When I think of the morning there,
there, where the orange Korean sun gently
brushes my cheek and greets us all
as we slowly sit silently in the crowded teacher workroom,
there, in a foreign land with a fauna of gifted lilies,
potted orchids, and ornamental grasses,
surrounded by a sea of bespectacled, black-haired teachers
(the song sang neems)
swimming against the undercurrent,
amidst waves of textbooks, workbooks and tissue boxes,
beneath discarded paper cups, juice bottles, and rice cakes,
feet swinging mildly
in high heeled flippers,
there I wait,
not with excitement or curiosity,
not with glistening eyes and a fluttering heart,
but calmly, for the daily bread,
the manna to sustain us through our long-winded days.
The door opens triumphantly
to reveal the principal with big smiling teeth and wire-rimmed glasses,
his balding, bobbing head propelling him to the front of the room.
Behind him, and over him,
the school chaplain,
ever impressive, ever stern, ever starched white shirt.
I bite my breath, and smile
all around the black heads bob like glimmering seals in a wave of greeting
as the mighty ships pass.
Unceremoniously, without greeting,
the pastor sounds:
“Chanson ga sa baek ship sam.”
Without pause, in one simple swell of movement,
the hymnal pages find their place.
I pause, and wait for
a song I won't really sing,
notes I don't really know,
with a tongue I do not have.
And I am left dry and hungry
amidst the seals barking.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sunday, September 7, 2008
How do you like them Alps?
I don't consider myself an athlete (just ask Herbert). However, I have put a few mountain tops under my feet on occasion. On Saturday one of the English teachers at Andy's school took us on a hike to one of the most famous mountains in this area. Mountains are actually all around us and look like - "Andy, how would you describe the mountains here?" - "Oh, just say like massive turtle shells, only pointy." Ah, yes. And I'd say imagine those shells covered with thick moss. They are quite pretty, but are certainly not the jagged snow-capped peaks we are used to. As with most Korean names, I have forgotten the name of this particular mountain, but Andy tells me it's called Mohawk Sun (that's my phonetic conversion).
In gazing upon the mountain from the bottom, it didn't look that high. Piece of cake for us hardcore B.C.-ers who climb REAL mountains. We got out of our car in the parking lot and Mr. Ahn started to gear up. By gear I mean his hiking boots, hiking pants, fanny-pack full of water, visor, white gloves, and the final touch: a towel placed around his neck. We were in shorts and running shoes and had a little water bottle clutched in our hands (the bottle proved to be quite annoying to carry, but I found a solution: between "the girls").
We got started, and about a half-hour into the hike, I started to get a bit winded. I mean, we were climbing straight up on stone stairs that soon became really rough and steep stone stairs. The teacher (Mr. Ahn) is around 50 years old and hikes a mountain before breakfast every Sunday faster than most people. This would have been useful information before I wore my thickest, tightest shorts that were clinging to me for dear life. I had dudes in dress clothes passing me. I had old ladies passing me. I was telling myself the story of the Little Engine that Could as I willed my body up the stones. I wondered if Andy would be embarassed if I crawled.
Finally, we reached the top where we learned that it is customary to have some wine. Wine? Now? Before I start my descent on noodle legs? Not only was it wine, but there were ice chunks in it and it tasted like mould. It was apparently ginseng wine - velly good for you, it delicious. I was starting to get a little woozy, plus it was disgusting, so it was thrown in the bushes. We were encouraged to also have some snacks. Er, no thanks. I don't usually eat chilli peppers, onion chunks, and garlic stems dipped in bean/chilli sauce on the tops of mountains. Do they plan to ride down on clouds of bad breath?
The view was spectacular, though. We could see all of Jeonju in the distance, plus many other mountains. It was a beautiful day with a blue sky and the air was pretty clear. Also, it was really bad timing for me to not bring the camera. I considered bringing it, but decided that it would be annoying to carry all the way up there. In hindsight, I'm still divided as to my actions. On the one hand, I probably would have thrown the thing over a cliff to lighten my load; on the other, the view was pretty awesome and it's too bad I can't share it with you.
We took a different path on the trip down, which was much better. Not only that, it was really quite pretty. We were able to chat a little more and learn more about Korea. Apparently, hiking is more popular with women. Over the past few years women's roles have been changing. No longer do couples have as many children, so women have more free time. They are now able to get together with friends to hang out. Interesting.
So, that was our hike yesterday. This morning my calves reminded me that I'm not an athlete and would I kindly be sure to stretch a little more next time?
In gazing upon the mountain from the bottom, it didn't look that high. Piece of cake for us hardcore B.C.-ers who climb REAL mountains. We got out of our car in the parking lot and Mr. Ahn started to gear up. By gear I mean his hiking boots, hiking pants, fanny-pack full of water, visor, white gloves, and the final touch: a towel placed around his neck. We were in shorts and running shoes and had a little water bottle clutched in our hands (the bottle proved to be quite annoying to carry, but I found a solution: between "the girls").
We got started, and about a half-hour into the hike, I started to get a bit winded. I mean, we were climbing straight up on stone stairs that soon became really rough and steep stone stairs. The teacher (Mr. Ahn) is around 50 years old and hikes a mountain before breakfast every Sunday faster than most people. This would have been useful information before I wore my thickest, tightest shorts that were clinging to me for dear life. I had dudes in dress clothes passing me. I had old ladies passing me. I was telling myself the story of the Little Engine that Could as I willed my body up the stones. I wondered if Andy would be embarassed if I crawled.
Finally, we reached the top where we learned that it is customary to have some wine. Wine? Now? Before I start my descent on noodle legs? Not only was it wine, but there were ice chunks in it and it tasted like mould. It was apparently ginseng wine - velly good for you, it delicious. I was starting to get a little woozy, plus it was disgusting, so it was thrown in the bushes. We were encouraged to also have some snacks. Er, no thanks. I don't usually eat chilli peppers, onion chunks, and garlic stems dipped in bean/chilli sauce on the tops of mountains. Do they plan to ride down on clouds of bad breath?
The view was spectacular, though. We could see all of Jeonju in the distance, plus many other mountains. It was a beautiful day with a blue sky and the air was pretty clear. Also, it was really bad timing for me to not bring the camera. I considered bringing it, but decided that it would be annoying to carry all the way up there. In hindsight, I'm still divided as to my actions. On the one hand, I probably would have thrown the thing over a cliff to lighten my load; on the other, the view was pretty awesome and it's too bad I can't share it with you.
We took a different path on the trip down, which was much better. Not only that, it was really quite pretty. We were able to chat a little more and learn more about Korea. Apparently, hiking is more popular with women. Over the past few years women's roles have been changing. No longer do couples have as many children, so women have more free time. They are now able to get together with friends to hang out. Interesting.
So, that was our hike yesterday. This morning my calves reminded me that I'm not an athlete and would I kindly be sure to stretch a little more next time?
Friday, August 22, 2008
Under a New Umbrella
Tonight we walked home in the rain - laughing, chatting, sharing an umbrella amidst the busy streets of Jeonju, Korea. My hand clutched his arm tightly so we could both avoid the warm August rain (it dripped off our elbows anyway). The sun was freshly set, nestled behind the lush mountains in the distance, though there were buildings in the way as we walked. Cars contantly honked as we jumped over puddles and dashed by turning white cars. I don't think they paint cars any colours besides white, silver, and black (our little Jellybean would stick out much like we do, even with its dull finish). In an attempt to have appropriate footwear, I had mistakenly worn my cheap Payless shoes all day - not only did I have blisters, but my feet reeked to high heaven when I took them off to enter restaurants or schools.
In our stomachs we each had yet another free Korean meal from the pockets of generous strangers in suits and ties with embedded rhinestones. Tonight, I had confidently poured the entire contents of a little dish onto my rice bowl (containing all sorts of strange bits). Apparently I was only supposed to add a few drops and so made the dish kind of gross by accident. The one principal, AKA, Andy's boss, (he who does not speak any English at all and forgets that we speak no Korean and so will look right at us and speak a mile a minute in Korean - kinda funny) switched mine with his, and had to get an extra order of rice to tone it down. This was the third meal we had shared with principals, sitting around tables, conversing in broken
English and gestures (and me secretly gagging everything down).
It's new, but it's good. Very good. And we are wet and smiling as we climb the stairs to our new little apartment that smells just a bit like sewer. Tomorrow we may buy bicycles and maybe some new shoes.
In our stomachs we each had yet another free Korean meal from the pockets of generous strangers in suits and ties with embedded rhinestones. Tonight, I had confidently poured the entire contents of a little dish onto my rice bowl (containing all sorts of strange bits). Apparently I was only supposed to add a few drops and so made the dish kind of gross by accident. The one principal, AKA, Andy's boss, (he who does not speak any English at all and forgets that we speak no Korean and so will look right at us and speak a mile a minute in Korean - kinda funny) switched mine with his, and had to get an extra order of rice to tone it down. This was the third meal we had shared with principals, sitting around tables, conversing in broken
English and gestures (and me secretly gagging everything down).It's new, but it's good. Very good. And we are wet and smiling as we climb the stairs to our new little apartment that smells just a bit like sewer. Tomorrow we may buy bicycles and maybe some new shoes.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Eats, shoots, and leaves
This post is dedicated to Miss Smith.
Most people assume that once English teachers leave the confines of their classrooms, they continue obsessively proofreading wherever they go. You know, they take out their Sharpies mid-squat in the bathroom stalls and place an 're to the "your a b--ch." Or they ask for the manager at Red Robin because they were a little too heavy with the apostrophes on their nacho's. Or they giggle with glee when they find a red pen in their purses to more effectively correct the errors in the church bulletins (far more entertaining than sudoku could ever be).
I was going to write about being a nerd. I was inspired by my evening of tootling around on the computer with Lord of the Rings playing on the TV in the background. I then reached for a cookie and couldn't help but notice that my sinful little mini sandwiches are called Double Stuf Oreos. And I think it was at that point the English teacher in me began to rage. I inhaled dramatically and sort of got some cookie crumbs lodged in my lungs or something. I started mumbling about how it's no wonder my students can't spell worth sheet. I automatically had a list run through my head of all the companies trying to be all hip and stuf with their marketing. Like, for instance, I hate it when restaurants write "late nite" on their signs. Oooh, what about "drive thru?" Ca man! Put a little more f into the "effing" part of market-effing-strategy.
You can check out the messed up grocers' signs to test your editing skills. It's fun.
Most people assume that once English teachers leave the confines of their classrooms, they continue obsessively proofreading wherever they go. You know, they take out their Sharpies mid-squat in the bathroom stalls and place an 're to the "your a b--ch." Or they ask for the manager at Red Robin because they were a little too heavy with the apostrophes on their nacho's. Or they giggle with glee when they find a red pen in their purses to more effectively correct the errors in the church bulletins (far more entertaining than sudoku could ever be).
I was going to write about being a nerd. I was inspired by my evening of tootling around on the computer with Lord of the Rings playing on the TV in the background. I then reached for a cookie and couldn't help but notice that my sinful little mini sandwiches are called Double Stuf Oreos. And I think it was at that point the English teacher in me began to rage. I inhaled dramatically and sort of got some cookie crumbs lodged in my lungs or something. I started mumbling about how it's no wonder my students can't spell worth sheet. I automatically had a list run through my head of all the companies trying to be all hip and stuf with their marketing. Like, for instance, I hate it when restaurants write "late nite" on their signs. Oooh, what about "drive thru?" Ca man! Put a little more f into the "effing" part of market-effing-strategy.
You can check out the messed up grocers' signs to test your editing skills. It's fun.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
So Much for Good Lent-tentions
On Ash Wednesday, I did a morning devo with my students about Lent. I pretty much copied what was said from the pulpit on Sunday, but whatever. I sounded smart, and that's what matters. Anyway, I told my class confidently that I was giving up chocolate for Lent and was going to replace chocolate with praying more specifically for my family. My students left class that day being inspired by my pious example.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
Sidebar: In my defense, on Sunday our pastor had said that back in the day the Catholics would fast from sex, even, during Lent. a) I assumed everyone would know that. b) Thank you Jesus that I'm not Catholic!All right, so that was dinner. Around came dessert time, and out of the magical kitchen (wo)manned by ladies with bun hair, appeared these squares with cream cheese filling, and chocolate pudding on top. It looked pretty good. Except, with my big fat mouth, everyone knew I couldn't eat chocolate. However, I never specified which KIND of chocolate, and clearly pudding is in a totally different category than, say, chocolate bars. I had a whole table witness my first step into denial and also my first strike as a faster. The dessert wasn't really that good, though. I think my guilt tainted its choclatude.
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Barf-tacular Glory
Sorely disappointed.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
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