeit, not by much), although they still include some of the plot devices present in romantic comedies. Korean comedy dramas are typically geared towards older teens and adults, as some of the themes may be a bit inappropriate (by Korean standards, anyway) for younger watchers. Several of the more popular comedy dramas have a definite edge to them, and deal with themes such as infidelity, difficult family circumstances, unexpected pregnancies, and lately, homosexuality. Popular titles include: COFFEE PRINCE, PALACE/PRINCESS HOURS, MY LOVELY SAMSOON, and BOYS BEFORE FLOWERS.

Melodrama: Although not as popular as they once were, certain Korean melodramas offer viewers something often lacking in modern American television - catharsis. In fact, some Korean melodramas offer enough tragedy and mischance for several Greek plays.  Some popular themes are star-crossed lovers, broken family relationships, illness, and just plain bad luck. The melodrama format appears to be fading out a bit lately internationally, but there have been a few Korean melodramas that have become popular due to strong writing and strong acting. Popular titles include: WINTER SONATA, SAD LOVE STORY, and EAST OF EDEN.

Historical Drama: Although not as popular internationally as the other genres, historical dramas have a wide following among older audiences in both Korea and Asia. In fact, a local San Francisco Bay Area channel offers Korean historical dramas dubbed and subtitled in Chinese. Many Koreans have "lost" their history due to various foreign invasions in the 20th century, so historical dramas are quite popular in certain circles. Of late, there has been more of a focus on the end of the Joseon Era (i.e. when Korea lost its monarchy to the Japanese) in dramas, although earlier periods are still explored. Popular titles include: THE JEWEL IN THE PALACE, JEJOONGWON, and CHUNO (THE SLAVE HUNTERS).

JOURNAL: What is this Blog About?

What is this blog about? Well, I don't exactly know yet. I am a person who has always been compelled to write about the world as I see it. One of the reasons I restarted my blog is to create an intellectual outlet for my otherwise dull academic life. Don't get me wrong, I love teaching ESL and tutoring English composition, but it is, let's face it, sometimes a bit repetitive. Just an observation.I am also "underemployed" at the moment (sigh) which means that I do not get many opportunities to interact with "like minds." Due to the abysmal economy, I have not been able to even find an adjunct position at any local community college; hopefully the latest round of applications will produce fruit!

Here are some things I think I will cover:

PROJECT 1: Asian Entertainment

Over the coming weeks, I will be posting and reviewing the good, the bad, and the ugly of Asian entertaiment, especially the art forms that are most popular internationally, such as Korean dramas, Japanese anime, and Japanese manga. I will also be discussing key issues with Asian entertainment in general as it applies to American viewers. Although there are tons of fan websites devoted to the topic, critical reviews are not always posted or "appreciated" by other fans.

I am even toying with doing some academic-style criticism of tropes and value systems (so as not to lose my touch!). Here are some (tentative) ideas:

1. The "hero" cycle in BLEACH (Japanese anime) with references to Joseph Campbell
2. Wicked mothers, with special reference to BOYS BEFORE FLOWERS (K-drama)
3. Vampires and adolescence in VAMPIRE KNIGHT (Japanese manga)

Feel free to comment or suggest ideas!

PROJECT 2: The Journey to Idiopathic Gastroparesis

For the benefit of those who followed my Korea blog, I will take my readers through the final three months of my stay in Korea - the end of my journey, as well as the beginning of a horrific, but strangely compelling disease. There IS humor in my new journey -without my sense of humor, I would probably be dead now - but there is also a cautionary tale for anyone planning to work in Korea.


PROJECT 3: Teaching Journal

I work in the San Francisco Bay area with a special demographic of middle and high school students labeled as "Generation 1.5" students. These are students whose language abilities are too high for ESL, but not quite adequate for academic English. When appropriate, I will be journaling my experiences in tutoring and teaching this group.

JOURNAL: A New Journey

It has been three years since I last blogged. Due mainly to the "interesting" accommodations (and village) I endured during a year working at a slightly unethical Korean university, I developed critical health issues that could have ended my life journey completely. Instead, it is my world journey that has indefinitely been put on hold, but that in and of itself has become a new journey.

One of the common personal narrative prompts I assign to the students whom I tutor is "Describe a turning point in your life." My students are young (middle to high school aged), and many of them have yet to seriously consider this issue of their life journey. Most students cite their experiences transitioning from Korean school culture to American school culture - a big change in any child's life, to be sure.

As adults, however, it becomes more challenging to mark the points where our journey changes course. One journey ends, and another begins, right? Or do we walk on the edges of parallel journeys? As adults, we tend to categorize our experience into boxes: LOVE LIFE, FAMILY, CAREER, FRIENDS, BELIEFS, ETHICS, etc. These boxes, however do not actually exist. A journey instead comprises of several "trips" that intersect and weave together into long stretches of time and space. They cannot be separated into convenient categories of experience.


My journey of late has been more desert than oasis, but I have learned something - endurance. You never knows how strong you are until you have had everything important in your life taken away. Lovers, careers, friends...POOF! All gone in a blink. What is left to live for? On the surface - nothing. Dig deeper, though, and you will find that if you just KEEP MOVING, you will learn to endure. In the desert, it is best to run over the hot sand so that you do not get burned. If you run far enough, you will make it to the next oasis, but you need to keep running, even if you are "running on empty."

My current journey began during the summer of 2007.