November 25, 2014: Gratitude

During my listening and speaking class today, we found that there was some time left over - a very rare occurrence in MY class. To fill the last five minutes of class, I started a group conversation about Thanksgiving traditions. I rather casually mentioned that Thanksgiving is a day when some families go around the table before or after the meal and name one thing in their life for which they are thankful; I also mentioned that many of the Christian families offer thanks to God for all His blessings on this special day, just like our traditional tale states that the Pilgrims did during that first harvest.

After I dismissed the class, one of my more thoughtful Middle Eastern students - a true old-soul-in-a-young-body gentleman - stayed after class to chat, as he often does. We often get into deep discussions about abstract ideas and meaning of life topics, so I was expecting something profound as usual - which it was, but not in the way I expected. He politely asked me to clarify what I had so off-handedly mentioned about giving thanks:

"Teacher, you said that Christians give thanks to God on Thanksgiving. Why only this time? We give thanks to God everyday."

I gently explained that, of course, we give thanks at other times. But then I started thinking. Do we? How much of this manifests itself in our prayer life? Do we give thanks at other times? 

We could learn a lot from our Muslim friends - to give thanks every day for each day of life we are given.

Through my conversations with my Muslim and Near East students, I have come to a greater understanding of the God of Abraham, and I see certain passages in the Old Testament in a new light as a result. Of course, the Christians are covered under the NEW Covenant, but we can also see traces of the Old Covenant among the peoples who still follow the ancient traditions of the near East. I have had some interesting discussions with my students, and I am still amazed and inspired by their absolute reverence for the Creator of All Things.

And their Gratitude.

November 14, 2014: The Reality of Winter

I played with the cats today at the local animal shelter. A sweet, but "cage-crazy" tabby called Azalea kept me company for at least 30 minutes. She kept up a cat monologue the whole time, and I felt extremely distressed for this animal, who has been there for 30 days and just wants a human companion. Actually, I think she would make an excellent companion for a senior citizen who lives alone.

Eventually, she calmed down, and even began to chase me around the room - picture, if you will, a chubby-cheeked brown tabby cat chasing an overweight middle-aged woman around a small room - and then plopped on my lap. When she finally settled down and seemed calmer, I put her back in her cage. She hissed, spat, and glared at me from the corner of her cage, making irritated cat noises the whole time. "BITCH!" she seemed to screech. And I felt oddly guilty.

But I also understood her. I am also feeling my cage right now - snarly, grumbly, and generally pissed off at this week. When I am working, I generally feel at peace (this week was the exception though), but then I come home to nothingness. Most of the time, the nothingness is a relief - I am an introvert, after all - but it can also be numbing, and even sad. This is why I prefer living near major cities, where there is always something to do. Here, there is a pretty good chance of getting snowed in - the nearest real city is 2 hours away.

The extreme cold and lack of sunlight isn't helping either. Truthfully, when I left California, It hadn't even occurred to me that I would have to deal with the physical reality of winter weather in a smallish university town. But I've made my home - such as it is - here and will have to learn to deal with it. I think the hardest thing will be spending Thanksgiving alone, but I will likely volunteer at some soup kitchen to keep my mind off things.
Sincerely,
The California Exile

June 22, 2014: Dallas Hospital Adventure, Student Edition

On Friday night, I volunteer, along with another teacher, to accompany a group of our international students into Dallas to go see an art exhibit and street festival. The bus ride is uneventful, aside from the second bus’s air conditioner mysteriously quitting. I am on the first bus, so I only hear about the other bus later. We arrive at the art museum and began queuing up to get tickets for the exhibit. Actually, because the new activity coordinator is a little inexperienced at “cat herding” international students, I step in, using my best teacher voice. In spite of our best efforts, some members of the group “escape” to buy dinner before we can give them their tickets, causing much confusion when they arrive later. We get the remaining students lined up (more or less) and begin counting heads. As I confirm the ticket purchase with the coordinator, she mentions that there is “kinda-sorta” an emergency call – a student has passed out from the heat but is now conscious and talking. I offer to go check him out, as I have the most updated first aid/CPR certification, and the coordinator needs to deal with the stragglers. The other teacher accompanies me. When I get to where the student is staying, he is sitting on the ground, outside the museum in the heat. One student is feeding him half of a Kit Kat bar, and the other student is holding a bottle of water; I caution the student with water to only let him sip it - it is not ice water, thankfully - but that turns out to be unnecessary. He seems a bit dazed and confused, but assents when I ask if I can touch him (as Red Cross protocol demands). His roommate says that the student had not eaten that day and had stayed up all night studying for a composition exam. I touch his forehead, and to my surprise, discover that he is cool and clammy. I instruct his friend to keep a cool, wet paper towel on the back of his neck to keep the intense summer heat at bay. He is able to say his name, date, and day of the week. He then starts trembling all over. By this time, a security guard is on the scene, and the security guard and I lift him gently and walk/carry him inside. As we lower him to a seat, he blacks out again, and his eyes roll back in his head. He starts trembling again, but his breathing is normal. The shaking – fairly mild at this time - continues, so I have a student hold his head gently in the correct position for clear breathing. In between seizures, his eyes remain at half-mast and stare in different directions. The security guard calls an ambulance. When the ambulance arrives, the student is really beginning to have a bigger seizure. I ask his friends if any of them are Level 5 or 6 – high enough English to translate if needed. His roommate and another friend volunteer to go with him as translators. I send his roommate with the ambulance, and his other friend goes with me in a taxi. The paramedics tell us to go to Baylor Hospital. What they don’t tell us is which Baylor Hospital to go to- there are three. The first taxi we hail refuses to take us – I got the impression he doesn’t like Arabs - but the second taxi knows exactly where to go. In the ER, the agent has some difficulty finding the young man, who has an unusually long “foreign” name. Eventually, the clerk locates him, and we go to his ER cubicle. He is in full seizure when we get to the hospital. In between the first two seizures, he is able to “appreciate” the cute nurses fussing over him, but can’t really speak or think clearly. The doctor expresses some serious concern over his condition, and the decision is made to move him to the ICU for “life support.” It takes three hours to get a bed, and he continues to have seizures throughout the night. During one seizure, the student becomes quite delirious, muttering “go away!” in Arabic and pulling at his IVs. He then starts crying, still not in his right mind. I cautiously lean over him to reassure the poor boy, placing one hand on his forehead, like a mother would if her boy were suffering. This is quite out of character for me, as I hate touching people I don’t know, but it seems to be the right thing to do at the moment. He suddenly grabs onto my other hand firmly …and promptly blacks out again. He has exceptionally long fingernails, so every time I try to pull my hand away, he digs into my hand with his nails. He doesn’t let go for 30 minutes, and my arm falls asleep. Finally, he relaxes into a deep slumber, and I am able to retrieve my hand. When he wakes up again, he is quite clear-headed. I re-introduce myself. “Do you know who I am?” He thinks hard, then smiles a bit, “Mom?” I explain that I am a teacher in his program. He is silent for a minute, then asks for “Miss Patria Teacher. I like her.” A few moments later, he says, in English, “I can’t control my body.” I tell him what has happened, but he doesn’t remember any of it. He goes back to sleep, but starts shivering again. The nurse brings a warm blanket, and this time, the shivering stops. Not a seizure. He turns on his side and begins to snore gently. His two friends are fairly calm during the episodes, and I am really proud of them for dealing with the situation as well as they did. They are both only 19. Actually, one of them really can’t deal with the medical procedures at all, but he always returns to the room once the medical staff leaves. The other one stays by his side, makes some phone calls (as do I), and finally connects with the patient's father through the Oman embassy. Two hours later, the orderly from ICU comes down to move him. “Como estas, Mr. Al******?” I gently explain that he isn’t a Spanish speaker. “Does he speak English?” “Yes. Well, as a matter of fact.” I guess he could pass for South American. Honestly, I am so used to dealing with people from other countries that the thought hasn’t occurred to me he might be mistaken for someone coming from a different country. He is a nice looking boy, I think a few minutes later, as I pray silently over him. I haven’t noticed before, but he has very chiseled features, with strong and regular bone structure visible under his tawny complexion; he also has a rather nicely shaped nose. A bit on the thin side, but he is still a teenager, so that may change. No wonder the nurses like him. I go up to the ICU with the patient to assist with answering the attendant’s questions. I chat with his friends quietly for about an hour as he settles in. We have one of those deep, serious conversations one tends to have at 3;00 am in a hospital room – Buddhism, Henry the 8th, and silly wars fought over camels, if I remember correctly. At 4;00 am, I leave the hospital, his two companions remaining as sentries in his room. I take a taxi back to the town I live in and have a delightful conversation with the driver from Ghana, who offers to go back for the boys later. I crawl into bed at 6am and do not wake up until 2pm.

August 11, 2014: To Be a Comedian

When something tragic happens to a person, he or she can get angry, get sad, or find the humorous side later. Even soldiers in war-torn countries make light of their situations with what we call "gallows humor," as they do in the movie WALTZ WITH BASHIR. Comedians tend to be people prone to "laugh at it later." But all those "laters" do eventually add up to a whole lot of "nows," and then there IS no funny left, only oneself. Some of the funniest people in the world are also the saddest people. A comedian is often the slightly eccentric individual who finds the humor in the most tragically ridiculous life situations - death, innocence lost, insufficient parenting, and poverty can all seem humorous in a certain light. These are the characters that Mr. Williams played - a doctor who used humor to deal with the fact that most of his patients were dying, a sad little man who has lost his childhood and sense of wonder, an embittered professor dealing with the loss of his wife, a man trying desperately to win back the family he has lost. This is the true man that many never noticed - a man trying to cope with some kind of loss, inner demon, or tragedy in the only way he knew how - through humor. What happens to a human when there is no humorous side? What if there is nothing left to laugh about? What if you lose the ability to laugh at yourself? What if all people see is the Pagliacci mask that you portray to the world? What if no one ever sees that you are hurting? The genius of Williams is that he showed his pain through his laughter, at least, to those who were watching closely. It should be no surprise to his most intuitive observers that he was a deeply unhappy man. RIP, Robin Williams. La commedia è finita!

September 15, 2014: A Delegation of Nations

I think I startled a Yemeni scholar today by shaking his hand. Actually, he took it pretty well, which I appreciate. I get the impression that they are kind of conservative in that country.

There is a delegation of international teachers and scholars on campus. They are from the most random countries you can think of... I am completely fascinated! I hope I get to meet some of them. They are here to learn about American teaching styles and education - its through some kind of government outreach program, I think. If I am wrong, I will edit this post tomorrow;)

Actually, I am just honored to MEET someone from Yemen. I have several students from Panama as well, which, oddly enough, some of my Saudi students seem to find fascinating. There are also Iraqi, Emirati, Omani, Brazilian, Chilean, Swiss (he's a watchmaker!), and Senegalese students.

How often does THAT happen, meeting and working with people from so many different corners of the earth? This is why I love my job and cannot give it up. I may have had to give up travelling...for the time being, at least, but at least I can still experience other cultures.

2011 - A Year in Review

As I try to sort out "the rest of my life," it occurred to me that writing is an outlet I tend to return to time and time again. Even if no one reads my writing, "putting it out there" ensures that at least I have spoken, even though the tree has made no sound when it has fallen through the forest of trees. I won't lie - I WANT to be heard. I spend way too much time alone - not by choice, but by the limitations of this new body I have been given.

2011 was quite challenging physically and emotionally, but I think I came out on top, at least in some aspects.

THE GOOD :)
The Job: Prospects are actually quite good. The learning center I was working at went under after the owner underwent an absolutely brutal and unfair divorce. Fortunately, I was hired for 30 hours of teaching at Olivet University, a seminary which trains Chinese students for missions and the church. My students are some of the best and most interesting people I have ever taught, as it happens. The program is very new, so the administration still has a large learning curve, but the slightly chaotic, last minute change atmosphere doesn't bother me too much. I will also be teaching a class, "Teaching Asians at Home and Abroad," at UC-Santa Cruz Extension. This is an intensive TESOL training program for serious ESL teachers, not a fly-by-night online TEFL scam, so I must always be on my toes. I am hoping there is full time work (with benefits) in my future, so cross your fingers.

THE NOT-SO-BAD:/
The Body: The Body is still not functioning as it should, but it is functioning at least at a basic level. My legs still get me where I want to go, and my feet don't particularly hurt, even after five hours of solid teaching. I will return to the gym this month to get my "base" training back up to speed. I was firmly rejected by CrossFit gyms, where I was assured even 80-year-old-grannies could do what I could not... on par with taking PE with the special ed kids in elementary school (due to "delayed motor skill development") - that is, total HUMILIATION! I received another "rotten egg" lecture from my "girl stuff" doctor - I am now in the "advanced maternal age" category, and Dr. N offered, during this same visit, to introduce me to a round of fertility doctors. Sigh. My gastroparesis has flared up a few times, but the flare ups are getting less intense, though they are still quite inconvenient. My figure is starting to "bag and sag" in strange places - my "baby face" will not last much longer, I'm afraid.  All that said, I will NOT go out with a fight...Aja! Fighting! I think I'll join a hiking club (too many psychos in our local hiking park) and start saving for a mountain bike. I miss hiking so much...

THE UGLY:(

The Love Life: Kaput. Done. Finished...for now. The relationship ended "not with a bang, but a whimper." Mr. M (who featured in How Not to Be Sexy, Part II - he DID call back, and we dated for several months) turned out to be incredibly self-centered, short-sighted, and emotionally immature. I usually don't date "younger" for this very reason - it has only worked once for me, and this was NOT it. There were also some cultural things that didn't work for me - Mr M was very tight-lipped about his cultural background, but I pieced the clues together and I have deduced that he was Sudanese. I am not overly feminist, but I do expect to be treated as an equal - he really hated when I stood up for myself and my beliefs. He stood me up one too many times (didn't bother to call)...and that was that.

I do try to be optimistic, but the truth is "the one that got away" was "the one." We only find a "soul mate" once in a lifetime, but the Master of the Universe chose to take him away from me. Three years later, he turned up in my world again, but in the cruelest twist of all: "Thou hast made of me an adulteress." Everyone that comes after will always pale in comparison, but maybe it is time to "settle." It is one of the greatest ironies of life that once a woman has grown up enough to know both what she can give and what she needs in a relationship...the ocean of possibility is no bigger than a puddle. My biggest and ONLY fear, like many single women of "advanced maternal age" (mid 30s) is to live alone and die alone - as we watch our friends, one by one, get married, have children, and chase their "happily ever afters." No one's life is perfect, but spending that life always fighting completely alone to just stay alive is just plain exhausting.

2011 was a year of learning about what I could do and what I couldn't - I gained a bit more self-respect, but lost a little more faith in humanity. I am facing the New Year with strength, if not enthusiasm. That has got to count for something.

How NOT to Sexy Part II

After this weekend, I think I can safely confirm that gastroparesis is definitely NOT a sexy disorder.

I went out on my first date in three years. Yes, I know that is a long time, but I have always been one to have long dry spells...usually followed by a deluge of offers. In Korea, I made the astounding discovery that a girl COULD have three dates in one weekend...Unfortunately, at the time, I "chose" the wrong one to stick with. Sigh.

Alas, there was no deluge this time, but that is to be expected when your belly bloats out to the rough equivalent of an eight month pregnant soccer mom (i.e. relatively toned elsewhere). I have had more "feeling gross" days now than I ever had when I suddenly gained 80 pounds (without any provocation, I might add) my early twenties. But I digress. Gastroparesis does not make one feel exactly frisky or interested in the opposite sex; in fact, it makes one queasy at the thought of "intimacy," if not downright seasick. I mentioned this to one of the nurses who saw me early on, and inquired as to why I hadn't had any children "at my age."

As things happen, I randomly met a research biologist (long story there), who asked me out for dinner. I accepted without thinking things through too much; we had talked before extensively about medical research, and I had mentioned in passing that I had a chronic medical disorder that was being researched at Stanford. We agreed to meet at a local chain restaurant for dinner on the following Saturday. Unfortunately, I made several key mistakes in my Saturday, which resulted in a date that will never be forgotten. They were:

1. I was due for my medical massage on that Saturday morning. This entailed a jaunt over the mountain to Watsonville, which is 90 minutes each way. This also meant that I would be a bit shaky on my feet afterward; the massage therapist always manages to shake loose whatever my digestive system is holding on to and to purge the toxins in one massive "screamer" episode in the bathroom. This can occur within one hour of the massage, or one day, but it is always guaranteed to arrive at inopportune moments. What I should have done is reschedule.

2. I ate an unfamiliar food for lunch. As it it turned out, the half sandwich I ate was harboring hidden fat, according to the nutritional information I later pulled up on my iPad. Excessive fat can be agonizing for a gastroparesis patient, as it slows things down even further. I was in very poor condition until an hour before the appointed meeting time; I took a long, long, walk to "shake things down, " which appeared to work, at least at first.

3. I was late for my date. My father, who had driven me to my appointment (I have problems driving over mountain passes), left something in my car, took my keys to retrieve it, then forgot to return them to me. This would have been no big deal, except that he and my mother had gone out on their anniversary dinner. Fortunately, they arrived home just in time, but I was delayed ten minutes, which would have been fine if I hadn't blown right past the freeway entrance in my hurry to get out of there. I had also made a point of "don't be late!" to my date - I hate being the late person, and my pet peeve is late people. So I basically made myself look dumb (which was gently commented upon!).

The dinner itself was lively and entertaining; we had a good chance to get to know one another. He did look a bit startled when I only ordered soup, but I gently reminded him that I have a digestive disorder and therefore a restricted diet. The dinner seemed to sit well with me as we chatted about various things. We went outside and walked around, and finally sat down in his car. The moment was right, things were sweet...He leaned in for his close-up, and then...it happened. A completely unmotivated wave of nausea swept over me...I cringed back. He stopped and looked at me, puzzled. The nausea passed, and he tried again.

The anticipation of a sweet ending to a nice evening, plus and uneasy stomach is not a combination of physical sensations I would recommend to anyone. Perhaps one set of sensations set off the other, or maybe they converged, or maybe there was something else at work in that moment; whatever it was, it was one of the most unpleasant convergences of sensations I have ever had - Come-to-me-my-love and No-not-tonight-honey-I-have-a-headache definitely do NOT  belong together in the same body at the same time.

And then, to add insult to injury, the electric storm broke.

Waves upon waves of electrical shocks swept up and down my digestive tract, pulsing up to my throat, then down to my bowels, then up again. It was like an electrically-charged hand was scraping the inside of all of my internal organs. I doubled over in pain, grasping my stomach, hoping and praying that I wouldn't lose control. When this happens, I never know whether I will vomit or lose bowel control - sometimes, it's both - so I was in a bit of a panic, as you can imagine.

I told my date I suddenly wasn't feeling well. "It's not you, it's me" voiced itself through my clouded brain, but that didn't seem to be an appropriate response. At first he didn't seem to believe me, and even seemed to take it as a personal rejection. Finally, something in my tone of voice and my doubled over stance (you think?) convinced him I was genuine. He helped me to my car, and offered to follow me home to make sure I was safe. I gently rejected his offer, but promised to call him when I got home.

I kept my promise and called him when I reached my house, but I knew by his tone of voice he was not happy. He said he would "call me sometime later,"  but I knew he wouldn't do so. And he hasn't.

I was up most of the night after that. The electrical storm continued for a few hours more, but ultimately resulted in nothing. I finally finished "purging" the released toxins the next day, but it was too late by then.

I am a bit disappointed at my body's betrayal, but I know it is probably a good thing; a man who can't handle a girl at her worst is probably not tough enough to stomach (ha!ha!) the chills and thrills of a gastroparesis patient. The gastroparesis forums are full of stories of men who give up and walk out on their sick wives and girlfriends; I can't imagine GP patients having a very active sex life, especially if they are female (ahem- think about it).

I am, oddly enough, perfectly fine today - almost normal in fact. I even went to the gym, and got in a good workout- best I've had all month, in fact. I am not one to wait by the phone for a call that will probably never come, yet part of me does feel I owe him an explanation.

BODY WARS: A New Start

Here's to a better year that last year! 

2011 Resolutions:

1. To lose at least ten pounds.
2. To start my own business OR find gainful employment (I would prefer the latter).
3. To update my blog at least once a week.

My resolutions are rather modest this year, as I am realizing that I am NOT Superwoman. I am actually quite discouraged when I think about it too much. Fortunately, I am a fighter, not a quitter!


2010 was a year of disappointments, if I may be brutally honest. I am still "underemployed," changes are afoot where I AM employed, and my fitness dreams became a crash and burn when I seriously injured both my shoulder and knee in separate incidents. I am still single, still suffering from gastroparesis, and still looking for a new career. SO what's in  2011 for me?

1. To lose at least ten pounds. This is a much more modest goal than I expected to make. My good doctor at Stanford has told me that people with my medical condition either a) waste away to skeletal proportions or b) blow up like a fat slug (of course, she was much more tactful than that!). I appear to be in the"b" category. My metabolism "looks" normal in my blood work, but the doctor says my metabolism can still be in "starvation mode" without showing up in standard tests. I need to keep eating regularly and make my workouts even more moderate.

The truth is, I have been overweight since I turned 19, even though my food intake and exercise were similar to what they are now...with more fresh fruits and veggies of course! I was actually underweight through my childhood and teens, and got horribly teased about anorexia (I refused to eat the greasy cafeteria food, and instead brought my own healthy lunch to school). This appears to be a family tendency. I once met an actual eugenics professor in Korea, who told me, "The Scandinavian curse is real, young lady. You all look like supermodels in your teens, then PPPTTTHHHH [he puffed out his cheeks and gestured a rapidly expanding waistline] in your twenties."


2. To start my own business OR find gainful employment. There is no work in Silicon Valley for teachers right now; they are getting laid off left and right. Adult ESL AND public school ELD programs are being cut from local school districts... in one of the most ethnically diverse areas of the United States. I have looked into other endeavors of employment, but my skills are very strongly canted towards education and international relations.

I am instead considering starting a non-profit vocational English center in the South Bay to deal with the loss of all of the ESL programs, especially for adults. Of course, I have no income to speak of, no capital, and no connections as of now, but these are areas I could at least begin to work on. I will also take a class on grant-writing.

3. To update my blog at least once a week.
I certainly got off track in this area - got caught up in several life mini-dramas (and they WERE dramas!) and therefore, got momentarily sidetracked. I will sincerely make an effort to continue writing regularly.

The Day the Space Shuttle Blew Up

We were late.

The other fourth grade teacher had set up the television in the classroom next door, but we had not yet filed into her classroom to watch the launch. In spite of what current naysayers claim about public apathy towards the NASA space program, to us, it was going to be a day of excitement. Our Weekly Reader had always been chock full of articles about space exploration, and we had done an extensive unit the year before on the nine planets. I had read everything I could about the "Teacher in Space" program; 321 Contact had run a small spread about Christa McAuliffe in its science-for-children magazine, and there had been numerous interviews with the aspiring space teacher in the local media.

Mrs. M. lined us up in a row and ordered us to get ready to leave. It was an unusually cold morning in central California, so we bundled up carefully to go outside to get to the other teacher's classroom. Then, something strange happened.

Mrs. H., the teacher who had the television, left her class unattended for a moment, and raced up the external stairs to our classroom. She pulled Mrs. M. aside and spoke to her a low voice. Mrs. M. looked stunned, and sank down behind her desk. We stood at the door, ready to launch and very confused.

Finally, the much-shaken teacher spoke one simple sentence, "The Challenger blew up."

Immediately from the back of the room, an unmistakably male-child voice piped up, "AWESOME!"

The teacher glared at the miscreant (a special education student, if I remember correctly), then ordered us to hurry out the door.

The new media played the footage over and over again as we watched the events unfold; we watched the trail of debris streak across the sky, over and over again. We listened intently as the reporters gave a play-by-play of the events surrounding the shuttle launch and failure. Oddly enough, no one seemed overly traumatized by the disaster. Being children, we never even considered the implications of the space disaster. I privately wondered what happened to the teacher who had gone up in space; I would ask my mother later about what happened to her.

Our teacher brought us back to our classroom and tried valiantly to set up a television set, but ultimately failed in her technical endeavors; the best she could do was a snowy, grainy picture on the set, and we quickly lost interest in trying to make out what was happening. Classroom life went on.

At the end of the day, I went out to stand in line to be picked up as usual. The principal stood by the construction cones that marked the traffic lanes as she usually did, calling student names through the electronic megaphone (a device much in favor with yard teachers in the 1980s). I watched for and waited eagerly for my mother's familiar, Kermit-green station wagon, but my name was never called. Two or three students were still waiting with me after all the children had left, but even they were finally called out to their respective cars.

I stood out on the black-top pavement silently fuming, alone and confused.

Mrs. W., the principal, came over and gently took me by the arm. We walked to the office together, and the secretary looked up at us, stunned. Then, she smiled.

"Your mother just called us. You will have to wait in the office for awhile."

"Well, where is she?" I whined.

The principal and the secretary whispered a bit, then turned back towards me.

"Your mother is with Mrs. G. Mrs. G. is having her baby today."

My face brightened. "My mom is her birthing coach," I told them, proudly.

The two administrators looked a bit flummoxed by my reply, but quickly recovered.

"You may sit in the office until your mother comes."

I sulkily plopped down on the office chairs. I was really annoyed for two reasons - first, that my mother was late, and second, that the administrators thought I shouldn't know about birthing coaches. It had always irritated me, especially in childhood, when people assumed I was stupid. Actually, I had known the "facts of life" since third grade, when a wonderful documentary called "The Miracle of Life" had aired on PBS. My mother and I had watched it together and engaged in several fascinating conversations about the scientific reality behind where babies came from and just how they got out of their mother's bellies. I have never felt awkward about discussing the facts of life, and for that, I can thank my mother.

Scenes from the end of the film flashed through my mind as I sat there, wondering how Mrs. G. was doing. I couldn't imagine Mrs. G. doing what the mother in the film had done, especially as the film ended with a rather graphic birth scene (God bless the mother who agreed to let the cameras in on the "business" end of birth).

I then thought about the teacher in space. Visions of Jetson-like ejection seats filled my imagination, but I knew, in my heart of hearts, that she hadn't survived. How would they find the bodies? I wondered. I knew the shuttle had pieces had probably landed in the ocean due to the softly continued play-by-play commentary of the shuttle disaster on the office radio. What was she thinking when she fell into the sea?

At five-thirty, my mother finally came and picked me up. Even the principal had left.

"Mrs. G. had a C section. The umbilical cord was wrapped around the baby's neck twice, so they had to get her out."

"Ohhh." I paused. "Did you know the space shuttle blew up?"

"Yes."

We were silent on the way home. My mother's face looked drawn and tired.

"The baby is too early, " Mom commented.

I wondered if Mrs. G. had seen the shuttle explode while she was waiting for the baby. She had.

"They are calling the baby Laura. She is a very tiny preemie. We will have to find special clothes for her."

I thought about this for a moment.

"Well, she can wear my Cabbage Patch Kids' clothes." I had just gotten a Preemie Cabbage Patch Kid.

No one spoke for the rest of the journey home.

This last weekend, I went to a wedding reception for the "baby." As I watched her standing next to her sweet and loving new husband, the events of the explosion kept sneaking through my mind. How amazing is it that life left this earth on the same day that life began on this earth? The baby struggled very hard at first, to live, but she ultimately won the battle. She grew into a bright little girl and a beautiful young lady.

I was a little saddened also, watching her cut the cake with her new groom. The unwelcome thought that the baby I once held in my arms will join her life with another before I do - if I ever do - gave me pause for an excruciating sense of loss. My arms ached- a reminder that my biological clock will start winding down shortly, no doubt- but only for that moment. There are moments when life seems to pass us by; we become spectators of our own circumstances and never really get a chance to live as we would have chosen.

But she has. Her life was not always easy, but she survived. I sincerely wish her and her groom the greatest blessings on their happiness. May they value each and every day that they are given together in life and love.

JOURNAL: How NOT to Be Sexy

I suffer from a relatively rare gastrointestinal disorder known as idiopathic gastroparesis. Gastroparesis is exactly what it sounds like - a paralyzed stomach. It is "idiopathic" because the doctors can only guess at the cause; in my case, it appears I picked up a stomach virus in Korea that attacked the nervous system in my gastrointenstinal tract. As a result, I suffer daily from morning nausea, occasional vomiting, postprandium fullness (feeling full after a couple of bites), and, ahem, lower gastrointestinal distress. It is not a fun or sexy disorder, and there are times I sincerely wish to die from the pain. Oh, and I make a great after dinner companion - let 'er rip!

Usually, the symptoms dissipate after about two years, but they didn't in my case. Instead, I enrolled myself in a clinical trial at Stanford University. The Stanford trial worked in my case, and my symptoms are under control, if not eliminated completely. In fact, I have been feeling tolerably well the past couple of months. Of course, finding full-time work in an economic depression is another story.

So, where did the fun begin? This could probably have all been prevented if the almighty rural university I worked for in Hwaseong-si had heeded my request for human-grade housing - you know, functional plumbing, standard electricity, a location NOT next to a run-down dog meat farm that smells like dog shit, or the red light district that smells like booze, vomit, and stale sex most of the time (they "air out" the establishments once a week). You know its bad housing when even the college student who moved your furniture in for you calls it a shit-hole. But I digress.

Now, I find myself on the horns of a new dilemma. Most people with gastroparesis LOSE weight drastically. At my low point, when I was subsisting on saltines and yogurt, I weighed 147 pounds. I am 5'2". Yes, I lost a pretty measly 20 pounds, even when I was literally starving to death (and losing my hair, by the way). As soon as I began to eat almost-normal portions, and I do mean almost-normal portions, I shot up to 174 pounds, 8 pounds heavier than I started! How does that work?

It is a GOOD day when I can intake 1500 calories; my average is 1300-1400. According to my calorie calculator, I should be maintaining weight at the very least, not gaining weight. There is absolutely nowhere where I can change my diet; I am severely restricted to low fat and low fiber, which means a high amount of easily digested carbohydrates. Unfortunately, carbs have always been my mortal enemy; I was brought up to eat healthy food (not much processed food or fast food appeals to me even now). I allow myself one doughnut a week as a treat, but that's it!

The fact is, however, I AM STILL FAT! I have joined the YMCA, and I will be hitting the treadmill three times a week in addition to my twice a day, 3o minute brisk walk. I am also looking into a few group exercise classes (shudder shudder). I am, quite honestly, at my wits end. The truth is, I have NEVER had an easy time losing weight. Back when I was rich (hah!), I worked with a personal trainer twice a week. Over the course of a year, I lost a mere ten pounds, but I did gain quite a bit in muscle mass! The trainer kept insisting I was straying from my diet (I wasn't), and we went around in circles for quite some time about it. I finally gave up.

SO, here are my current stats:

WEEK 1:
Height: 5'2"
Weight: 174 (yikes!)
Size: 12-16 (!), depending on what

I figure I need to lose 36-40 pounds to look proportionate; I think the BMI calculator is a bit off in my case, as I am a big-boned, big-chested, and abysmally short Viking lass (from both sides of the family).

The ESL Camp (July-Aug. 2007)

Note: This is a rough draft; I will be continuously editing this entry, so don't be surprised if things change!

After only three days back on solid food, I found myself back at work, staring down a group of rowdy fifth grade boys and sixth grade girls at the University's mandatory "ESL Summer Camp." The camp would run for three very solid weeks.

Although I was in poor physical condition and had very little energy due to my mystery illness, I decided that I was not going to let this camp get the better of me. It was my last scheduled teaching activity before I moved back to Seoul, and I genuinely wanted my students to enjoy their learning. The fact that I was already set to move onto a better job in Seoul also made it easier for me to really let loose (damn the conventions) and let the students enjoy their time in my class.

These ESL camps are not quite what we, as Americans, consider to be a "camp-like" experience. In fact, the only thing "camp" (meaning 'fun') about these institutions is that the kids sleep over, usually in the university dorms, eat questionable cafeteria food, and engage in team-sport activities. They do get some fun time on Fridays, which are designated field trip days, but the rest of the time is spent in classes and "educational activities." Even the more "fun" activities, such as song, drama, and game show contests, are considered serious competitive activities. The pressure is always on these students to perform, perform, perform, like well-trained monkeys at competing for a single banana.

And then there is the teacher vs. camp counselor dynamic. Imagine, if you will, a group of dignified (at least, when sober) college professors, ranging from their late twenties into their early forties - tweedy suit jackets, matronly dresses, somber expressions, etc. Now, imagine the same group of professors wearing flip-flops, shorts, and t-shirts. Enter the camp counselors. The average camp counselor is about 18 years old, and he or she has been likely culled from the above-mentioned professors' ESL classes. If the student happened to have failed the basic ESL Freshman class...no worries! The camp counselor may even find himself or herself assigned to the very professor who failed him or her the previous semester. In the world of the ESL camp, the counselors are given unprecedented power over the children; the professor-cum-English instructor has no jurisdiction whatsoever over what the students do outside of the classroom. A certain power struggle is bound to ensue. And it does.

All of that notwithstanding, there are some positives, as there is in any situation, with the right attitude. Textbooks for the classes are pretty much chosen at whim without regard to level, but this is actually a GOOD thing. When you give a beginning English class a high-intermediate textbook, naturally the class has no clue what they are reading or talking about. This gives the instructor much leeway in "interpretation" of the so-called lesson being taught. Typically, this means the instructor has to "fill in" the blanks with his or her own activities. I chose to have students use the practically useless dialogues as acting skits. With difficult reading passages, I acted out the dialogue and fired simplified questions about what the kids had just seen. I did my best to make the activities as pain-free as possible, and as a class, we did have a good time most days.

One day during the second week of the camp, a junior high group was giving me particular grief. Instead of getting angry, I decided to stage my own revolt against convention. I brought out two "Twister" boards and a spinner and let the students have at it. We were able to cover "left," "right," body parts, and colors in less that 15 minutes. The kids loved it, and it became a "reward for good behavior" boon when the class acted appropriately on any given day. The camp counselor said nothing; I heard later that "my actions had been reported" to the camp director, however! I also taught a different group (8th grade) the "Head and Shoulders Knees and Toes" song, complete with gestures. That backfired on me, I'm afraid; their camp counselor decided it was a good punishment song when the class got too rowdy.

One of the biggest challenges of these summer camps, however, is that the teacher spends mealtimes in the cafeteria with the students. This proved to be a big problem for me, as I had just started eating solid food again. When going through the cafeteria line, I would only take a scoop of rice and some soup; I was taught never to waste food as a child, but this is apparently not taught in rural Korea. The camp director and his assistant noticed my meager eating habits because the kids began to comment on my skimpy meals. One student even bluntly commented,"how can teacher be so fat" since I was not eating very much. Finally, the camp assistant (co-chair of the ESL department) asked me point blank why I was not eating with the children. I patiently explained to her that I had been very ill and had no appetite, so I wasn't taking more food than I could eat. She seemed to take this as some sort of insult to Korean food. She furthermore accused me of "setting a bad example" for the children by not eating what they ate. The point was left hanging, but every time I stood in line, I could feel her eagle-eyes assessing my food portions.

Her silent criticism annoyed me at first, but I came to understand her point-of-view after a few days of observation. I came to realize that the real reason she was angry at me was because I had refused, in no uncertain terms, to accept a renewal of my teaching contract; I had had enough of the nefarious activities associated with the University, and to tell the truth, was ready to fly on back to civilized Seoul like a bat out of hell by the time she had taken over the position. She had been hired shortly after a financial scandal had rocked our small department, so she had inherited a real mess from the previous position-holder. She was also a female administrator at a male-dominated university, which is no easy position to be in rural Korea by any stretch of the imagination. Upon further reflection, I discovered that I actually secretly admired her. I still do.

So I compromised. I began to take small helpings of everything on offer, even the fish, which caused me to become nauseous every time I saw it (the fish in Korea is served whole, complete with eyeballs) or smelled its rancid odor. I became quite proficient at pushing food around on my tray to make it look like I had eaten more than I had; rice, soup, and occasionally some bits of meat were the only things I ever actually ate. I suddenly began to understand how a person with a closet eating disorder might feel, although I was also perfectly aware that I would have vomited if I had tried to eat anything else. My appetite never did fully recover after my illness, although the significance of this escaped me for several months thereafter.

My only intentional rebellion against the university surfaced during the Human Jeopardy tournament. Human Jeopardy is actually quite a fun activity when it is not taken too seriously. A hybrid between Jeopardy and Tic-Tac-Toe, Human Jeopardy consists of five columns of clues, one column per category. As in regular Jeopardy, the clues are ranged from top to bottom by difficulty, the bottom row being the most difficult. Here is the human twist: If a teammate gets a clue correct, they go and sit on the spot occupied by the clue. The other teams then try to strategically block each others progress towards an entire row (up-and-down, diagonal, or vertical). Just like in Tic-Tac-Toe, the first team to get a full row wins the game.

Each instructor was instructed to create their own category, give a lesson with notes about the selected category, and create the clues for their own category. The teachers would then rotate around the camp, teaching their topic to one class each evening. The students would then study the worksheets and the information given until the test day. On the night of the competition, each teacher would MC their own category. The unwritten rule was that the category had to be something purely educational and, one might say, esoteric - for example, US Presidents, Canada, Mountains of the World...you get the idea. I decided to shake it up a bit.

Keeping in mind the average age of my students, I created the category "Gross Guts." In order to give the students a little taste of American summer camp fun, I decided to do my unit on the digestive system. I gave a general description of the mechanics of the digestive system as an opener (with diagrams), then launched into a discussion of the main causes of burping and farting. To exhibit the mechanics of burping, I talked about the histories and mysteries of pizza burps. I then gave a fart demo with a generally biologically accurate blown up balloon. The real kick, however, was the competition. I pitted boys against girls, and taught the class what every grade school child in America knows - the armpit fart and the skin-suck-and-blow fart. I also taught interested students how to swallow air for the most effective burps. Oh, did I mention that this "class" was scheduled right before the children were supposed to go to bed? The camp counselors were not particularly amused, but they were, I noticed, very attentive to the lesson!

My homeroom students acquitted themselves very well in the various camp constitutions, although they did not win any prizes. The highlight of the competitions was when I gave Jack, the class troublemaker, the lead in "Doorbumble's Magic Goose," our entry in the drama competition. I figured if he was busy memorizing lines, he would stay out of trouble. I kept my class clowns busy with court jester activities. As it so happened, Jack took to his part like magic, and he did manage to avoid trouble for at least a week - so did the class clowns. At the end of camp, when we were saying our goodbyes, Jack shyly passed me a note thanking me for the best camp ever (which I still have), then burst into uncontrollable tears. He could not be consoled at all, but instead clung to me with a sort of stoic desperation that I had never, and still have never, seen in any child before.

I really felt sorry for Jack. Had I just made things worse for him? This was a clearly intelligent and charismatic kid who did not get along well with his submissive Korean classmates. Through no fault of his own, he simply did not fit in. Because he had always been in trouble, no one had apparently bothered to see what this child could actually do. Of all my students, Jack's English improved the most dramatically, especially after the drama. Having given him the opportunity to shine, I now wondered if he would ever get an opportunity to show his talents again. Maybe he would have been better off not knowing he had ability. The harsh reality is that Jack was the son of economically challenged parents from a rural school district with limited resources. If he had been born in Seoul, he might have had a chance, but out in the agricultural community, his chances were pretty slim.

With these disquieting thoughts in the back of my mind, I returned to my apartment, exhausted. I slept through the entire weekend following the camp. Monday would begin a new adventure.

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

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.

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.