It's a complicated situation, Mama.

My parents' class is one of my favorite times every week. It reminds me a lot of working back in New York. "Parents" is a misleading term, however. Of course, it's a mothers' class. I like sitting and talking with the women, getting their perspective on all things Korean and how my life and background is different from theirs. Today they found out they are my mother's age, as we were doing the unit on talking about families. They were shocked to hear how young my parents got married, and asked if it was common where I was from. I answered that it was.

Last week I found out that they all had arranged marriages, of a sort -- met their husbands and a few weeks later, were married to them. They described it as a kind of adventure and pointed out how sometimes our families may be able to make better decisions for us than we can make for ourselves. Some are very happy to be where they are (Incheon) and some are fairly disgruntled that they had to move here from Seoul or from the country just because this is where their husbands are from.

I look forward to getting to know them better so I feel more comfortable asking more questions. That's one thing I'm still adjusting to. Koreans, on the whole, ask a ton of personal questions almost as soon as they meet you. It doesn't make me uncomfortable at all, as some have apparently heard it does Americans, but I am still uncomfortable asking loads of questions in return. One of the many little miscommunications. Here, asking personal questions is a way of showing interest and building a connection with someone, whereas at home it's labeled "nosy". Here, if you don't ask personal questions it can be misinterpreted as being disinterested, but I still feel rude and forward if I do.

I love the idea of being able to ask anyone anything as soon as I meet them. Just like I love the idea of not wearing shoes at work. With the shoes, it took me two weeks to not feel disrespectful for taking my shoes off at work. It will also take me a while to adjust to not feeling rude when I ask personal questions.

Wah!

Suddenly Blogger works at work!

I'm going to put a whole bunch of junk up now while I have the chance. Almost all boring work stuff, but maybe helpful/interesting to other people wanting to know what to expect if coming over as teachers.

Wednesday:

So I'm writing this at school on a Wednesday with the intentions of posting it at the weekend, so that I don't have to sit and write blog posts right in front of Mike at his apartment, because that's weird. Especially when he's included in the post somehow.

This week is proper full-on classroom teaching for the first time. Of course I've been shitting it all week, but there have only been a few rocky classes, and I'm starting to get the hang of it. It has to be said that this was partially a moronic choice as far as career path for yours truly, given that public speaking definitely falls near the number one spot on the list of top ten things I'd rather die than do. But I'm starting to get used to it.

The boys are a decent mix of those who are petrified, turning bright red when I walk over and refusing to lift their heads from their desks and those who are practically (and sometimes literally) falling out of their seats with the desire to partake in bad behavior. It's hard enough to keep on top of a room of forty fourteen year old boys, without the fact that they all speak a language that I do not -- an enormous advantage to troublemaking. Luckily, Liz's famous "Look" translates rather well, and a well-timed glare from across the room puts a swift end to whatever it is the little monsters have their heads bent together whispering about.

Some favorite tricks so far:

Telling a less aware student to ask me, "Do you love me?" I have absolutely no idea what inspires innocent boy after boy to voluntarily repeat what another boy is telling him to say in front of the entire room without knowing its meaning, but it seems to work every time.

Asking me in rapid Korean if I know who the president is and then busting a gut when I look confused.

And of course the ever popular "Do you have a boyfriend?"/"No."/"Pick me!"

I think of my in-class coteachers as small, medium and large. Referring to their level of helpfulness, not their actual physical sizes, although that pretty much matches up as well. No one bothers to actually introduce themselves to me, maybe because they assume a foreigner won't be able to remember/pronounce their names, and they're half right -- I usually butcher pronunciation, but I do at least tend to remember. As well as I can American names anyway -- sometimes I get nervous when I'm being introduced to someone and names just disappear into the void. So Small and Medium don't have names. Small doesn't appear to actually speak English and so she can't translate my instructions for the class when they don't understand, so those classes are just general confusion. Not sure what to do about that, since it's a lower level class as well. She also appears to be sort of mean and not very compassionate toward the boys. She just interrupts my class to shriek at them in Korean, even though they are ultimately misbehaving and goofing off because they have no idea what I'm telling them to do. She told me they are "naughty boys" and "animals" and she was quite serious about this. I'm not really sure why she works here.... Medium speaks excellent English but is very concerned about making sure I stick to the textbook, which makes me want to scratch my face off it's so boring, so I know what it must be doing to these energetic young men.

Large is Mr. Kwan. We like Mr. Kwan very much.

Mr. Kwan wears jeans everyday, even though all the other men wear suits, and he told me that in his classes, I don't have to teach from the book. Or rather, that there were ways to fit the book into ten minutes and do something better with the rest of the time. He thinks the book is tedious and pointless (because it is) and that I would be better utilized in just speaking with the boys, getting them to talk, discussing culture and (he said it, not me) music. And here is the very, very most important reason why we like Mr. Kwan: Mr. Kwan invited me into the top secret second floor men's room smoking club.

I don't know what it is with this school, but it's the same over at Mike's as well -- somehow absolutely everyone knows everything about us. Gossip spreads like brushfire. So, even though I have never once had a cigarette anywhere near campus, Mr. Kwan knew I was a smoker. I asked him about Korean women and smoking and he said Koreans don't like it when women smoke, so they don't for the most part, at least in the open. Then he said he thought that was stupid, and asked how I am smoking during school since there is no smoking on campus. I told him I've just been waiting until after school (no easy task this week with all the nerves). He told me that some of the younger male teachers sneak cigarettes in a specific men's room upstairs between classes, and that any time I want to go, I should just send him a message and he would escort me.

So yes. Mr. Kwan is our very favorite so far.

Today is Immigration: Round two. Yesterday I had to go pick up my medcheck results from the hospital, since my coteacher just disappeared this week (some sort of surgery, I'm told.... and Mike is told as well). Fake coteacher got another teacher to drive me, and she kept apologizing for not speaking English. This is something that I don't understand at all. It absolutely could not be more different than the US. If I had a thousand won for every time someone has apologized to me for their English since I got here, I could blow this taco stand and retire to an empty beach somewhere right this very now. In the States, people take offense if they even so much as hear someone speaking another language. The concept of this beautiful young woman who was going out of her way to do me a huge favor because I don't speak Korean, even though she had never even met me before, apologizing to me was appalling. I think I managed to explain it thusly:

"We are in Korea, yes?"
"Ah... yes."
"I don't speak Korean. My fault."

And it really is. And I'm going to start serious work on that.

What it comes down to is, I will always be at a disadvantage in this country as far as figuring out what the hell is going on. But it doesn't have to be nearly as bad as it is at the moment. And the easiest way to solve this helplessness that's been driving me absolutely mad (despite the fact that absolutely everyone has gone out of their way to help in anyway they can -- it's the having to ask that gets me) is to learn Korean. Or at least start trying.


Thursday:

Today was the school festival and a much needed break for my little socially anxious nerves -- no classes. Instead I got to sit in while Mr. Kwan and Medium coteacher did quiz games with the boys.

Last night things got a lot better after I met Mike and his coteacher Mr. Khang at what we've knighted the "smoking pit" over in Mike's neighborhood. We drove to Immigration to put in for our ARCs (a fairly efficient experience for something government run) and that was all fairly straight forward. Then, when we came out I could definitely tell we were near the water. I thought I had heard Mr. Khang say something about it on the way in. I said I was excited to be living close to the water and preempted any potential razzing from Mike by explaining that, although he lived close to the water his whole life, I didn't see the ocean until I was seventeen. Mr. Khang generously offered to drive us to the seaside since we were so close so we could take a look.

Well. It made my whole day better, even though it was raining. I'm not a big fan of umbrellas and I especially hate it when people try to hold their umbrellas over me (if you've ever seen my hair, you know it's not a good idea to even tempt it with something it can get tangled around), but Mr. Khang was so insistent -- every time I told him I didn't need the umbrella, it would move further over my head, leaving more of his exposed, until eventually he was holding the umbrella over only me. I can't handle all this courtly behavior -- I'm supposed to be the gentleman in any given situation.

We saw some men who had the biggest fishing poles I have ever seen in my life (hold your tongues, euphemism enthusiasts). I like fishing but I think I would feel ridiculous with a little ordinary pole standing next to those guys (seriously.... hold them).

Today I realized that the reason the men who share my immediate office do not speak to me is quite straight forward -- they don't speak English. Or at least, they think they don't speak English. I was sitting at my desk watching yet another warning in Korean cycle across my computer screen and I couldn't help but laugh. Not only do I have absolutely no idea what the computer is trying to tell me, but as far as I know, there's no one in the office I can ask for help. That's when the one we'll call Sharp Dressed Man walked past and saw my palm-forehead situation. He leaned over and looked at the screen, said something in Korean, looked at me, pointed to the screen. I did the universal face for I-have-no-idea -- which will just be my face soon. More Korean. He called another teacher over and they chin scratched for a minute over the entire matter. Then he patted me on the shoulder and walked away. Fifteen minutes later, Fake Coteacher came in to tell me that a computer repair man had been called and would be here to fix it sometime tonight.

Ever since then, he says hello when he walks past. I can't understand anything he says, but he always talks with loads of enthusiasm and at absolute top volume, which is hard not to laugh at sometimes, if only because I cannot imagine what he could possibly be saying all of the time that he's so passionate about. He also paces the office sometimes waving a big stick in the air and slamming it against his palm, every now and then sticking his head out into the hall to scream something to the boys, then pulling his head back in and laughing. I like him. Too bad I can't talk to him.

Friday:

I'm one proud peacock this morning. Yesterday, Fake Coteacher came in and explained that, since the previous nitwit native took off with all the textbooks for the parents' class, I would need to nip out and buy a new one to teach them from for... today.

Maybe I should explain about my school's situation real quick. Apparently, in September, the school acquired its first native English teacher, a girl named Michelle. Well. Michelle didn't eat Korean food, apparently. In fact, Michelle didn't eat anything except hamburgers and fried chicken, according to my coteachers. Michelle had a very hard time adjusting to both Korea and the task of wrangling boys in the classroom everyday. So Michelle waited until she got paid on the 25th of the month and then she packed her shit and flew home, without even giving notice.

So my school is paying very close attention to me. The principal, who is like the Godfather, as far as I can tell, told me (through Coteacher's translation) that if I have any problems at all, I should tell him. And everyone is obsessed with how I like the food. They seem excessively satisfied when I tell them I like Korean food, very much in fact.

So the point is, I can't tell how much of the extremely kind treatment I've received since I arrived is just normal, and how much of it is people going out of their way to make sure I don't have a conniption fit and flee the country with all of their won. So I've been going out of my way to seem as capable as I can without actually getting myself in too far over my head. So when FC told me I needed to buy a textbook, I decided not to panic, but to nod as though it were the simplest request in the world. I've got to learn how to do these things sooner or later, right?

God bless the internet and expat forums.

Kyobo seemed to be the answer -- I could kill two or three birds with one hour and a half subway trip. Not only do they have a decent selection of ESL/EFL textbooks, but a respectable foreign language section and a stationary shop. So I did some characteristically anal subway planning (Bupyeong - change to Line 1 -- Seoul -- NOT Incheon -- Bugae next stop, etc. etc.). You get lost on the subway enough times, you learn to cover all your bases.

Of course, it was pouring when I headed to the subway station, which is a decent ten or fifteen minute walk from my flat. I really, really need to learn how to dress for the weather. I never could get it right in New York either. I always end up completely sopping wet when it's raining out, no matter what I do.

Well, long story short, although the Seoul subway system is slightly more confusing with slightly less obvious English than the Incheon line, I somehow made my three transfers without a single mistake. I did stop to ask a punk rock station shop clerk if I was getting on the right train at one point -- I was. As soon as I walked out of the subway turnstile or whatever it is here, I ran almost smack into the tallest man I have ever seen -- a foreigner. He tried to say hello, but I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me or not (which is stupid because anytime I hear English these days, it's almost exclusively directed at me) until I had kind of walked past him, and by then it would have been weird to turn around and go back. Anyway, he was massive. And my very first fellow foreigner sighting.

Kyobo Bookstore was pretty alright, what I saw of it. There really is a decent supply of ESL/EFL materials, which I had doubted there would be for some reason. The English language book section is limited, of course, and probably not where you want to head if you're looking for something specific, but there are enough odds and ends to be able to pick something decent up if you're not being particular. Me, I went for Che Guevara's Motorcycle Diaries and Hwang Sok-yong's The Guest. I even got a membership card.

After successfully completing my textbook mission without having to ask a single question or favor of my coteachers, I went above ground for just a minute to smoke a cigarette and bask in my own glory. My first official glimpse of Seoul.

When I went back into the station, I ran into an Indian woman who works for a nonprofit involving WWOOFing -- which stands for a lot of things, technically World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, but more commonly and colloquially know as Willing Workers On Organic Farms. It's basically a sort of loosely organized network of organic farms all over the world who take on travelers to work the farms in exchange for free room and board during their stay. It's a fantastic idea that allows those who aren't trust fund babies to travel at much lower costs, and also allows for a chance to really get to know the place you're visiting, and the people who live and work there. Plus, it's a great way to help the organic farming movement develop and thrive. She gave me her phone number and email address and told me I was welcome in India anytime. It's just another place to add to the ever-growing list.

Then there was my new drunk businessman friend. I have a knack for picking up intoxicated public transportation buddies where ever I am, so I guess it should be no surprise that my first venture into Seoul would end up this way. My favorite part of that conversation was when he decided to inform me, "I have drink tonight." You don't say.


Annnnnnnnd.....


Today:

I'm getting some very unpleasant vibes about how shit works around here. Well. Not vibes, so much as just things people are saying outright to my face.

My first (seventh) graders are divided into two categories: low and high. That's cool. As much as it sucks to be slapped with a "low" label, I'm sure, it's really helpful for me not to have the lows mixed with the highs so that I'm having to either bore or confuse (I think I do enough of both as it is). However, I get the feeling these "low" labels are sort of ... well, universal.

This shit is confusing, alright? I don't know if it's a Korean thing or a public school thing or a Korean public school thing or what, but my schedule gets changed so often that I can barely keep up with it. Often times I don't know what classes I will have until right before they begin (which makes it immensely difficult to be and feel prepared for class). Maybe there's some bigger picture I'm not getting, but let's just say, I don't blame the kids for being confused -- I'm confused.

This morning I was sitting at my desk waiting for the boys to file in and there was some sort of mix up about who was supposed to be here and who was supposed to be somewhere else. So Medium coteacher turns to me and says, "Sorry. They are a low class. They are confused."

This would have been perfectly acceptable, had I been giving them their instructions in English. However, they were being dealt with in Korean by a Korean teacher. So apparently "low" doesn't just refer to their English skills.

I've even noticed, as I walk around during class, that the kids are extremely quick to turn on one another. One kid at the table will be completely lost, and everyone else is shouting at him, watching me out of the corner of their eyes, shaking their heads and aishing when the kid doesn't know what to do. Or even worse, laughing.

That's the wrong road to plow with me in charge, however. You wanna laugh at your buddy? That's fine. The next question is coming to you in loud, rapid-fire English -- loud enough to draw the attention of all three surrounding tables. So you go ahead and tell me you don't know in front of not six, but eighteen of your buddies, alright? Little shits.

What surprises me is that they seem to expect me to somehow be proud of them or impressed by them giving their classmates a hard time. I'm not. At all. And it may take all year, but they will get the message.

I also don't know how off limits it is for me to touch the boys -- the male teachers do, but I haven't seen a single female teacher touch a student. But that's one of those things they are just going to have to complain to me about directly. I don't have many options with the lower classes and it's especially bad when I manage to catch a kid who doesn't appear to have any clue what's going on, and therefore can't understand the difference between me saying, "You're a stupid little twat who will never amount to anything," and "Don't worry about it -- it's okay." So shoulder squeezes and back rubs are all I have in those cases.

Remember I said I'm not down with making the boys do things in front of the class? Today I was told directly about that one. I've been giving them exercises and then walking around from table to table making them practice either in front of me or with me directly. So I know that everyone is doing what they are supposed to be doing, at least for as long as I'm standing there. And I know everyone has heard at least one example of how to do the exercise correctly. But today a totally random coteacher I've never seen before told me I should be calling on the boys to practice in front of the class. I nodded, of course, and then half-heartedly made an attempt to quiet the class, before quietly asking a couple of boys at the front of the room to practice for me. I don't see the point in publicly humiliating the boys. If they can say the sentences to me one-on-one, then I don't need them to prove they can say them in front of the entire class. And I don't want the boys to be terrified to come to my class. I'm working my ass off to make them as comfortable as possible, so that they stand a chance of actually opening up and speaking to me in English. So until someone who's actually in charge of my paycheck tells me I need to be making the boys recite in front of the class, I'll just continue to nod politely and completely ignore that suggestion.

So I'm slowly learning what I can get away with, with each coteacher. Fake Coteacher insists that I use the CD, which is stupid. Medium Coteacher insists on doing the lesson entirely out of the book. Random New Coteacher wants the boys called in front of the class. Small Coteacher doesn't want anything except not to be here, apparently. And Mr. Kwan wants class to be as entertaining as possible.

(Guess who's still my favorite.)


And if anyone read all of that, you should probably just give up on your life now.

Love.

Marx was just a motherfucker.

I've been writing about the weekdays but it's all pretty long and rambling... I'll pare it down and put it up next weekend maybe. Plus for some reason Mike's computer won't let me paste anything. I guess I shouldn't complain, even though it is a Mac..... Ahem. As for today, it was too much not to cover, and since I'm at Mike's, I'll take advantage of the chance to mention it.

Okay. So we went to Itaewon. I'm a little ashamed, but it was a rough a week and to be fair, our main motive was to find What the Book?, an English language used bookshop. I'm proud to report I did make it into Seoul all on my own on Thursday night (in the rain) to Kyobo to pick up some textbooks for my parents' class. 

Anyway. So we saw a sign for an all American diner and couldn't resist. It wasn't really a diner, but it was close enough. And I did have a cup of coffee and a cigarette right at the table. When we went back out to try to find the bookstore, a fucking monsoon blew in from nowhere. We wandered up and down but the map was just too confusing, and the streets to crowded and absolutely everything was too wet. The sky cracked with lightening and we found ourselves huddled under my umbrella on a street corner completely and utterly helpless. We both lit cigarettes just to have something to do. "Fuck it," I said. "Let's just go into that pub." 

We hustled up the stairs, shaking off as much water as we could. When we walked in, I immediately knew it wasn't a place I was supposed to be. The place was swarming with all middle aged Western men, every other one with a young, beautiful Korean woman on his arm. Fuck it. We're here. There's Guinness on tap. It's dry. And we can smoke. We ordered our drink and grabbed a couple of stools in the corner. 

Well. Who knows me? Yeah. So of course, an excessively inebriated Irish man materialized and immediately drew us into an animated and coarse conversation. Eventually his previous victim, an American solider, was drawn into the conversation as well. And you know what? It was a good chat. Brandon (the Irish guy) was trying to tell me that Marx was just a motherfucker, although I seriously doubt he's ever read a word of his work, and that Westerners were just trying to "spread the good word of democracy." 

"Imperialism, you mean." 

Eventually this course of conversation and my various responses led to the question, "Are you a feminist?"

"Is that a trick question?" 

"No. I'm a feminist. I prefer the company of men, but I love shagging women." 

We stayed for a couple of pints and I was considering one more, until I took a trip to the unisex bathroom, where Brandon also happened to be. When I came out of my stall he was stood at the sink with his pants undone examining himself in the mirror. "I look fucking great! I've lost loads of weight. I'm really happy about this. Can I kiss you?" 

I'm afraid that was a big fat no. I may not be the classiest woman alive, but you've really got to draw the line somewhere. 

So I left Brandon there in the bathroom and went back to the table to tell Mike I thought it was probably time we should be going. Luckily, Brandon followed me back and gave Mike a big kiss instead! 

Anyway, the rain was worth it. 

More about the job and actual life here soon. 

Now, gentle readers, apropos many requests, a few photos. There aren't any of the actual streets outside because I feel conspicuous enough without pulling out a camera. But I'll get over that eventually, I guess. 

People keep giving me random beverages at work, so I'm building up quite a collection. Ramen is good, and those cookie things are absolute rubbish unless you dip them in coffee. 

Mike: "If we can't read the warning labels, does that mean they're not bad for us?"

Warning: Don't fall down the elevator shaft. 

The shower, which is not as weird as it looks like it would be, other than soaking the toilet seat. 

Desk, at home.

Bed, close to the floor just like I like 'em. 

Everything I own is red and black. 

Tiny fridge. 

Out my kitchen window.

Same. 

Kitchen. 

Ah. I don't want to be foreign today. A little tired of going into shops and having absolutely no idea what's going on. Everyone is so nice about it though. 

Mike asked me last night if I thought it was harder to be a foreign woman or man in S. Korea. I said, woman, without a doubt. He said he thought so too, but wanted my opinion. The thing is, all of the women at my work are really kind, but they are all married with kids and I don't have much in common with them. There is a group of younger men who seem to be more my speed, but they won't say a word to me. Even the lunch room is segregated -- men at one table, women at the other. And as far as either Mike or I know, I am the only woman in Incheon who smokes. And everyone is really, really, really confused that Mike and I are just friends. 

"You come with your boyfriend?"

"No. Friend." 

"Friend?"

"Yes, he's my friend."

".... He? ...Friend?"

"Yes...."

"..........Friend?"

Mike said he has a younger male coworker who asked him to go out sometime, and so he'll ask him if he and some of his friends want to come out next weekend. I'm really not one for actively making friends, but I can't have regular contact with my friends in other places for a while, and I think it would help with the overall feeling of being out of place. A little. 

 

An Unidentifiable Feast

Ah. Back at Mike's. I met him at my subway station earlier and we walked back to my place. I took him to the little market in my neighborhood and we bought a few things, then headed back to my flat. We both see upsides and downsides with both of our locations. Mike's apartment is much nicer, but a lot smaller. His neighborhood is sort of more metropolitan -- mine is smaller and more intimate. He has fewer hills, but more traffic noise.

I don't think he grasped the awesomeness of the cliff leading up to my flat until he saw it for himself. And had to carry our groceries up it. 

We sat at my kitchen table for a while looking aimlessly through my guidebooks, discussing lesson plans and making shopping lists while we cooked ramen -- which is much better and considered real food here. We took turns eating because I only have one set of chopsticks, which, I'm happy to report, we are both mastering quite well. 

When we were walking back to the subway to come back here to his place, some of my students were running past on the sidewalk. "Elisabeth! Elisabeth! Elisabeth!" I have no idea how this kid already knows my name, but I think he's the same one who shouted down the hall after me yesterday. I stopped and said hi and he said my name a few more times, waved and smiled, and ran away. The other two with him just stood there looking pure stunned. 

My washing machine plays a song when it's finished. And so does my door when I unlock it. 

We spent the afternoon trying to sort out how to make Mike's washing machine work and watching robot soccer on tv. Now we're going to head out to the market for a few things and possibly venture into a restaurant to humiliate ourselves. We were talking today about how stupid we feel all the time, but how we're getting used to it. 

We've decided we're going to write a version of An Movable Feast for S. Korea and call it An Unidentifiable Feast. We're comic geniuses. 

Lots and lots to say. I'm at Mike's place stealing his stolen internet. I won't have internet until after I get my alien registration card. I also meant to take photos to post but I've been so busy actually doing things. We decided that we've been good sports about everything all week long so tonight we're eating sandwiches from 7-11 and speaking fluent English.

It's been really good so far, minus some slightly panicked moments every now and then. The food is amazing, even though I don't know what it is and the smokes and booze are cheap. I found a small grocery store near my apartment, but I don't recognize anything in it. Which would be fine, except I can't read the instructions for how to cook it. But my coteacher took me to a proper market near the subway station last night and I got some decent stuff. I love grocery shopping.

My neighborhood is great, except for the massive hills that I'm too fat/nicotine addicted to be climbing. I'll climb miles of stairs, no problem, but hills do me in pretty quickly. I guess I'll get used to that though.

I have a fake coteacher -- I'm not really sure of exactly who he is -- who has sort of adopted me a bit. He told me his apartment is near mine so he can help me "all the time so much." And he actually did save my ass earlier this week, after they drove me to my apartment and told me to show up at 8:30 the next morning. I had no idea where I was or where my school was, and although I wandered around for hours trying to find it, I had no luck. I had finally given up and returned to my apartment, and my doorbell rang at 8 -- Fake Coteacher had come to drive me to work -- "my service to you." Thank God for that.

I'm still waking up at 4 and 5 in the morning. I don't mind too much though -- it's nice to have some quiet time before work.

I work at an all boys middle school, which is amazing. I love boys, as everyone knows. They are loud and rowdy and horrible, and it's fantastic. I haven't had a class yet, so I'm still a bit of a celebrity around the school -- the boys crowd around the office door between periods and gawk and shout, "Oh nice! Nice!" and "Hi!" and then they run away when I look up. I was introduced to one class and it transformed into a football stadium as soon as I walked in, hooting and hollering, boys standing on chairs cheering. I don't have a clue how I'm going to keep these kiddos under control, but I better sort it out soon, because I'm walking into a full schedule next week with no coteacher in the classroom.

I had a parents class today, which my coteachers totally threw me under the bus for. They told me yesterday I wouldn't need to prepare anything because I would just introduce myself and watch the coteacher teach the class. Then, thirty minutes before it started, Fake Coteacher told me I would be on my own, but chose a lesson from the book for me to teach. The lesson, I might add, was entirely in Korean. Which I don't speak. Luckily, only three mothers showed up. When I was introducing myself, I noticed their English was fair, so I started to teach the stupid "What are you doing/Do you like....?" lesson and then stopped about thirty seconds in.

"This is slow for you, yes?"

They agreed.

"Do you want to talk instead?"

Yes. So I just pulled up a chair and chatted with them for the full hour, which is my forte -- conversation was more than 50% of what I did toward the end in New York. It terrified me when they first started giving me conversation sessions at Pratt, because I'm so shy and awkward with people at first, but as with most other things, I was perfectly fine after I saw that I was capable of it. And in fact find it the most preferable (and effective) form of teaching now. So it was a good "class". And I was happy to make a good impression on the parents. And it gave me a good chance to ask a ton of questions I haven't wanted to bother my coteachers with.

If I'm going to be good for anything in the classroom, it's going to be dealing with loud groups of rowdy boys, so we'll see. I'm trying desperately to think of ways to fix up the totally pointless and lame textbook I've been given to teach. I don't know how much freedom I have to stray from it, though. Mike and I have worked out a plan to incorporate our love of music by bringing in mixed cds and printed lyrics for the kids to work on pronunciation. We're not sure exactly how we want to work it yet, though.

Loads more to say, but I'm exhausted and Mike's just put on his PJs and climbed into bed, so I think it's time to stop typing.

No internet at my apartment until I get an alien registration card, so a couple of weeks at least. I'll try to use Mike's every now and then. Overall, things are going really well. And Mike and I found each other despite all cell phoneless foreigner odds -- the subway was a cinch. So, good things. Take care, my darlings.

You'd think sleep would come easy.

But taking a shower at night is always a mistake. So I'll post a few photos instead.



California out the window.



My shoes in San Francisco, waiting for Mike's flight to get in.



Cigarette reunion in the parking lot at SFO.


My humble abode for the night. AKA the nicest hotel room I've ever stayed in.


The view from the window, kind of.


Mike and I demolish almost an entire pack of Camels in the hotel room before trying to sleep.

We're here and safe and sound in the Hotel Royal Incheon, where we're staying for the night. Skyping home on the free wifi. Just so everyone knows.

One thing I didn't think of: traveling at the time we did meant 24 hours of daylight. Which was odd. And I think helped with the exhaustion.

Everyone's being very kind and accomodating. Tomorrow at 10 am we're meeting our director in the lobby to go to our apartments and visit our schools.

More details when I haven't been awake for 30 hours. Now, the best and most necessary shower of all time. Take care, my darlings.

Civilized: Eventually.

Laying in bed all day, out for Italian food for dinner. Now, out on the back porch fantasizing about the future to distract us from the idea we don't know when we'll see each other again. Before, it was just Red Toaster. Which means me, her, an apartment with a red toaster. Eventually, Paris. Now it seems to us some European city with wine and bread and coffee, a couple of flats a couple of blocks away from each other and a cafe somewhere in between -- how unlike most people, and ourselves even in the past, we're quite keen on getting to our 30s. We'll have partners who get along with one another and are willing to crash at one place every other weekend, while we crash at the other. They will smell nice and wear smart clothes and meet us in the mornings with coffee and eggs. Hers will be a photographer and I'll take the filmmaker on default, although I'm not really bothered. We'll do big collaborations together, study Italian film making, and never fight.

Our fantasies for the future always include wine, bread and coffee. And a place where they don't speak English. So do our poems, for that matter. But this is the first time we've included boys. Well, this is a big step forward for the Stepholiz. And we were surprised to discover it only after the fact. For some reason we think things will get better in our 30s, just like we thought they would in our 20s when we were teenagers. That the ones we love won't want to fight over nothing, and that things can be civilized and gentle, at least most of the time.

Somehow we think everything is possible except the boys. So maybe we'll just stick to wine, bread and coffee.

It's in the bag, babies.

Mike and I will be arriving in Incheon on October fourteenth. For sure this time.

They say my school is "far from Michael's school", but we are in the same city. I wonder how far 'far' is....


Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well my ship's been split to splinters and it's sinking fast
I'm drowning in the poison -- got no future, got no past
But my heart is not weary -- it's light and it's free
I've got nothing but affection for all those who've sailed with me

Everbody moving if they ain't already there
Everbody got to move somewhere
Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow
Things should start to get interesting right about now

Sometimes nothing can be a real cool hand.

I'm going to copycat Mike and talk about Cool Hand Luke, because it really is an amazing film and I want an excuse to post the below clip. Besides being positively overflowing with deliciously redirected religious symbolism, it is also, in my expert opinion, Paul Newman's Sweatiest Movie. Which also reminds me to say that it was very sad to wake up last Saturday morning and hear that he had gone.

Moses strikes the rock in the desert:

Selah.

One of my very favorite words is Selah, if only for its pure nature as untranslatable. It's a word that cannot be defined clearly, because we have lost the concept of it so far as to not even have an equivalent in our language. Roughly, it's assumed, it means a pause, usually in music, to contemplate the importance of what has been said. It occurs, untranslated, throughout the Biblical Psalms.

I'm thinking about it today because I'm thinking about listening -- not listening exactly, but pausing, in as far as pausing also means listening.

It's like I told my grams this morning, I'm trying real hard right now to remember that I don't know everything and I'm not in charge of the world for a reason.

Sometimes life just pounds and pounds and pounds. It pounds so hard for so long that you just don't understand how you're still carrying on. And my usual response is to just tuck my chin and barrel through. Don't pay attention, don't absorb -- just get through it. It's not a bad method, if I do say so myself.

But sometimes I think it might be better to just fucking pause for a minute, try to figure out if the universe isn't trying to tell you something. Let it get to you, for just a minute. My fear in that is that if it gets to you for one minute, it might all get to you. But sometimes you reach a point where all the running around trying not to look anything square in the face just starts to feel like madness.

Lauryn Hill: Selah

Too tired for titles.

Gramps slipped into a coma yesterday. Well.... things have been going backwards for a couple of days, but we didn't expect that. Friday night we were at the hospital until 3 am, and last night was a terrifying several hours until he was moved back to ICU and we were told they didn't know why it had happened, and they didn't know when he would wake up. Grams, of course, worked from 7 am to 5 pm in the meantime, and straight to the hospital after work. Which means that she had not slept at all. Something told her to stay at the hospital last night. She asked the nurse a couple of hours before it happened, "Is he about to go into a coma?"

"No. Why would you ask that?" the nurse said.

Because she's a smart woman.

In the car on the way over, we were expecting the worst, hearing only that they were putting him back on the ventilator and that he wouldn't wake up.

We got a phone call at 3 am -- none of us really sleeping -- that he had just woken up.

We're grateful, but exhausted. And we're back to the ICU.

I woke up early this morning to make chocolate chip pancakes before Grams headed back to the hospital. We needed something to raise the spirits. Those of you who are familiar with my ventures into the culinary world know it may have very well been a very, very failed attempt, but they came out pretty well and now I'm the most popular person in the house.

And now I think I'll go back to sleep for a bit.

I kissed a girl and got suspended.

Three North Texas girls were suspended from performing with the school's drill team for giving a performance to what's-her-face's "I Kissed a Girl". Props to Allan from Fort Worth who phoned in to the local news to give this excellent response:

"It's just a friggin' song. I like kissing girls, too."

I remember when I was a kid, the biggest compliment a boy could pay me was to step to me in a fight and give me one right in the face.

A fist, that is.

It was the ultimate acceptance. I was a scrappy kid, and this was only accentuated by my little brother's tendency to run his smart mouth to much older boys, and then come find me to handle them. When I would march right up to the threatening offender and stand nose to nose, eye to eye, it almost never came to blows. There would be a startled two steps backwards, and then those words....

"I can't hit you. You're a girl."

Then one day, along came Ryan Chester. I wasn't going to fight Ryan Chester for my little brother -- I was going to fight Ryan Chester for honor. Although, today, I can't remember what about. But the point is, I waited until recess and marched right up to the kid, nose to nose, eye to eye. Ryan Chester looked me straight in the eyes, pulled back his fist, and knocked me flat on my ass.

I was instantly in love.

Not because I'm some sort of masochist who enjoys being knocked around and mistreated by men. But because Ryan Chester saw I was a girl and didn't give a damn. He literally didn't pull any punches. In other words, he saw me as an equal. We were practically inseparable from that day forward, until he moved away in the fifth grade.

My point is this: The media are carrying on and on and on this morning about how Biden is going to have to be careful not to condescend to or patronize our lovely Lady Palin in the debate tonight, so as not to offend the female voters. But as a woman, and a feminist, I will be most offended if Biden stands up and offers her the debate with a gentlemanly bow. Biden can show that he respects Palin as an equal politician by ripping holes through her worldview, her politics, and her experience (or everpresent lack thereof), just as he would with any other politician. If he pulls his punches tonight, I will lose a lot of respect for the man. And I will severly doubt his sincerity on issues such as gender equality.

Luckily, I don't think that's going to happen. My only regret is that I will have to forego the chainsmoking part of sitting on the edge of my seat and chainsmoking throughout what is bound to be one of the most fascinating (from a purely sociological stance) debates in American history.

I walk a crooked line, tryin' to act like nothin's happening.

Man life is one crazy hell of a ride, little babies. You never know what's coming next. More details on that when I'm free to give them.

I'll tell you one thing I miss like hell is saving money all month to take the train to see Marah play small little back rooms at bars in New Jersey. On one particular occasion, at the Stone Pony, a Jägermeister-inspired, near-clothesless dip in the Atlantic caused us to miss the last train back to New York. So, with less than ten bucks between us, we did what any self-respecting Bruce fans stuck in Asbury Park overnight would do -- we took a cab to an all-night diner, where we sat shivering in our semi-soaked clothes, sipping bottomless cups of coffee and playing Born to Run on the jukebox, until the 6 am commuter train to Grand Central rolled into the station.

Nothing that good has happened in a while. Unless you count the 100 degree, four hour sidewalk sit outside Club Dada to see the BRMC acoustic show in Deep Ellum. And I certainly don't.

Marah: The Closer




Edit: Okay, ladies and gents. It's officially official. I have clearance to announce that, come May, I'm going to be an aunt. It's a rough situation, unplanned, and with my brother about to leave for the Navy. And they're young. Really young.

But can I just say....

I am so fucking excited. Kids of my own scares the shit out of me but a little niece or nephew.... that I can live with. I just wish I wasn't going to be tied up for a year.