Dongtan Wonderland, Hwaseong City, South Korea. Its students might not be well-behaved, its supervisors might be raving harpies, but gosh darn its foreigner teachers will look good on camera.

Those of you who followed my blog have probably noticed that I haven’t posted anything in a long time. You who are especially close to me have already heard a lot of the horror stories behind my lack of desire to commemorate this place in writing. I blog now only to warn potential future employees of Dongtan Wonderland. As you plan your trip to Korea, if you’re doing your research, good for you—my blog is probably the first hit on your search engine. My advice is DON'T COME TO THIS PLACE. I mean the caps.

Because the supervisors are in it for the money, everything natural and good in a workplace/school is prohibited and punished here: relationships with the parents of our students, having fun with students when the work is finished, organization, professionalism, communication between supervisors and subordinates, mutual respect, the quality of the education we attempt to give—hell, they tried to tell us we couldn’t leave the school on a daily basis for a quick walk or juice run (by the way, we have zero official breaks every day, so one of the few ways to stay sane is to leave the school for a breather in between teaching periods). The director and head teacher here do not care what they sacrifice, so long as the tuition comes in. And we foreigner teachers make crap pay out of that tuition for the hours we work. And those two women can make your life a living hell when they want a scapegoat. Speaking as the current scapegoat, I state that they will attack you both as an employee and as a person, insult your native culture, holler at you, call you names, interrupt you when you’re trying to explain yourself, smack the desk, threaten to fire you, make you write yourself senseless warning letters—all in an attempt to make you as docile as you, reader, are probably expecting a typical Korean student to be. When I say “typical,” I’m referring to students who run across the tables, smack me, and spit in my face.

I’m not asking too much (or anyway, I don’t think so). I just want to be appreciated and respected when I’m working my ass off for nine hours a day—at the very least, I’d like to be left alone. No more of this being written up or reamed until my ears are boxed for not understanding Head Teacher’s directions, written in very poor English. Or for not turning the lights on in a west-facing classroom on a very bright day an hour before sunset. Or for doing a textbook lesson the way the directions say. Or for contracting the swine flu in time to be quarantined for Christmas and (oh heaven help us) mandatorily miss a few days of work. So if you have the same kinds of employee standards, and if you want to have anything like a positive experience as an English teacher in Korea, feel free to contact me if you’re considering a contract with Dongtan Wonderland. You can ask me any question you like, and you’ll find out that I am not exaggerating.

Kindergarten speech contest in Seoul

Today there was a big shindig at the Sangmyung University Art Center: a speech contest involving Dongtan Wonderland and who knows how many others. The contestants were roughly 6 to 10 years old, Korean age, with the only 5-year I saw being one of my own students. Most of the students were dressed up pretty sharp as an addition to their speeches, everything from a pinstriped suit to traditional hanbok to bear and lion costumes.

The most interesting thing about the contest was that the audience never really paid attention. Granted, I and the few other native English speakers in attendance probably represented the majority of people who could even understand the speeches easily, but, coming from a theater background, it was something new for me to be in the midst of what I perceived as a complete lack of respect for the persons up on stage. As far as I remember, it was fairly quiet for the opening MC speeches and the salute to the flag, but from there on out the adults continued their high-energy conversations and ushered students in and out of the hall as they saw fit, and the kids jumped and ran around and talked all they wanted, too. One of my friends went to a wedding a couple months ago that operated the same way, but it was still surprising to see it myself.

Best thing that happened: one of our students who entered the contest was Henry, a 7-year of great intelligence and frustratingness. He has a hard time talking in anything other than a holler, and that's a problem, considering that he constantly wants to talk in class. On the other hand, he's got great conversation skills since he's inadvertently practiced speaking so darn much. For his speech, Henry had three visual aides, more than most of the other students--two hanbok outfits hung from a couple of easels and a photo board propped on a third easel--and as soon as he got onto the stage, he started ordering the two stage helpers around in loud, rapid, no-nonsense Korean until they got the things in the right places around him and the mic. I don't think that kid's afraid of anything.

The Night Before Christmas 2009

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through my pad,
not a damn thing was happening—it was really that bad.
The ghosts of Christmases past plied for holidays before,
but the memories weren’t that good, so their taunts were a bore.

My family was nestled all snug in their beds,
while I huddled in fleece from my toes to my head.
As I waited for Santa, I was plagued by swine flu,
and vestigial phlegm from bronchitis, too.

But the plague didn’t rage, and it wasn’t exciting—
it was slow, amateur—it wasn’t worth fighting.
The swine made me lax with its lack of predation:
Diarrhea? Insomnia? Not worth medication.

But I didn’t have the spirit to raise a fist
(I hadn’t even compiled a carol playlist),
so I waited it out, took my pills twice a day,
kept myself quarantined and helpful friends at bay.

While visions of company danced in my head,
I wondered what I’d done to deserve this, instead?
When what to my feverish brain should appear
but the reason for my isolation, quite clear:

2008: I’d left family and weather properly bleak
for tubing and sunburns in fair Mozambique.
I’d spent Christmas with strangers, and even on a plane,
and the jilted Christmas spirits had remembered my name!

“Christmas Eve was mundane, but tomorrow will be worse—
after last year’s half-assing, your Christmas is cursed!”
“But my tree—” “It’s not real, neither fir nor pine.”
“It’s Korea. If I cut down a tree, it’s a crime.”

“Precisely. You’re not where you are meant to be.
That’s two years you’ve deserted your family.”
“Our Christmases weren’t happy. They were worse than this flu.”
“But if you were with them, they’d be in quarantine with you.”

Well, that little jab stopped me dead in my tracks,
and up rose a memory of a December long past,
when the holiday footmen weren’t Dasher and Comet—
nope, Christmas that year flew in on vomit.

The whole family was sick; we’d been so for days,
and we spent Yuletide in a dehydrated haze.
The exchanging of gifts was laidback and placid;
we six lolled on couches, exhausted and flaccid.

Mom made a huge bowl of rice pilaf for dinner—
after days of soda crackers, that meal was a winner!
When you’re too weak to speak, it’s harder to fight;
I seemed to remember an okay Christmas night.

Spending Christmas abroad makes you grow up hard and fast,
when you can’t do the things you’ve done in the past;
can’t see the same people, can’t eat the same food—
can’t even leave your room ‘cause they’re paranoid of the flu.

The allure of Korea had long since worn off,
replaced by fatigue and a rattling cough.
I longer for the familiar, but it was so far away—
across the Pacific, behind a whole day.

My family may have fought, but they sure weren’t boring.
I missed them. I wanted to wish them good morning.
I wanted to add to their holiday cheer.
I wanted to hug them. I wanted them near.

On my Christmas night, I stayed up real late,
so I could call my parents once they were awake.
It wasn’t the same, and it wasn’t ideal,
but I wasn’t alone, and Christmas finally felt real.

Korean weddings

I went to the wedding of my head teacher a couple weekends ago. Here are the things I found interesting, in comparison with typical American weddings.

There was a flower girl and a ringbearer; no bridesmaids, no groomsmen. Both the groom and then the bride walked up the aisle, and when they got up there, the only other people onstage were the pastor and both sets of parents, sitting on opposite sides according to their offspring. The bride's dress was a typical foofy gown with a tulle skirt, glitter, etc., and a 10-foot veil (oh yeah, a good-sized tiara, too). She did carry a bouquet. The groom wore a black tux with tails, but on the jacket's front corners and the back of the collar was elaborate white embroidery--a nice touch. The mothers wore traditional hanbok; I don't remember if the fathers were in tuxes or hanbok. All three couples wore white gloves (the bride's were delicate mesh).

The decorations consisted mostly of a few long white banners stretched overhead from the back of the hall to the front and 3' wrought iron stands with silk flowers and lit candles on top. Proudly attached to the very huge white lectern (we're talking 10' wide of a seashell/fan shape) was a 1'x1 1/2' Samsung plaque. Throughout the ceremony, they utilized gelled lighing instruments, an upstage projection screen playing live-action wedding footage, dry ice fog, and a bubble machine.

The music was interesting. They had a few live instrumentalists, a soloist, and a choir, the latter being the most entertaining. At one point in their song, the choristers shouted a "3--2--1--blastoff!", during which the groom picked up the bride in the over-the-threshold-style and bounced her up and down in time to the countdown. Her hoop skirt wasn't rather the best thing to hide her lacy bloomers at that point.

There was a bow to both sets of parents (to the bride's first, wherein the groom bowed all the way down to the ground) and some hugs; there was a lighting and blowing out of two candles on the tier cake, which was then given one downward slice; there were a couple prayers--but I couldn't figure out what was the equivalent of exchanging vows.

Given the number of engaged women I know who live in Korea right now, I think my yearly wedding tally is going to drop way below average. Down from roughly five to one--not bad, not bad.

Konglish

The boyfriend walked with the girl!! What is that?? (t-shirt worn by a girl)
Style, beauty, music, life. Your hair is my creative. (salon storefront)
Style or die (fashion-store window)
Big Bang is VIP (graffiti on a stair-rail at Everland, a theme park)
Kkul Tarea (honey skein) is a court cake made of ripened honey and malt, which was once presented to the king and valuable guests. It is brewed with the artisan spirit to make 16,000 strands suggesting the prayer for longevity, health, good fortune and wish--fulfillment. It is not much sweet, not sticky to teeth, but enjoyable with various tastes according to garnishings. It can taste better with teas as it is cold and frozen. (box of traditional candies)
Clothes to chill, not to kill (storefront)
Enjoy your magic day (package of feminine hygiene pads)
The 64th & 1st Highway revisited with corner original (shirt in a store)
Please be seated while you stool. (in a girls' bathroom stall at Wonderland)
Even if loved horse can die, love cannot die. (on a coffee shop interior wall)
Live or die--as long as deliver, the love will continue. (actually I made that one up--but after everything you've just read, it sounds plausible, doesn't it?)

More weirdness and wonderfulness about this country and its people

1. Space. On official-type forms, they don't leave much room in the blank squares to write the things you need to write. I am lucky I have a short name; otherwise, it wouldn't fit. This example is representative of space in general in South Korea.

2. Food. Koreans love food. A meal is very much a social event, not just a time to give your body what it needs. At a dinner with a group of people, or even just at snack times, people often share all the food from one big dish/bowl/cake, using their own chopsticks or spoon or other utensil. On the rare occasions when the kids bring lunches from home (such as for field trips), everybody passes their food around or just lifts a dish from their neighbor. The first time one of my students stole my cake when my back was turned, I flipped my lid and gave them a pretty good chewing-out, but I've since regretted it (a little), after realizing that it's a normal part of their culture for them to pick up food from someone else's dish. And for the most part, Koreans are way more generous concerning food than Americans. I can't count the number of times our Korean co-teachers have unexpectedly brought leftovers from lunch (always the good stuff) into the teacher's lounge and insisted we take a break to partake in the eating. Although it's sometimes really hard to take even a few minutes off, I really appreciate that they think food is so important. Sometimes, they'll even bring in food themselves for all the teachers, like clementines and instant-noodle bowls.

3. Dong chim. This is the term for an action children--and occasionally adults--make against another person: they clasp their hands together, index fingers pointed forward, and try to shove into your anus. The action of dong chim extends into kids sometimes just digging a hand into the buttcrack. I have had this happen to me a total of three times, one by Eric (torso-flasher), whom I threatened with a loss of five points if he ever did it again; twice by Daniel, a new student who, for the most part, I can't stand. He tried shoving his hand into my crack twice while we were standing three feet from his mother, who saw the whole thing and did nothing to dissuade it. According to Wikipedia, dong chim is the South Korean, Japanese, and Filipino equivalent of the American wedgie.

4. Parents. If parents of hogwon students get paranoid enough that their spoiled little packages might contract any of several forms of the flu at school, they just remove their kids from school for a month.

5. High heels are the dominant shoe form for women to wear here, and it's crazy because everybody does a ton of walking. In Itaewon, a friend and I sat people-watching for about 15 minutes, and, with pretty steady streams of people going in both directions, we counted a total of 11 women wearing flats. I went to a theme park a few weeks ago, and there were women in platform heels all over the place!

6. Dressing room. Sometimes it has curtains, sometimes it has more boxes of clothes than room to change. If you get lucky, it has a door; if you're even luckier, the door extends both below your shins and above your neck. Some days, you're out of luck, and they lead you to the open corner behind the two-foot-wide wall unit on the other side of the cash register; some days, you're completely screwed, and the only place to try on a miniskirt is directly in front of the counter. Some days--the gods spit on you, and give you a dressing room that is really just the back third of the store blocked off by a giant pink curtain, and the "back wall" of that dressing room is really a floor-to-ceiling window--blocked only partway by boxes--that looks into the hallway of the rest of the building, and you don't realize until after you've gritted your teeth and hoped for zero passersby that on the ceiling of that hallway, directly above the mirror that just saw you strip down to your skivvies and try on a slip dress, yes, directly above that mirror is a CCTV monitor.

Really funny, Teacher?

Today, after lunch, I was to teach reading to my 6.1 class. This is one of my hardest classes, because, after lunch, all the little 6-years are flaky and sleepy, and the book is useless. I decided to write three of the new reading words on the board today, and go from there. I started with "sound," then we worked on "funny" (these are the kinds of words the book demands beginning, non-native-English-speaker students to read). To demonstrate "funny," I laughed out loud, which scared the kids at first but then cracked them up, since they have never heard me laugh at work since I am always crabby at work. I made a few "funny" faces, and got them laughing, harder than I probably have before. Mission accomplished; they probably won't forget that word. The next one I wanted to work on was "really," so we practiced the phonics for that one, then it was on to demonstrating the difference between "funny" and "really funny." Pretty quickly, the whole class and Teacher were making funny faces, they asking me "Really funny, teacher?? Really funny??" I then looked at the back row and saw this kid,


the one in the army shirt, holding his prim and proper school uniform vest and shirt all the way up to his neck. I have never before laughed as hard at work as I did at that kid and his brazenly naked torso, so much that all the kids started laughing at me more than they were at Eric. Of course, the next few minutes were a chaos of trying to then stop Eric from pulling his pants down after he stood up in his chair, and then stopping two other boys from also exposing their torsos and trying for their lower parts. Some days, my life here is ******; other days, it's really funny.