She's Not There

Tomorrow I'm off to Vietnam for a couple of weeks! Limestone cliffs, beach towns, floating markets. Just so you know where to find me. I'll be celebrating the New Year with friends and warm ocean breezes on my face!

Oh, and I'm also finished with work for almost two months.

Hate me yet?

Kristmas in Korea

Apparently I'm really into alliteration lately, judging by recent posts. But enough about grammar. Let's move on to the crux of why you came; hearing me complain. Or possibly revelling in the glory of my staggeringly prodigious tale-telling. Or, more likely, I've just guilted you into being here. We all know if you really love me, you read my blog. And you prove your love by commenting. That's love in the cyber world.

As the Christmas season, now officially passed, but milked by stores and holiday lovers alike for some time to come, progressed here in Korea, I was filled with the suspicion that something had changed from recent years here. My first Christmas in Korea (well, my first season, as I was incidentally in Thailand for Christmas day), there was little evidence of anything hearkening to Christmas. Carefully hidden were the cards, decorations, and songs; seeking them out was like being a detective, sniffing out the dropped clues here and there. Many schools gave little or no holidays for Christmas (though Kevin's school still does that...).

This year, however, has been different. Lights were strung on a number of trees, walls, and buildings. Fake, smiling Santas were set in front of stores. Salvation Army volunteers stood outside stores ringing bells. Loud Christmas music was blared from mall speakers, while vendors hawked all manner of cheesy Christmas decorations. Save for the exceptionally warm weather (think: mid to upper fifties), it almost felt like home.

I even bought Christmas decorations, including a pitifully small fake tree from the dollar store. It made me think of how much I miss real Christmas trees, the family tradition of picking one up from a Christmas tree farm in the week following Thanksgiving. It's such a family adventure: taking turns cutting it down, loading it onto a truck, watching as they wrap it tightly, strapping it to the car. On the drive home, you pass other families who similarly have their trees comically strapped to the top of their cars, hands sneaking out windows to grab the tree limbs and prevent it from blowing off. Once home, the ornaments are pulled out, from the expensive, delicate ones to the memory-invoking ones that we made as children. Then we attack the house. I miss our creche, a white porcelain manger scene given by my grandma to her four children. We always laugh about Joseph's broken hand when my brother, in his very lengthy clumsy stage, dropped him and he shattered. My mom wraps real pine branches around the railing leading to upstairs, then wraps white Christmas lights around them. She finishes it with velvet red bows and poinsettia flowers. It's so beautiful at home. My step dad usually attacks the outside, throwing up white Christmas lights in all the trees. When it snows, they shine through at night and the whole tree looks like it's glowing. I love Christmas. Instead I have a fake tree and colored lights that I thought were white.

Given that Korea cannot in any way compare to the spirit of Christmas at home, although they are embracing the commercialized idea of Christmas quite well, I cannot hold them to a high standard. Regarding Christmas itself, though, it was better than I could have imagined. Having no family here to speak of, I spent the entirety of both Christmas eve and Christmas day with my surrogate family: friends here in Korea.

On Christmas eve, we went to our friends house for a sleepover party. It was so relaxing, wrapped in memories of how Christmas is celebrated at home. Well, if the Christmas ham is exchanged for Domino's pizza. At midnight, I went for a walk on the beach with some people there, including Sacha, Liz, and Annie. Sacha and I stayed up talking; we didn't get to sleep until about four in the morning. All this and up early the next day for stockings and breakfast!
On Christmas evening, I went to Richard's house for a real, amazing Christmas dinner. Harold had his guitar, Ana had her wig, and Sook received a monkey game from Richard for Secret Santa. The combination made for an excellent evening.

And so I bid farewell to Christmas, seriously satisfied by my exploits. This was my first Christmas in Korea, and I must admit it was excellent. Now, as I walk past SFUNZ, eyeing the remaining decorations, Santa catches my eye. This jolly man dutifully retains his post, continuing his watch of young consumers, smiling benignly and waving slowly. This is truly the Christmas season. After all, we all know that you can't have more of the Christmas spirit than a big, waving, plastic Santa.

I Am... an English Catch Phrase

In a departure from a normal blog post, I have dedicated this one almost entirely to pictures. What? Has Aubrey curbed her loquacious tendencies? Has she reformed her ways, dedicating herself to silence? Hardly. I'm just tired and I don't feel like thinking. And given that Blogger has recently switched to Beta, this heartens me in my attempts to post pictures. So here we go again.

Today my school held a festival, with a variety of activities throughout the day to keep the kids entertained and to keep me from having to do any work whatsoever. Wait, so why am I tired?

Instead, I did a lot of mingling, laughing and using what little English many of my kids have to interact with them. I realized about the tenth time I said, "Have a good time! KTF" (an ad slogan for Korea Telecom, a phone company here), that my English while in Korea has been officially reduced to catch phrases. Unable to communicate while using linking verbs or articles, I drop them all to sound like a young child learning English. "You go food eating?" Yes, I said this. Yes, my kids understand this.

So lately I have stopped resisting, just buying into the idea that communication, even in its lowest form, is much better than complete non-understanding. So, "Ha-ee. Nice to see you. Have a good time! How are you? I'm fine, thank you!"

My kids aren't actually taller than me, as it appears here. They made me squat down because they didn't want me to tower over them. Gotta love the rabbit ears; animal hats are hot in Korea now. The kid on the left always walks up to me, chin in hand, saying, "Handsome guy. Handsome guy." Humble, too.
Here are some first year students in the traditional Korean outfit, Hanbok. They're going to perform on the Kayagum, a Korean traditional musical instrument, similar to the harp, except laid flat on the floor.Belly dancers! I was shocked when they came out. Korea tends to be very conservative in their dress, at least from the waist up. But the girls wore the pants and then a beaded, bra-like top. I guess it's ok if it's cultural. I loved their dance, though.
Girls in their Hanboks selling food to raise money. I bought a lot and tried to give it all away.

Some girls did a cute dance dressed up as animals. They wore the outfits throughout the day. I told them I would buy food from them if they let me take a picture. I'm sure I didn't really need to bribe them, though. Below is Mrs. Kwan, one of my excellent co-teachers.

My rock stars! I spoke with a couple of these boys earlier in the year about them playing guitar, which I think is so cool simply because it's different here in Korea. These are some of my favorite boys, too, so it made me really excited to hear them play. They did an Avril Lavigne song while one of our teachers sang with them. All in all, not bad. I was really proud of them.

And lastly, the song I was in! Every day for the past several weeks while sitting at my desk during breaks I could hear mellifluous strains of a song I did not recognize but could hear was in English. Naturally I went to investigate. Some third years were singing the Michael Jackson song "Heal the World." They asked me to help them for their performance. I was excited to be able to help them out, because these were more favorites. Generally, favorites tend to be ones to try to speak English with me.

To my surprise, though, they didn't want me to sing. Instead I had to say some opening that is spoken in the original song and would never be understood by the crowd of non-English speakers.

But again, for the kiddos, I did it. "Think about the generations. And say that we want to make it a better place for our children and our children's children. So that they will know it's a better world for them. And just think if we can make it a better place."

Oh, you should have heard the delivery. I am amazing. Fully expecting a call soon from Hollywood. Or not... Well, have a good time! KTF

Cold Fish Head

For a while I have wanted to talk about my small group at church, but have been unsure as to exactly what I could say, knowing that just telling stories about people whom you don't know (unless, of course, you are one of those people) is so excruciatingly boring that you would likely leave your computer for far more appealing activities, such as checking the freshness dates on all of your milk products, counting the bristles in your toothbrush, or organizing all of your sweaters alphabetically.

Yet now I valiantly attempt to do this very impossible task, realizing that your finger may already be on the "close" button. Also, to preface, allow me to inform you that this involves an inside joke and thus may only be understood by a few. To aid in your understanding, I urge you to go here. Watch the video. Laugh a lot. And understand.

For nearly all of the two years that I have been in Korea, I have also been a fellowship group leader at my church. For my first couple of months here, I went with another teacher from my school to the U.S. army base, where her boyfriend led a group for some of his soldiers. After Christmas, when many of them left Korea, I decided to join a group at church. Having expressed this to Pastor Ben, he informed Krista, one of the group leaders.

After the service one day, she introduced herself, saying, "Hi Aubrey. Pastor Ben told me you wanted to join a group and would be taking over as leader when I leave."

"I will?"

This is precisely how I became a group leader, by default. Any English speaking Westerner was, at that time, a prime candidate in our church to be a fellowship group leader.

Over the course of my two years as a leader, the group dynamic has changed drastically. Besides myself, only one person remains from the original group. This is in many ways due to the transience of the English speaking community here. To quote Alice in Wonderland (and, in addition, Emily), "People come and go so quickly here."

Lately we have done quite a lot together, meeting frequently throughout the week. In a time when I have become so disillusioned and distant from the church as an organization, I am infinitely grateful for these people who have become a family to me here. They are others who grapple with the questions of living an ancient faith in a modern society.

Plus they make me laugh almost as much as my brother can.

The general group theme of late has been to quote a certain comedian, Brian Regan. It is used, like any good inside joke, to create cohesion within the group, but inadvertently ostracize those outside.

Allow me to give slightly more background information. When I was home last Christmas, my dad pulled out a CD that I had to listen to. Driving in the car, we listened with tears of hilarity in our eyes from Regan's simple yet incisive, self-deprecating humor. As a farewell present for my journey back to Korea, dad gave me the Regan DVD. Since then, I have regularly quoted Regan with my family.

After meeting Meaghan and Kevin, a married couple who more recently joined our group, I quickly discovered that they were fans, too. And so, as commonalities tend to do, it quickly became an inside joke for us, frequently shouting Regan phrases at one another. Slowly, the rest of our group began to download or watch him, too.

I felt that all this information was necessary to get to this next story. Last Friday our group met up for various activities, including ice skating (which, we were informed upon our arrival, was closing, even after we made our cute, begging faces), a game room, dinner at Won Tae's Taco place, coffee at Starbucks, and exchanging small gifts through a "stealing Santa" game.

At some point in the middle of opening and stealing presents, someone pointed our a small, triangular gift on the table, wrapped in newspaper and several layers of clear tape. On it was written, "To: Aubrey, our Shepherd. From: ?"

"Oh my gosh, someone got me a gift!" This gesture deeply touched me that one person had decided to do something so special. But I also didn't want anyone to feel usurped, so I put it aside to open later.

After all gifts were exchanged, I took out the small, carefully wrapped present, wondering what it could be. As I peeled the layers of tape off and got to the newspaper, something started to bleed through. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone got me a Korean bean-pastry dessert as a gift; react positively. And now it's broken open." Bending forward, I squinted at the dark red mass after I carefully peeled the newspaper away. Considerations of a small token of well-being were obliterated, however, by the wall of stench that hit me. The sweet beans suddenly became organs, the pastry shell was some sort of skin.

"Wait, did someone get me a dead animal?" Time slowed as in a horror movie and creepy visions of animal sacrifice or voodoo came to mind. Whom had I recently offended?

"It's a cold fish head," came the simple reply. I looked up at Kevin quizzically, suppressing the urge to vomit as other members of the group jumped away.

"A cold fish head?" I asked weakly, nauseously. "But what...? Oh! A cold fish head!" My confusion and queasiness dissipated with the sudden realization of its meaning. This was not a sign of dislike, but one of endearment. It was an inside joke, taken to its fullest measure! I looked up, excited, quoting, "It's frozen, frozen solid. It comes with a turnip and a spork!"

Kevin had gone to great lengths to provide me with a fish head, taken directly from one of Regan's bits about receiving the worst meals on a plane. Earlier in the day, he went to one of Korea's numerous fish markets, signing that he wanted a fish. After she chopped of the head, the vendor went to throw it away. "No, no, no!" Kevin shouted. It was the fish head he wanted. No, really. The fish head. Thanks. You keep the fish.

I posted pictures on my flickr account, linked to my blog. It's proof! A real, cold fish head. And apart from the pictures, I will always have the memory that induces such a warm, nauseated feeling.

Corean Creation

During the World Cup, a frenzied event celebrated fervently throughout Korea, I saw numerous shirts, signs, and flags emblazoned with Korean symbols and slogans, all bearing the name "Corea". Korea with a "C"? Why? The explanation given, which seems to be the popular simplified sentiment, is that when Japan conquered Corea, romanized at that time with a "C", they would not allow for a mark of superiority by allowing their conquered country to precede them when listed alphabetically. Thus, they changed the "C" to a "K" so that it would be Japan, Korea. Nowadays, many people revert back to the "C", whether for sentimental reasons or to make a political statement. "Corea" hearkens to a time of independence as well as unity between the north and south.

I like this sentiment, but having no strong political motivations to spell Corea as such, I usually leave it with a "K". It's less confusing. And though I support a person's choice to express themselves thusly, I react warily, seeing behind it the expanse of attitudinized superiority. The subtle racism that is woven into the minds like a weak, inferior thread in Korean culture was evidenced to me by anecdotal stories my friends told this past weekend. It is for this reason that I now write.

Jen told me a story relayed to her by one of her students. This student had, as a child, been told the Corean story of creation. This is exactly as it was told to me. Long ago, before any humans existed on the earth, God was up in his great kitchen, baking a batch of cookie-like humans. The first batch he burned, so he put all of them in Africa. The second batch was undercooked, so they were put in Europe and North America. By the third batch, he got it right, producing a perfect golden-colored batch of human-cookies. This perfect batch was placed in Asia. This story is appalling; to say nothing of its theology, it supports such blatant racism, resembling, I am sure, similar stories in the sordid past of my own nation. It is unacceptable.

Then I was speaking with friends of mine, a married couple here. I haven't asked to use their names, so I won't. They have lived here with their children for a few years. White children in Korea are subjected to even worse forms of ogling and violation, with strangers feeling free to come over and touch them. My little sister Lindsey will remember when she came to visit being wearily petrified of the masses of people who came too close, who stared too long, who acted too familiarly. It is a part of Asia's community mindset, that children are part of the greater group, to be loved and shown affection by all manner of strangers. We are more protective in the West, though often for our detriment.

In any case, they were walking on Haeundae beach's boardwalk this past summer, their children and Korean nanny just behind. Strangers on the beach gasped and talked loudly about them, likely crowding around them. One of the children turned to the nanny and asked, "What are they saying about us?"

Before giving thought about protecting them from the bluntness of her culture, she answered, "They're saying, 'Those children are so beautiful. It's too bad they grow up to be so ugly like their parents. It looks like they've already had plastic surgery.'"

The mother and father were left aghast, walking ahead and chuckling to themselves about the gall and ignorance of Korean culture.

At times while living in this culture, especially with my Korean friends whom I love so dearly, one can forget how strongly Koreans feel about their superiority in intellect, in physicality, in progress, in everything. This weekend was a harsh reminder of how it far too often is. Although they vehemently deny any racism in this culture ("We don't even have black people," I've been told before as a defense.), its existence is so putrid, it is in danger of damaging all that is good here.

Cultural Exchange

Today I spent my break at school in a rather atypical fashion. A cultural exchange between Japanese students from Fukuoka and my own Korean students here at Donga middle school took place, encouraging tittering students to spill from their classrooms, assessing neighbors from the most similar of other worlds. The girls took the approach of immediately befriending them, in the amount that both of their limited English would allow. Cards were exchanged with phone numbers and email addresses. Pictures were taken, girls wrapping arms around each others' waists, smiling shyly with the omnipresent "V" sign. The boys situated themselves on opposing ends of the room, staring at eachother, a few expressing distaste at being in the same room as Japanese. Ignorant racism remains embedded in the Korean psyche, a deeply set anger at the former atrocities of Japan against Korea. It's not an unfounded anger, it's just exceptionally unhealthy and continually perpetuated. Some of the boys expressed their aggression by challenging eachother to arm wrestling matches, chanting the name of their country as they battled.

I found myself in a uniquely advantageous position today. No Korean students spoke Japanese, apart from a few pleasantries the school taught to prepare them for their coming. And I would assert that no Japanese students speak Korean becuase, well, who bothers to learn Korean outside this country? So I was displayed like a prize by my students when introductions were made. "This is my English teacher," said the girls. "Talk to them," they told me.

As I made valiant attempts at conversation with Japanese students, I discovered that their level of English is even lower than that of Korean students. I was so surprised walking into one class (the Japanese students were evenly distributed through all nine second grade classes) to be told that only one girl speaks good enough English to be able to converse. The introduction between myself and a Tashimi Yogoshaki was done by Park Jisung, and I realized how strange the girl's polysyllabic name sounded compared to the trisyllabic names to which I have become so utterly accustomed in Korea.

As I watched interactions between students, questions being asked and answered in unsteady English, I felt peculiar at finally being privy to dialogue at Donga. Being the only foreigner, it occurs rarely here. I took advantage of it, chatting with my students and going from picture to picture. Hopefully Eunbi, one of my favorites (don't tell!), will send me a few. It would be nice to have pictures with these students.

I've also come to assume that Korea and Japan are vastly different cultures; after two years here, I figure I am now in a position to note major differences between Koreans and Japanese people. But as I stood surveying the throngs of my students and our visitors, all dressed neatly in their different school uniforms, I realized that this was one of the few differences I could note. Apart from that, I could spot the typical Japanese hair cut, a shaggy cut that borders uncomfortably close to a mullet. Possibly the differences are more distinct as they age. I noticed that their teachers have a different look from adult Koreans; there is something unexplainably more attractive about a Japanese face.

As the Japanese students left, departing Korea after expressly visiting only my school for three hours, they marched between the lines my students made, cheering and waving at them as if it were a parade. The attention was completely unfocused from me, the lone westerner here. Fascination was caught up in the Asian foreigners. This voyeurism in others' lives that westerners are subjected to so frequently in Korea is a part of all of us, I noted, watching the teeming crowd of students and teachers below. It is a driving force in the desire to travel and live abroad.

Friendly Soju Bottles

I have news that may shock anyone familiar with my job. This week I am not working a full week. Again. Like most weeks, come to think of it. Possibly it's not as shocking as I just asserted.

We have half days Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of this week because the kids are taking their final exams: stressful and painful for them, easy and relaxing for me. So yesterday after work I met up with Jen, who so covetously has the entire week off, to go shopping in the PNU area. Pusan National University is surrounded with a variety of cute little shops, as well as great foreign restaurants. The Turkish restaurant is there. So is a new Italian restaurant.

Late in the day we planned to meet Kevin for some real Italian food, as none of us have yet eaten there. As Jen and I were going to meet up with him, we passed in front of a large display of girls in short skirts, which must have been exceedingly uncomfortable in the mildly frigid weather, and walking Soju bottles. Immediately one Soju bottle sidled up to Jen and I, directing us toward the table of samples. Yes, that's right, samples of Soju being given out in the street.

Perhaps you may be confused as to why this is funny. Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the beloved Korean drink. In Korea, drinking soju is a national past time. It is a highly alcoholic drink that tastes something like paint thinner. Yet given both the urging of our friendly soju bottle and that of the smiling, giggling girl with half a skirt coupled with the night time chill that reached sinisterly under our coats, we partook. After, our life-sized Soju host mimed that he (I only assume soju bottles are male, though I could very well be incorrect) wanted a picture with us. When this was made clear, he had another message to relay to the blond North Americans. Pointing to himself. Pointing to us. Drawing a heart in the air.

We are loved by a Soju bottle. This is love, indeed.

Where else, though, is it possible, or especially legal, to give out free alcohol on the streets? Under aged? No matter. Heading to your car? Well take this to warm up! We couldn't help but laugh at such a display that seems to embody all that is Korean.