A First-Rate Friday

It's the last day of classes, and I'm truly sorry to see them end. The previous three weeks have been a whirlwind, and it's been one of the best experiences in my teaching career. It has provided me with a unique insight into how foreign students in Canada learn in their home country. I wish all teachers could have this exceptionally valuable opportunity. Even at home, I believe it's imperative for teachers to meet students on their own turf, to go into their communities to see how they really live. It is the clearest, most meaningful route to true understanding and communication.


Today's class is very lively, with students breaking into spontaneous applause at regular intervals. For example, I ask the students where I can find the nearest coffee machine as I really need a hit. I'm told it's a bit of a hike to get to. I resign myself to relying on pure adrenaline to keep me perky, but moments later, my psychic husband shows up with a steaming vessel of liquid energy. The students go through the roof! They think of our exchange as some sort of case study in western love relationships, and they're deeply moved. These are kids who, on the 100th day of dating someone, buy their partner extravagant gifts like 100 roses. They want, and need to see that we, even teachers, are all just human beings; we're all equal, and we all put on our pants on leg at a time.


At lunch, I hook up with Hyunjeong, the Language Education Centre Program Coordinator instrumental in facilitating this teaching opportunity for me. She looks radiant in a powder blue, below the knees, 1950s style sleeveless dress that is cinched at the waist and flares at the bottom. She demurely covers her arms with a sheer white bolero, that is all the rage here. Rather than heading for lunch with me, Hyunjeong looks ready for the red carpet. During the short drive, we talk about hair and makeup in humid conditions. While we're talking, her rear view mirror dramatically and unexpectedly falls to the floor. We laugh at the symbolism. Vanity be damned, beauty fades..


She takes me to her favourite steamed pork place, which just happens to be where Rob's departmental colleagues took him during the first week in Gwangju. We gorge on tender pork, steamed browned cabbage, and zesty tofu soup. Hyunjeong warns me that it's very hot, and is most impressed when I don't even blink.


In the middle of our meal, Hyunjeong's phone rings and she excuses herself. She's been called to move her car, which has been blocking in three other vehicles. I finally find the reason everyone posts their cell phone numbers on cute little suction cupped signs in their vehicles - so they can be phoned to move, if need be. Parking is at a premium, so it's understood a driver might not have many options, hence, this ultra-polite solution.


We have an engaging conversation in which a couple of mothers can relate all too well to the challenges of combining work and child-rearing. This weekend Hyunjeong's twin boys will turn five. She worries whether she's spending enough quality time with them, but knows that if she doesn't work, the fiscal situation will be such that they'll be denied important opportunities. She's concerned that stay-at-home moms have a better opportunity to bond with their children and to teach them.


I fully understand, but try to allay her fears. I explain that as a working single mother, I had the same concerns, but they were unfounded. My son simply may have learned different lessons, lessons that included the value of self-sacrifice for the greater good, a strong work ethic, and the ability to organize and schedule to maximize use of time and energy. She seems genuinely grateful to hear this point of view.


We hash over money worries, and the desire to travel. Hyunjeong and her family would love to have the opportunity to live in North America and further develop their English skills, but they would need to work, and that would be difficult. We discuss the superhuman Korean work ethic in which the regular work day runs from 9 to 6, with weekends often part of the equation. She thinks balance is lacking, and more than anything, this is what this enlightened young woman is seeking for her family.


Hyunjeong's siblings are no slouches either. While she is in university administration at Chonnam, her brother studies and teaches Chinese painting in Seoul. Her sister is a university professor in a nearby city. Unfortunately, given the demands of their daily lives, they rarely get to see one another. I tell Hyunjeong this seems to be a common theme in Korea. Still, I say we find the people to be forward thinking and positive. When I speak of our exceptionally good experiences with Koreans, she asks if I've ever considered how our attitudes might impact our reception.


We watch a man and woman at the next table literally wrestling over their bill. To avoid this scenario, I ask Hyunjeong to please do me a favour and let me treat her to lunch to thank her for her pre-visit support. She reluctantly, but graciously accepts. Reciprocation is immediate. We head next door to Starbucks for a latte. I should have realized it would come with a heapin' helpin' of sugar. Hyunjeong has ordered the same, but she stops to add more liquid sugar to her cup from one of the many syrup bottles placed around the shop. As at Dunkin' Donuts, there is no fear of theft.


My sandals have ripped, so Hyunjeong kindly takes me to the shoemaker, but it's a mere ruse for getting me into the Student Union building so she can "show" me where to find the car signs. She asks me if I have a favourite, and when I point to a lime green felt frog, it's purchased before I can say, "Bob's your uncle." I have to smile, thinking of the reaction from Joe the Plumber types back home when they see my little sign that says, "Sorry. Please phone me and I'll move."


I must head to Rob's class to pick up the apartment key, so I sit at the back for a time writing notes and appreciating the air conditioning. At the break, Rob tells me that two of our American friends have spirited the husband of one of the office staff to Jeju Do island for the weekend where he'll be their tour guide and they'll stay for free at the home of the man's friends. The symbolism that occurs in our everyday lives is truly remarkable. The family name of these users is that of a mountain, so let's call them the Everests. Their name is very appropos as the husband has a mountain-sized ego. He just assumes that his clutch and grab approach is okay because the world owes him. As the British did with the Indians, the husband, Dan, has managed to take advantage of his host's combination strengths and weaknesses - his kindness and generosity.


In the late afternoon, I go to Yongbong Hall. This is the place where we had the Summer Exploration opening ceremonies, and where the students will today received their certificates. The head of the Language Education Centre is a cheery, elfin fellow named Dr. Anh. He gives a rousing speech, telling the students that whether they did well or not, they must be proud of their achievement. He shares an inspirational story about his high school friend who went on to become a Vice President at the multi-national Korean giant SK Telecom.


Dr. Ahn says his friend wasn't the best student, but he always stood out because he paid attention and worked hard. His diligence and attention to detail in completing assignments held him in good stead, but his crowning virtue was his interest in learning foreign languages. Long after gaining an entry position at SK, this man continued to upgrade his English skills and also mastered Chinese. He tells the students while English is the global means of communication, it's important to learn Chinese since they share a large border. His message about stick-to-it-iveness and pulling oneself up by the bootstraps is both timely and tailor-made for this crowd.


The Master of Ceremonies asks if any teachers would like to speak. Since only three of us are in attendance, and it's quite clear that my Korean colleagues are too shy to take the stage, I offer to speak. I have absolutely nothing prepared as I nervously approach the stairs, looking much like that contest winner in the dirndl at the end the The Sound of Music. You know, the woman who is so uncomfortable she just keeps bowing repeatedly. As Liz Taylor once said, stage fright never goes away. But something comes over me when I approach the podium.


The Lord always provides, and while I'm awash with a blend of thoughts and emotions, I feel myself gently being grounded. It's as if a protective energy has enveloped me. I bow in greeting, step behind the microphone, and start to speak. Fearing I'll squeak or cry, I'm surprised to hear this mellifluous sound emerge. Giving what I believe is the best presentation I've ever given, second only to my own father's eulogy, I somehow manage to craft an eloquent and thoughtful message. I credit this to divine intervention, and the fact that what I had to say was heartfelt.


I spoke of the calibre of the students, their work ethic, sincerity and creativity. I make a point of commenting on the quality of the TAs, some of whom have been abused by the international emissaries in our teaching ranks. I tell them I'm very impressed with the calibre of Korea's youth. I augment Dr. Ahm's message saying that effort always pays off. I invoke my sister, Faith, and tell them what she told me at sixteen: It's not the smartest or the best looking person who succeeds, it's the one who works hard and perseveres. And I cite the words of my father who told me, "If you can dream it, you can achieve it."


The students are rapt, on the edge of their seats. When I finish, the best crowd ever erupts into long and thunderous applause. I bow deeply, the Korean bow reserved for those most revered. The very second the ceremony ends, they swarm me for pictures, calling out in three distinct syllables, "Natalie! Natalie" The TAs are delighted to have been publicly saluted for their work. Dr. Ahn approaches and thanks me profusely for my words, asking if I can forward these comments to him in an email. He tells me it was very moving and was the highlight of the event.


While the positive feedback is pleasing, I'm most excited for having had the opportunity to extol the virtues of the Summer Exploration Program participants to the big boss in front of those very participants. This was an organic opportunity to lay waste to all the negative commentary from the nattering nabobs of negativism.


After the ceremony and too many pictures to count, I catch bus 38 to the baseball stadium. When some seatmates at the back of the bus leave, a painfully socially awkward young man jumps into the spot beside me. Jihoon, whose English name is Marty, is 29, and he will interview for a government job next month. He's not sure what position he'll get if successful, but he could end up working for the post office. In preparation he has formed a group of eight students to brush up on his English skills.


It turns out Marty is also going to the stadium, so I invite him to join our group. He cannot conceive of doing so. I try to buy him a kimbap, and I actually convince him to at least meet my husband and our friends, but when we approach their seats, we get a surprise. In this big stadium crowd, Rob has unwittingly sat right next to my TA Sang-Seoup and his group. They spot me and yell, "Teacher!" and Jisoon runs.


Later that night I send Jisoon an email to let him know that when I was scrolling through pictures, a student saw one of him and said, "He's handsome." I thought it might give him the slightest confidence boost. Again, life provides such symbolism you just can't script the stuff. The guy chooses "Marty" as his English name and all I can think of is the shy, awkward character in the movie with Ernest Borgnine. It was almost predestined that Jisoon should choose this name.


My students go wild as I sit in the seat Rob has saved for me right next to them. They provide me with plastic air filled Kia Tiger bats and show me the dance moves as we sing, chant and cheer on the team. The Tigers have won the league championship ten times, including last year. This year, with a number of marquee players out with injuries, they've lost sixteen in a row.


To be honest, I don't pay much attention to the game, so enamoured am I with the antics of the crowd. The young woman in front of us is delivering a high pitched scream that could break glass. The little old lady is back behind the bench animatedly pitching instructions to the players; at my behest, Rob gets a picture with her, and she insists on wrapping her arms around him. She is grinning so hard that her eyes are squeezed shut. The students create human vuvuzelas, that instrument used at the FIFA games in South Africa. They're chugging beer and chanting as they rhythmically shift back and forth in formation. The ADHD in me kicks into warp speed - the snippets of songs, the flashing colours, and the excitement - just like in my head!

The Kia Tigers pick up on our energy, as they defeat the Hamwha Eagles 4-2. The crowd is beyond happy. People are handing out free beer, having their pictures taken with the mascot, checking out their tickets to see if they've won prizes, and checking out the four tantalizing cheerleaders who are walking through the parking lot.

Rob wants to take a picture of me with these lasses, but sensing that I don't need the agg of being photographed in sharp relief with this quartet of women half my age and weight, I insist that I take one of him with them. The girls happily accomodate, and the result is perhaps the best picture Rob has ever taken. He looks like the happiest little boy in his Grade One class! Rob tells me this picture will be his new screensaver!

We have a big day ahead tomorrow, so seconds after getting home, we splash water on our faces, scrub our fangs, and fall into bed.