Written by Gabrielle Nygaard
Scraping a few errant grains of uneaten rice into the slop pile and dropping my dirty tray onto the stack with that distinct metal-on-metal bang that I now associate with a full belly, I head out of the cafeteria and back to my classroom. I am the definition of peppy, smiling and waving to everyone I meet with the gusto to rival a presidential candidate. But when I reach the top of the staircase, suddenly this routine is cut short. I drag my feet as the sight of the third floor hall reminds me what comes next in the school day ritual.
In the morning, after lunch and even following hurried chocolate snacks crammed down during passing time, students and teachers alike dutifully flock with their dedicated school toothbrushes, tubes of toothpaste and cups to scrub, spit and rinse…
…in the hallway.
For a newcomer, brushing your teeth in the hall isn’t as awkward as it sounds.
It’s even more so.
The scene verges on stressful. As my co-workers and pupils make their way through, there I am, a five-foot-nine roadblock of self-consciousness obstructing their path in the name of dental hygiene.
As they sidestep me and I brush away, where exactly am I supposed to fix my gaze? Looking out at these passersby would just be asking for trouble. I’m obligated to insa[1. Greetings, traditionally in the form of a bow] anyone who enters my field of vision, but I’m not confident that the brush-and-bow is an acceptable maneuver, much less one I can pull off without a rogue toothbrush up the nostril or self-inflicted punch to the jaw given the slew of people pouring through. But if I look out the window above the wash basin, I’m sure to make uncomfortable eye contact with some distracted student in the building opposite. Maybe I’ll look away, but they won’t. It seems that a gangly foreigner doing something as mundane as brushing her teeth still outranks even the most important lecture from their Korean teachers in terms of entertainment value.
As I resort to inspecting my socks, I can’t help but feel I’m being judged for my technique… for how long I brush… for the amount of toothpaste seeping out of the corner of my mouth… but nobody told me the rules. Not brushing enough is surely bad. But is brushing for too long perhaps just as faux pas?
In any case, I’d just rather not be looked at. Maybe this position isn’t exactly compromising, but it feels inherently private. It’s called personal hygiene, not public hygiene, isn’t it?
But even worse is the moment of terror when I’m caught hunched at an odd angle with my sandaled feet straddling the perpetual hallway puddle (or Lake Jeonggwang[2. In reference to Jeonggwang Middle School], as I’ve begun to think of it), frenziedly scrubbing my teeth like it’s a matter of national security. I had planned on getting in and out of there as quickly and covertly as possible, but that’s all backfired now as a high-ranking school official heads my way. Not only does he see me frothing green tea-flavored toothpaste at the mouth like a rabid dog with a peculiarly refined taste in beverages, but I have to greet him.
Ergo, my vice principal is going to watch me spit.
If I do a bad job of it, my toothpaste glob is going to sit there, a badge of my ineptitude in the stone basin, and refuse to disappear down the drain, even if that’s exactly what I feel like doing at that moment.
Multiply the pressure when a gaggle of students starts to gather around the faucet for a drink and gaze up at me curiously. Now I have a full-fledged audience to witness me fumble this deceptively ordinary task.
Yet somehow, I manage a brilliantly on-target, most ladylike spit that arcs perfectly into the drain. No splash, no sound. A real 10-out-of-10, standing-ovation, Olympic-level spit.
But the crowd doesn’t go wild. No one so much as blinks, which shouldn’t surprise me, considering all the snot-draining snorting and hacking that goes on when it’s anyone else who’s manning the toothbrush. Hell, my students have even been known to snort and spit without that pretext straight onto the classroom floor, no shame.
Brushing your teeth in the hallway is totally normal here. In this situation, only my thinking that it’s uncomfortable makes it so. I know it, but as I deliver a mumbled good afternoon and duck into my classroom, I still can’t help but weigh the awkwardness of the ordeal against a cavity or two.
Gabrielle Nygaard is a 2013-2014 ETA at Jeonggwang Middle School in Gwangju.
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