A Good Teacher
By Rebecca Brower, ETA ’15-’17 Lurking somewhere in my memories there’s an image: a shorthaired, plumpish woman in her mid-forties, she holds my hands, pulling me forward, and supports me as I lay on my back. Then she lets go, and my body holds its place for a second but soon succumbs to the weakness of my skinny, six-year-old stature and sinks. Water rushes in my mouth, up my nose; I cough and spit in panic as my arms flail, and my toes reach for the bottom… *** “Pit-pat-pit-pat-pit-pat…” My wet feet slap the tile floor rhythmically as I exit the stairwell leading down and out of the shower room. I tug self-consciously at my bathing suit as I move, trying in vain to make the fit feel more comfortable. As I follow my work-friend, Mikyeong, I begin to wonder again what rational part of my mind thought this was a good idea. For the entirety of my life I was a self-proclaimed “bad swimmer”, and starting in middle school, I routinely avoided pools whenever possible due to adolescent concerns over body image. I had agreed to do the 6:30 am swimming class with Mikyeong largely because she had been relentless in her pursuits to convince me to go. Although she had assured me that there would be a teacher, I didn’t believe that it would be enough to quell my disdain for the pool. Ultimately, she managed to seal the deal with the point that swimming would be good for my back, which was weak from a recent injury. Just before reaching the pool’s edge, Mikyeong interrupted my unsettled thoughts as she turned to point out a man standing there, intently observing as early arrivers swam laps to warm-up. I stood quietly beside Mikyeong as she hastily introduced me to my new swim instructor, followed by a quick“잘 부탁드립니다.” She then looked at me and flashed one last encouraging smile before sneaking three lanes over to the advanced group, where her husband was already waiting for her. Left standing on my own, I glanced nervously towards the teacher. He was clearly just as uncomfortable with the situation as I was, but still nodded with a smile and gestured for me to hop into the pool with the rest of the beginner class. *** I stood tilting my head to the side, curiously watching the spot where my teacher had just gone underwater, and then it hit me. He had pointed at himself, and then downward, because he wanted me to follow so he could demonstrate something. I hastily threw my goggles on and ducked under to see what I was supposed to be watching. I learned very quickly in the first week that my new swimming teacher knew little English outside of “go”, “okay”, “stop”, “slow”, and “kick.” Our communication was further hindered by the fact that I couldn’t understand much of his Korean, as it was too fast. The language barrier clearly bothered him, as I could see him take a deep breath and hesitate each time he approached me, but it didn’t matter much to me – at first. I didn’t think that my swimming adventure would last more than a month, at most. However, I noticed quickly that swimming did provide substantial relief from my back pain, so I gradually became a more willing participant. At the same time, I began to notice how hard my instructor was working to teach me. Gestures became our primary method of communicating. I would sometimes learn by mimicking others in my lane as they followed his instructions, after which he could correct me simply by repositioning an arm or a leg. By the end of September, I trusted him enough to teach me what I had always tried to avoid, and found myself signing up to do the class again in October. *** “Slow…SLOW!” There was a touch of edgy exasperation in my swimming instructor’s voice as he quickly switched from Korean to English. In response, I halted my arm swing and floated on my back as he grabbed an arm, shaking it and saying forcefully “힘 빼고[1. Him bbaego, Relax your arm]” while he poked me in the neck to readjust my posture. I had only been learning backstroke for about a week, but had probably already whacked my teacher in the chest, and maybe the face, more than a couple of times while he was trying to help me. Despite the beating, he still remained largely patient and always diligent. He floated along behind me for a few strokes- catching each arm as it swept up over my head, directing it as it entered the water again -before letting me go to help the next person coming down the lane. *** “다 알아들었어요!”[1. Da aradeureosseoyo, She understood everything (I said)] My swimming teacher stood next to me grinning and talking defensively to a group of 아주마[1. Ajumma, middle-aged Korean woman]s, who had just been giggling (and still were) while watching him talk to a native English speaker in Korean. Despite the assurance behind his words, I couldn’t help but wonder how much he really believed that I understood him. It was my first time seeing my teacher in two months, as he had swapped times with the second swimming teacher in Uiseong (which they did every three months), and had been teaching the evening class. Most of my first week in the new time slot was like class in the fall, where my teacher still looked like he was giving himself a pep-talk before addressing me. However, after only a few days, the visible worry started to fade as he set out to prove to my new classmates that I really could understand him. My teacher listened patiently to my broken Korean sentences as I told him what I had learned in the past two months; breaststroke and the kick-portion of butterfly. Following the explanation, he responded with an energetic “okay, go!”, and watched intently
Body Language
By Katherine Moncure, ETA ’16-’17 A Hunch The apartment is small. I tend to occupy a chair in the living room, hoping that somehow, my sheer physical presence will foster a family connection where other efforts have failed. My host father sits on the couch in the living room, watching news videos on a tablet. He wears pajamas in the house – a white tank and loose boxers. He slouches against the pillows, one leg hanging off the edge of the cushion. Something about this makes me uncomfortable. Perhaps it’s his hand that rests, unintentionally I hope, very close to his crotch. Perhaps it’s knowing that though he can relax, I can never sit this way in his presence. My shoulders are hunched. In the five months I have lived here, I haven’t seen anyone hug. Microexpression On the morning I move out of my homestay, I leave a thank-you note in my empty bedroom. My host family and I are on bad terms, and part of me feels like I’m thanking them for more than they really gave. I’m still hoping this can be an olive branch of sorts, so I can leave the situation in a positive way. But I’m not sure if the family will read it. As my coteacher and I bring my bags to the car, my host mother is all smiles and warmth, far friendlier than she has been in weeks. She gently places her hand on my back and leads me toward the door. “Be thankful for the people in your life,” Jiyoon says sweetly, her hand still resting on me. I smile too, feeling like we both want the same thing. “Yes! I left a note upstairs, really, thank you for everything.” I place my hand on her arm, but she snaps it away, her smile faltering into a grimace for a half second. I now realize what we’re doing here. This isn’t a conversation, this is a show. This is saving face. A Pat A young couple is in front of me at the bus stop. I can tell that they’re high school students because they’re both in uniforms – the boy wears a dark brown blazer under his backpack and the girl is in a cream plaid skirt. They stand close to each other, their hips touching. The boy reaches his arm around the girl and pats the side of her head a couple times, the way you might pat a dog before you know whether or not it’s friendly. I wonder how much time they have together, outside of school. There’s a pause, and then he keeps patting, lifting his hand higher than necessary each time. She leans her head into the crook of his neck but her shoulders don’t really relax, and she pulls her head back up, like maybe that was a bad idea. He continues to pat her, his hand traveling up to the top of her skull, then back down to the outer edge of her arm. His hand pats its way to her hip, dangerously close to her butt, just before someone steps in front of me and breaks my view. I’m both thankful and slightly disappointed. The bus pulls up, they separate, and the girl steps on. I follow. The Space Between This couple is older, and they stand in front of me as we descend the escalator. The guy reaches his hand as if to brush away his girlfriend’s hair, but instead he just brushes the air right next to her ear. His fingers hover there, moving up and down repeatedly as they talk. Is he afraid to touch her? Comfort On Tuesdays we study Korean at A Twosome Place, a coffee shop that claims to serve “sensuous dessert.” Today, my seat faces the wall. Louisa quietly leans toward me and says in a hushed voiced, “Don’t stare, but look at the couple behind you.” I try to pretend like I’m turning to toward the window and not the boy and girl sitting right next to it, although as I glance at them, I realize they wouldn’t notice if I stared anyway. The two of them are transfixed by each other’s faces. Both have their arms extended, and they simultaneously caress each other’s cheeks, oblivious to everything around them. “They’ve been at it for at least a half hour,” Louisa adds. I wonder why they’re not embarrassed to act like this in public, until I realize that both of them probably live with their parents. I think about my host family’s apartment and how it’s small enough for two people to have a conversation across its entire length. And there aren’t exactly any inviting bushes or dark corners in Iksan, or really any spots even close to private. I watch the boy twirl his finger through his girlfriend’s hair. This must be the next best thing. Skinship A lot of my students hold each other the way people in romantic relationships do. One girl comes up to my desk to ask for tape, dragging her friend along with her. Her friend hangs around her shoulders like a backpack, head resting on her neck, slightly sleepy. I hand them the tape. They shuffle back to their desks, still attached, until they both collapse into separate chairs. Skipping Class I’m on a bus that passes the outer edge of my school. It’s Saturday, so the third grade students are there for extra study time, and I recognize three of them in navy blue skirts on the sidewalk. The bus slows down, and one girl has her face buried into the others. I realize she’s crying. As both of her friends wrap their arms around her, her torso crumples, slightly shuddering while she leans into them. They stroke her long, black hair that tumbles down her back, saying nothing. The bus starts to pull away and I don’t know what is making her upset, but I hurt
Hindsight is more beautiful
By Arya Mohanka, ETA ’16-’17 On a strenuous hike into the mountains of the north of Thailand, We were all sweaty and sore and drained, unsteady. We regretted this. But afterwards on Facebook, they posted lovely photos with captions: “That was the best, most amazing experience of my whole lifetime.” I struggled greatly in a rural city of North Sichuan, China. With no language, I had only two companions. Lonely together. Arcades and dumplings, we filled time with games and snacks. Typical weekends now seem exciting and adventurous. I miss those mundane pastimes. Now in my small town faced with the difficulties of teaching English and being friendless, I feel crushing loneliness, a weak self-pity. The days drag onward, filled with skipped meals, restless nights, precious time, wasted. I must remember the yearning that comes when the plane lands in Boston. Craving adventure, novelty, frailty and strength. I was all at once. Hindsight may be clear, but, like me, the present is sadly nearsighted. I focus in on every failure, frustration, struggle, misery. I only notice later how it helped me grow and increased my grit. I cannot allow only hindsight to sparkle. I must seek that now.