By Robyn Kincaide, ETA ’16-’18 Almost all foreign English teachers teaching at the secondary level in Korea are responsible for administering some kind of biannual speaking test. Almost all of us have mixed feelings about it. The tests really cannot provide an accurate measure of students’ speaking abilities but do afford us the rare opportunity to interact with the students on a one-on-one basis and learn more about them as individuals. In addition, test time can give us a much-needed break from, say, trying to keep a room of 25 middle school boys entertained for 45 minutes…  *** Jihyung There is a knock on the door. “Yes? Come in,” I say, finishing up my notes from the last student. In walks Jihyung, a bright third-year student quite skilled with English but often overshadowed by the class clowns due to his more humble personality. “Teacher, give me five seconds, please,” he says, starting to pace nervously in front of the desk where the test questions are laid out to be randomly chosen. “It’s okay; breathe.” I inhale and exhale in an exaggerated manner, followed by a light chuckle and a smile to try and make him feel more comfortable. “Okay. Ready.” He sits down and answers my first question without any mistakes. I read his second prompt out loud, “Tell me a lie.” Jihyung hesitates, which surprises me. I know he understands these words and am sure that he must have had a response prepared on his exam practice worksheet. He takes a deep breath, and then quietly mutters: “I hate you.” I laugh as I record his response on my grading sheet, and he follows up with a panicked, “It’s a lie, okay?” *** Chanhun The knock on the door this time is very deliberate, almost rhythmic. Without waiting for a response, Chanhun slides the door partway open, pops his head around the corner, and with his unique but convincingly fluid intonation and cadence asks, “Do you want to build a snowman?” It’s June. It’s 32° Celsius outside. “Um, now?” *** Jimin After about twenty of his classmates have gone, Jimin steps into the room. His English skills rank in the bottom half of his homeroom, but this fact never seems to stop him from chatting in English all class. Rather than being obnoxious, I find it strangely endearing, and it makes 3-1 class a livelier environment. Ironically, on the day of the speaking exam he is almost dead silent. We make it through the first question with only a few errors, but the second question stumps him: “What is hard for you to do?” He fiddles around a bit and taps his foot up and down, trying to remember what the question means and how to respond. “Hard… like difficult.” I pull a stressed face and muss up my hair with my hands, trying to get the concept across without using any hints in Korean. “What is hard”—I pull the stressed face—“for you?” I gesture at him with an open palm. He starts shaking his head back and forth. I can tell he has convinced himself he doesn’t know his answer, even though it is likely still in his mind, buried beneath layers of panic. I remember the answer he had written on his test prep worksheet with the help of my co-teacher, because its accuracy had made me burst out laughing: “It is hard for me to be quiet in class.” But now, shaking his head and staring at the floor, he utters only a single muttered word: “Skip.” Two days later, Jimin sees me twenty meters down the hallway and bellows with a big grin, “Hello, teacher!” I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I didn’t break him. *** Youngsun “I broke my arm. What should I make sure I don’t do?” “Make sure you don’t study.” Last year, Youngsun had given the best English Speaking Contest presentation out of all Uiseong Middle School’s students. I know he recognizes the illogic of his answer. “Ah, my arm!” I say, clutching it with my face contorted in affected pain. “I can’t study!” Then I give him one of my well-practiced, resigned What are you doing, boys? looks: one eyebrow raised, a sideways grimace-smile hybrid, elbow bent and palm flipped upward. “Yes, exactly.” I roll my eyes and write “A” on his paper. His grammar had been perfect. *** Byungwoo The door is already partway open, but Byungwoo raps on the door and says, “Excuse me?” as though he is acting in a play. “Yes? Would you like to take an English test now?” I ask, trying to keep up the skit-like atmosphere he has created. However, when I do this, he pauses mid-stride and a look of slight confusion flickers across his face. As one of the top English students in his class, I know Byungwoo has the knowledge base to understand what I just said, but it seems as though he didn’t process it. I then realize he may be more nervous about the English test than his confident tone of voice may suggest. Okay, then. Just the test questions; let’s not push him beyond that. He answers the first question without a problem, but also without his usual swagger. With the second prompt, though, Byungwoo rediscovers his groove. “Tell me a lie.” “I have a friend Youngsun and he is very handsome.” *** Woochang The door slides open and I look up, having just finished writing my notes. “Hello!” I say cheerily as Woochang walks into the room. He sits down at the desk, looks at me, and makes the observation: “Gold head.” When I first began teaching, I would not have known how to respond to such a statement, but these days the apparent oddness does not faze me. “Gold head.” I repeat Woochang’s words, nodding in acknowledgement of this fact before launching into an explanation of the test. “Choose one blue question, one yellow question, one orange question…” *** Junhwan Usually his voice … Continue reading A Knock on the Door