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: 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.