The Second Side of Anger
By Christine Lee, a third-year ETA
When I applied for the Fulbright grant, I mentioned in my application that I wished to become more fluent. At that time, I meant in the Korean language. Two years later, unwittingly, I have become more versed in another language—one that I have yearned for years to understand.
As a child, I hated how my mother seemed to breathe anger. A poor school grade? Anger. Letting a slight against me go? Anger. Picking at my chapped lips? Anger. Even when I got lost at Joshua Tree National Park for two hours, my mother did not run at me crying with open arms when she found me. Instead, she yelled. Angry. Always angry. Theoretically, I understood. Anger was how she showed care. She grew up in a war‑ravaged country in which children regularly starved to death during the winter. She survived dictatorships, poverty and the loss of parts of her identity, dignity and humanity as an immigrant in America. She learned how to make herself hard like her own mother because like her, she lived to survive. Her daughter, however, who had the emotional fortitude of a hamster, demanded a softness that she, herself, rarely received. So, we fought endlessly.
Despite having mostly grown out of these battles for quite some time now, working as a native English teacher at a middle school in the motherland returned me to the front lines. At school, I operate under the guise of barely knowing any Korean in front of the students. Thus, involuntarily, I have become privy to certain vulnerable conversations and weathered the friendly fire of a considerable number of scoldings in my corner of the teacher’s office, especially those from a teacher (“Teacher”)1 who disciplined in a way that I can best describe as “compassionately angry.”
Initially, the way they2 raised their voice caught me off guard. Not shy of cursing or shouting, their scoldings gave me war flashbacks to my own childhood. Yet the very students who came in yesterday to face Teacher with their heads bowed would come in today and lean their heads on Teacher’s shoulders, whining until they finally got their fill of Teacher’s attention. Initially, the juxtaposition jarred me as I wondered how the students were not repelled. But then I realized that these students came to Teacher not despite, but rather because of their admonitions.
For as long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget one particular student (“Student”)3 and the scolding they4 received. It was early in the morning when Teacher dragged Student into the office and plopped them down onto a wooden stool, demanding an explanation for Student’s repeated tardiness. Through my peripheral vision, I recognized their lanky, hunched frame. Student was a quiet kid who didn’t know phonics but masterfully doodled on every page of their English textbook. Other teachers had also noted their inability to focus and had shared with me reports from Student’s elementary school behavioral record.
At first, Student said nothing, sitting with their shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. A moment passed before Teacher repeated themself in a carefully measured tone. In response, Student mumbled a generic apology, shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. Even without looking up, I could feel Teacher’s growing frustration.
What followed was a lecture not out of the ordinary. Had Student thought about how their repeated tardiness meant their 벌점, or “punishment points,” were stacking up to the extent that even with volunteer service, it would be difficult to get rid of them all? And did they realize what it meant for their high school prospects if they were to graduate with 벌점 on their record? Also, what about the fact that their late start throws them out of sync with the rest of their class? It was only the beginning of the year!
Then, Teacher asked a question—a mundane one about family life.
Student did not answer.
Teacher tried again, rephrasing their original inquiry in case it was misunderstood.
Again, radio silence. Then, a slight shift in posture. I glanced up. Was it my imagination or did Student’s shoulders fold more inward?
Something must have clicked for Teacher then. Something I had missed completely. Teacher’s voice dropped octaves to something between a whisper and a murmur.
They asked their third question, loaded and heavy.
At the weight of it, the arch of Student’s back rose sharply as they caved into themself. From within the fortress of their body, something passed between their lips, but the words dissolved the minute they touched the air, too quick for Teacher to catch despite now hovering over the child. One more time, Teacher pressed for an answer.
And in the air that stood patiently still, we heard a reply that shattered our hearts.
I looked at Student who had become a ball balanced on the stool. They had their head cradled between their hands and knees as if enduring an earthquake. I could see their world shake.
Delicately, as if unraveling a spider web, Teacher coaxed out details from Student. Then, Teacher sighed a prolonged sigh—one that conveyed the understanding of an adult who knew too much. That parents can prioritize their wants over their children’s needs. That siblings can share a bond as nonexistent as that between strangers. That a student can hide a world of hurt and loneliness behind antics that secretly call for help.
Thud. Thud. Thud. No words. Just thuds as Teacher half‑slapped, half‑stroked the back of the ball balanced on the hard, wooden stool. Thud. Thud. Thud. Student resembled a threatened pill bug that had collapsed into itself. Yet with each blow, their grip on themself loosened and slowly from the mound emerged a child—tired, wary and impossibly young.
Finally, Teacher spoke, “아침은? 밥은 먹었어?”5
Student shook their head. Teacher immediately began rummaging through their drawers where they located a packet of fruit snacks. “At least eat this, then go back to class.”
With two hands, Student gingerly accepted the paltry rations. Teacher then stroked Student’s head roughly, the pressure making their head bob. Teacher sighed, “Eat well because you’re going to have to grow up quickly.” Then, Teacher huffed, their breath heated with resigned frustration. “Grow up quickly so that you can live yours freely… you must grow up quickly.”
And despite the hefty pats to their head, under Teacher’s hands, Student grew. Working against gravity, their spine unfurled and locked into place one by one. The lanky child whose vulnerability now laid bare on the hard, wooden stool finally stood up with fruit snacks in hand. And when they did, the air around them shifted. Like the thinnest layer of dust, peace shrouded them. It was the strangest phenomenon, like noticing that a person’s hair grew a millimeter longer or a piece of lint was missing from a sweater, but somehow, I saw it. I saw a person transform that day.
From then on, Student became a regular at our office. After completing their cleaning duty, they would trot over to Teacher, sometimes resting their chin on Teacher’s shoulder to request a prize, which Teacher would dole out in the form of Tootsie Rolls, swats or curses. During the occasional scolding, Student would stand at attention with their head bowed, but gone was the child whose eyes were empty. Though they still preferred doodling over learning the English phrase of the day, Student tried in their own ways. After all, never again were they late to school.
The interactions between Student and Teacher taught me the full meaning of the statement: “the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy.” Yes, Teacher yelled, but almost instinctively, their students understood the essence of their language. Perhaps, for the first time in their lives, an adult was showing them care; perhaps, for the first time in their lives, an adult was angry at their behavior because it sabotaged the very few prospects the students had for a better future. While a person who has lived all her life submerged in loving care may analyze, intellectualize and then demand care to be given to her in a specific way, for a handful of students whose parents have seemingly worked hard to build a life away from them, care, even in its crudest form, was all they wanted.
Reflecting on my relationship with my mother, I find myself revisiting certain memories with more compassion. Her anger at my poor academic performance was because she cared; she believed so much more in my potential than I did, so she fought for it. Her anger at my willingness to be pushed around was because she worried for her only child, who will sometimes have to fight for things that are rightfully hers to begin with. Her anger at my picking was because she intended to prevent harmful habits before they became routine. Finally, at Joshua Tree, her yelling was the eruption of all the emotions that engulfed her during the two hours I was gone: fear, despair, grief, frustration and stubborn hope. If she did not care, she would not have reacted so explosively in the first place. Although I still wish to redo certain moments with my mother so that our emotions do not punctuate each breath of our back‑and‑forth, I also look forward to hugging her as tightly as possible when I return home at the end of the grant year, for in all the languages she spoke and in all the ways that she could, she loved and cared for me.
That, I now understand.
- “Teacher” will be used in lieu of the teacher’s name to protect and respect privacy. ↩︎
- The gender neutral “they” will be used to maintain Teacher’s anonymity. ↩︎
- “Student” will be used in lieu of the student’s name to protect and respect privacy. ↩︎
- The gender neutral “they” will be used to maintain Student’s anonymity. ↩︎
- “How about breakfast? Did you eat?” ↩︎