We got off the train and stepped on to Seoul's wet floor. There had been worry and warning about some serious flooding, overtaking bridges and closing main roads, upon our departure from Busan and it had ended up with that smell of the city after a muchly-needed rain and a sad stack of sand bags guarding the door of the market. Adam and I wearily, and happily, trudged through the buzzing lights and I picked up some gifts for the matriarchs of our family tree.
We are here, as the rest of the nation is, to take the week--or the middle three days of the week--off and visit with family. I thought of my parents as we acted out the ritual of the nation, and how they would have been doing what we were doing had they not moved to the States at our age to pursue studies and start a family. I am their son here. I can't say that I am back, as I am a stranger in this land and to these people. The nurse checking my blood pressure, the lady selling us dumplings, the cabdriver taking us downtown, they all assure and scold me in the same way. You should speak Korean because you are Korean. And I hold back my inclination to correct them: No. I'm American.
But here I am on a journey, or family pilgrimmage, to present myself to my family. I am their son. This is who I am. This is my friend. We are your family.
In preparation for the week of visiting, and out of necessity and convenience, we are spending the night at a jimjilbang, or spa. This building is 6 floors high and occupied, from the bottom up, as spa, bath, and lockers; lounge and meeting room; cafe, pc room (my current location), and gym; and sleeping rooms. The guests are given a set of shorts and t shirts to change into, and lockers in which to store shoes and clothes. The men and women have separate facilities for the baths and lockers only, and the night occupants sleep on floor mats. I like the idea of thoroughly cleansing one self through the night, even though the cafe sells grossly unhealthy food and there are two dudes behind me playing Starcraft. Our stay here is a fitting start to our journey, taking part in this ritual.
And now, dear friends and readers, know that I am thankful for you and wish that we could collectively take work off and visit together. But we can't. 'Cause ya'll live elsewhere. So have fun at work/school, and know that you are missed.

At the last quiz of this week, I answered any questions before handing out the sheets. The loud students finished first, then the smart ones, then the quiet ones. I walk around trying to look like a calm professor instead of the anxious, excited recent college grad that I am. This is their first quiz with me--this week has been full of first quizzes. The ones that raise their hands for clarification gain instant ranking as my new favorite student ever and I hope that they learned when to use said instead of told. I hope that their mind processes the difference in English until they are not differences anymore, but just two words that they are fully capable of using. I hope that they have not merely thought to look for an object as an indication, to pluck the rule from their minds later. I am thankful for the ones that put themselves in their Have you ever questions, hopeful for the ones that try, and exhausted from the ones that left blank spaces.

When I returned from my office, after quietly thanking them as they filed out and wishing them a happy Chuseok, I was handed a brick of cash--our first month's pay--and instructed to count it. We had been notified of this beforehand. We had only recently applied for our resident/immigration cards, and can't apply for a bank account until we receive them. Still, it seemed odd. Not that it was in cash, but that we were getting paid at all.

I have students stop me in the hall to ask questions, give reasons why they missed class, and/or beg of me to accept their late homework (without docking points). It is still odd, and something I feel is necessary to document on the blog.

I love my students, and hope that I am encouraging to them. I love them as they are just starting to raise their hands when they don't understand something, not caring that they might embarrass themselves in front of their peers. I love them when they stop after class to clarify a grammar concept, or ask if "part away" is a common phrasal in English conversation, and why it is not. I love them when they cry and moan about getting homework, and beam with pride when they turn it in and I tell them that it must have been easy because they did so well. I love them when they ask why I keep saying "Boom." as an exclamation. I love them for writing things like, "In the wilderness, I shall wrestle with him." and "Today was sad. Tomorrow will be better." I love them when they realize how to say the word "realize." I love them when they volunteer to pray at the end of class, and pull out a piece of paper to read from. I love when they translate for each other, and I love them when they refuse to do so.

Yes. This is my cheesy teacher post, inspired by the great Ms. Dekens, wherever she may be.

I love teaching. I love it in my bones. I love the drudgery of staying up late to grade homework, and urging them to ask me if they have any questions.

But if I could do this in Los Angeles, with these students, I would. I would rather be there. Even if I could work on getting into grad. school, read, write, and be employed, thankfully, at a coffee shop, I would. I guess I could, if not for this contract.

Yes. This is also my cheesy Happy Anniversary post. Yikes. Who is this guy? Happy Anniversary to Hani and me.

For the last couple days, I've been feeling sick. I lost a weekend to it--recently I was talking to some students about what we did this weekend, and I had a moment that I looked to Adam and said, "Whoa... that was Friday?" completely forgetting that I had stayed in my cubicle of an apartment for all of Saturday and Sunday. On Tuesday, I felt dramatic as I normally do when ill, and absolutely convinced that my body was deteriorating. I'll spare you the details for fear of sounding as if I intend to garner any pity (I'm better now), so just take my word for it because when you're healthy, you often forget what it is to be sick. And being sick is a full-time occupation--lying in full attention to the pain coursing through your arteries and spreading over the rest of your body.

But what I wanted to say was: On Tuesday, I was walking up to my apartment after my two shortened classes and took a rest to lean against the wall after the first flight of stairs. The wind rushed up the staircase and I felt God tousle my hair. You have to understand that Busan has been hot and muggy since we got here, and with the typhoon in the area, and the ships out from the harbor at a safe distance, the rain and winds have been a gift.

And also: Dude. Teaching English is difficult because English is difficult. I'm often tempted to distribute copies of the The Berenstein Bears and having a policy for no questions on grammar allowed until we get through the entire series.

I yelled at two students so far, but neither incidents involved a volume that would register as yelling. At the most, I was stern.

The first was a student in my Intermediate English Conversation class. Previous instructors left notes on various students--skilled, but needs work on pronunciation; needs lots of gentle encouragement; etc. They were very clear that this student was a chronic skipper, but he was smart. I asked around some more and received confirmation on this guy who had lived abroad for several years. "He's very quick and intelligent, and he'll pass easily if he just shows up in class." I asked him to stay behind in class to relay this information. He was old enough, and smart enough, that I could be straight with him so I was. "If you don't show up, I have no qualms failing your ass." The image: two young Korean kids--one in a shirt and tie, the other in a Polo with his collar popped, and a sea of other students swirling around them. I didn't use those exact words, I didn't say ass but he laughed and nodded.

The second was in a Global class. After selecting a random name from the attendance sheet, he tried to read his homework in front of the class--a short paragraph about his favorite movie Salt. I took a quick glance at his paper and was impressed at its legibility and three-syllable words. When he struggled for fifteen full seconds to say "everyday" and gradually mumbled into silence and embarrassment, I asked him to stay after class also. I took another look at his paper--words like assassination and transvestite. I asked him what those words meant. He didn't know. I asked him to read the last sentence, and he could not. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized. I asked him who wrote the essay and he apologized again. I slammed the paper on the desk and asked him who wrote the essay. He said he took it off the internet, and he apologized again. I took my red pen out and wrote "PLAGIARISM" over his essay and told him to look it up. I told him that if I reported this, he would be kicked out of school. (I don't know what Kosin's policy on plagiarism is.) Given his grasp on the English language, I'm not so sure that he understood, but he nodded and I left.

When my dad would talk about students that were acting up, not attending, or putting themselves in trouble, I would try my best to let him finish the story before saying he should 1) kick them out 2) fail them 3) chew them out in front of class or 4) all of the above. It's harder to do than I thought. I hope I don't get that angry, though I still believe that option 4 is necessary. Some of my favorite professors were the ones who were clear and placid about college students taking responsibility for their own grades; why should they care if we attend class or not? I have found that I am not that professor.

Dang.

The best of class is when we deviate from the loosely-drawn plans for the day and organically engage in a discussion. We are the most awake, attentive, and enthusiastic at these times. And I often ask questions, as the running question has been Who is the Kosin University student? What do my students care about? What do they do in between the spaces of class? This is hindered by, of course, the language barrier, and how entertaining it is to witness them earnestly trying to speak English. Don't get me wrong, we love them and we love that they try so hard. Don't get me wrong, it is hilarious each time. While writing this post, a student of Adam's came in to the office to ask for clarification about an assignment. Students, know that professors LOVE when this happens--I mean, asking a question that was answered in class is better than doing the assignment incorrectly. This student hesitated and thought more than she spoke, carefully calculating her syntax and rifling through her mental vocabulary. Again, we love this. We love when students try, because--too many times!-- we see students simply give up and look down at their desk.

Here's an extract from an essay about a favorite film character: In this story, Chul Soo is a construction site's foreman who [is] also aiming to become an architect. Chul Soo may appear like a rough and dirty construction worker initially, but he exudes sheer masculinity in its most basic physical form and is pretty handy when it comes to carpentry or house repair. It's also agonise while watching the wife he loved dearly forget who he even is.

A few mistakes, sure. But absolutely stunning work.