I wouldn’t know, but perhaps one indication of a person’s deep-seated interest is what they stay up in bed thinking of, what they read when they stave off sleep, and what they—with a fresh surprise of a paycheck—imagine they will acquire. My Google Reader is filled with food blogs. Whole leeks charred with coal, Alec Baldwin’s favorite pizza, and yet another dish combining chorizo and clams. I’ve never had this last one. It sounds pretty heavy and hedonistic though, which may be why I’m coming up on twenty hours awake.

Coming home is a surreal stage. I insist to myself, for some desperate reason, that it doesn’t count. (Searching for employment is an exercise in vulnerability, but it’s not nearly as bad as having to report such a state of limbo.) I can’t keep track of the days very well. And my mind takes an amount of concentration to figure it out.

In the morning, I’ll bike a few blocks west toward I-75, sneak into a seat in the back of Covenant CRC, gape at how tall the kids are, shake hands, smile, and steal away back home to have lunch with my parents and a handful of friends—a smattering of previous years’ gatherings. The sun will likely be out, and pouring through the leaves as the fire hisses with the dripping marinade. My skin, hair, and clothes will smell of soy sauce for the rest of the day, and a feast of some of my favorite foods will be presented. Mother and I have been discussing the offerings for the last couple days. Again, we toyed at making something we would make for ourselves—notably, not the 만두 (dumplings), not the 불고기 (marinated beef… which we are having), but the 김치찌개, 됀장국, and 낙찌복음. The back alley shack of a restaurant where laborers hurriedly slurp their lunch instead of high-heeled wives with shopping bags from Coach eating cream spaghetti and soup at Outback Steakhouse.

I’m awake because of so many meals. Most of them at home—a few bad ones out—with the parents and the begging dog at our feet, and seemingly effortless dishes turned out. More often than not, we all had a hand in the preparation, plating, and clean up and I asked more questions about something I’d been eating my whole life, but hadn’t an idea of what it actually was, other than comforting and familiar—what I imagine a Dutch person smells upon entering our house unexpectedly.

It’s quite a first-world problem I have: the food has been so plentiful and alarming and better than anything I’ve had, that I’m exhausted. I’m wondering about how lunch in the afternoon will go. The friends will tuck in, dad will laugh, mom will grin, conversation will lull to the sound of guests hunched over and chewing, and I’ll wonder to what to do.

To remember: A lively apartment and the setting sun screaming red over the sky, standing before a tomato, a fresh, warm loaf of bread, and a clove of garlic smashed and peeled and all the smells forcing you to pay attention and sit still.

A lot of people ask what it's like to be back in the States and what I missed most while I was living in Busan. I'm back in the States now, having spent a few weeks at home visiting the parents and sisters and reveling in the one place in town to see everybody who isn't bound by blood or household. I had lots of seasonal beers, shared a few bottles of wine, drunken midnight pizzas, Chinese food in Orange City, and savored everything my mom thought to put on a plate*... which really was a whole lot of food that was better than anything we found in Busan. Sorry, Kosin students and your enthusiastic recommendations. Sorry Elijah, Ashley, and Adam, and your "Oh, Oriental food is soooo good." I know it. You don't need to tell me. You all lose to a woman sourcing her ingredients from Sioux City and cooking in a small, snowy town with two traffic lights and seventeen churches. I'm in Los Angeles now, and what I've eaten so far includes Lebanese lamb chops, falafel patties, chicken mole tamales, chicken verde tamales, flank steak marinated in tomato sauce, chicken roasted with garlic and rosemary, sweet potato gratin, fennel salad dotted with pomegranate, roasted brussel sprouts**, warm potato salad, steamed/sautéed asparagus, balsamic chuck eye steak, and Greek salad. And wine. At the moment, I'm sipping a latte and thinking about what to have for lunch as well as what to make for dinner. "Beer-cheese soup?" I asked Christina, thinking of finding a hoppy beer and sharp cheese to mop up with a crusty loaf. "My husband is lactose-intolerant. :( " to which I shouted, "YOU'RE lactose-intolerant!" and the patrons at Antigua Coffee/Tea raised many an eyebrow.

What else to eat?

*I'd like to provide more detail, but I'll have to do so after calling home.

**ForageLA --Matty, pay attention. Also you, Andrew Kroeze.

What she really meant is that the long distance sucks, but we're really very happy to be dating. But seriously, everybody else knew before us? Before me, at least. But her too?

I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, and because when I think of this thing (I don't even want to say blog because I hate blogs--I don't even like the word blog), I imagine my arms firmly, nervously open and holding an old, dear friend that I've neglected for too long simply because I'm a big jerk. It's 5 03 AM and I simply decided just a little while ago that sleep wasn't going to happen. And let me tell you, realizing this was a huge relief. I feel more awake now than I have in days. So here I am, thinking of all the people--some of the people I love the most in the world--that have trouble sleeping at night, turning this way and that, feeling trapped under their sheets.

I'm here, old friend, because I'm unhappy. Happy is boring. Happy writing is boring. Even happy movies often begin with something awful. The set-up: a disaster; a divorce; a man who loves a woman but the woman is dating another man, a richer man, and she has a smile on her face and is wearing a fancy dress and the first man is in jail anyway. Things like that. So let's try this.

A boy is awake at 5 in the morning and whenever he looks at the person sitting across from him, whenever he remembers the person on the other end of the phone, whenever he drafts up an email, he can't think of a single thing that he actually wants to say. So his conversations dance lightly upon frivolities, rehearsals of actual conversations until his partner says something colored with truth that they can build on. His phone calls end quickly and uncomfortably. His emails go unwritten. A voice is a wonderful privilege, he knows. Like having enough money to give away, it's something that most everybody actually has, but few actually carry out. And anyway, a professor once said in a lecture, most of us get by with grunts and moans. Lately, he feels doesn't even have that.

His head aches slightly, from lack of sleep or dehydration or caffeine withdrawal, he doesn't know. In the school where he taught English Conversation, mostly to students that were just as old as he was, the students would claim a visit to the hospital because of a headache or a cough. They would miss entire weeks of classes, validated with a wrinkly stack of medication receipts stamped with red, official ink. He saw the vendors for these seals and crests in the city, where he and his colleagues would explore for dinner and the pleasant glow of neon lights and the buzz of beer. Two months in to the semester, he simply stopped logging attendance. He used the papers they brought in as scratch paper, feeding them into his printer for carrying hard copies of online articles to read in the courtyard, where he often took his breaks. When he was through, he would leave them in random lockers, empty classrooms, bathroom stalls, benches, and next to the coffee machines so as to encourage his students.

His head aches slightly and he wants a cigarette, but has quit. And anyway, if he would be at all relieved from an intake of nicotine, he'd be startled with himself. So, this is better.

But he wants better than not being addicted to nicotine.

The students are dropping like flies. Though it's warmer today, the weather brought a sudden cold recently. Adam and I went to the city and wore our quick purchases: hats, sweaters, cardigans. We looked like jerks, but it was so cold. This evening, after classes and grading a few folders of assignments, I went to my apartment, took a nap, woke up with a fever and a sore throat. Elijah said that's not supposed to happen, but I'm just thankful that it came at the end of the week. I opened the door to my apartment and smelled snow in the air. Lovely, I tell you the truth. Bundled up, I went out to search for dinner.

A tiger is more wild than a dog.

Lemons are more sour than oranges.

Red is more intense than yellow.

Sharks are bigger than goldfish.

Light is faster than humans.

A rose is more beautiful than weeds.

Ice is colder than fire.

The skin is warmer than nylon.

Honey is sweeter than medicine.

America is wider than Japan.

Jewel is more expensive than candy.

-Pierro

I like cats less than dogs.

I spend more time watching TV than playing computer.

I spend less time reading books than watching TV.

I like Zerg more than Protoss because I'm always playing Zerg! But I don't use the Protoss much.

-Jetty

I do more sleeping than exercising.

I make more girlfriends than boyfriends because I'm just a woman.

I wear shirt more than blouse because I'm not becoming in blouses.

I like humorous boys better than handsome boys because when I meet boyfriend, I always want to laugh.

I hear pop music more than jazz music because I don't know jazz music.

-Eileen

I hate cats more than snakes because I hate cats and snakes but cats are better than snakes.

I cook more kimchi fried rice than egg fry because I make kimchi fried rice taste good and difficult but egg fry is so easy.

-Jay

I like thin man less than a little fat man because a little fat man is so cute.

-Rebecca

19. This novel is out of sight better than that novel.

20. Apples better than pears.

-Moon

I don't have a mantra, and am somewhat wary of people who do. I can't imagine having one phrase upon which I quietly (or not so much) chant or mutter through all the events of my life. Sounds restricting, no? One all-encompassing phrase? I don't think I could. At the same time, I envy them. I assume qualities about them, qualities that I lack myself: that they more diligently practice what I fail to. In my mind, not only do they possess an admirable amount of focus and self-discipline, they have also managed to simplify their interests so as to capitalize on what they love the most.

(If you're tempted at this point, or any point in skimming through this post, to offer up your mantra in the comment section, please make sure first that it's a good one; this may well be the internet, but I can still read what you're saying.)

I believe a lot of things, and dwell on them as often as I can in the course of my days. Subsequently, I love and am troubled by many things. It's harrowing to feel, however, that the most I do is think about such things to myself and act like a normal human being otherwise. And many people have expressed concern that I think too much, which I never really understood. Perhaps if I had a mantra to delineate my every response, they wouldn't worry about me so much. Perhaps if I had a mantra upon which to delineate my every response, then my worrying would be suppressed. Perhaps, instead, I should be faithful. I'm trying.

One of questions I asked my Intermediate students this week is What do you wish you could change? As they consider this, I like to expand the question to How would you change your life? and How should the world be different? I realize these questions are, for many reasons, somewhat unfair to ask, but teaching has to be fun somehow, sometimes, doesn't it? (I'm just kidding; teaching is already always fun.) I ask these questions not only to allow them to demonstrate various tenses and key phrases we practiced in class, but to allow them to talk about something that they care about. Perhaps they'll share their mantras, and briefly forget the anxiety and restrictions of learning a new language. Perhaps they will want to share what they dwell on only when they're alone and would love to talk about, am suppressed to talk about, but are so busy acting like normal human beings.

When can a professor be angry at students?

The students' answer, invariably, is never. "A professor doesn't have to angry at students." over and over again on the first unit quiz. And so, I'm trying. It's mid-term week at Kosin, which is really illogical if you think about it; why subject the students to examinations in all of their classes in the same week? Why, it makes them tough! Adam, Elijah, Ashley and I have schedules full of conducting interviews with our students and my question is: if a student comes in from the weekend, shaking from nerves and the crippling anxiety to perform and produce good grades and can't utter a complete sentence (in their case, from practicing their answers to the list of example questions provided the week before)... if all of this, and they admit that they did not study, or studied for ten minutes, do you get angry and promptly kick them out of the office? Do you laugh quietly, nod your head, and watch them squirm through an uncomfortable four minutes?

Question: How are you?

Answer: ... ...

Question: Nervous?

Answer: ... (nods head)

Q: Did you study?

A: ... ... (shakes head)

What I'm saying is, if you have the sheet of questions beforehand, you have absolutely no excuse to falter. (I'd go so far as to say you have no excuse to lose any points.) There's a space that Adam and I have provided before the exam to calm the students down and quell any debilitating nerves (hopefully), but again: if the student is unable to glance back into our eyes and speak at an audible volume at the end of the semester, who can say that they should pass the class?

I remember a professor begging our class to actually read all of the assigned material, to think through our individual response and struggle with the content. His concession to this outrageous request was that reading questions/prompts were not assigned. Oh, do you remember? I remember complaining to several of you of this--that the professor felt he actually had to ask his students to do the reading for the class.

Party Down has taught me many things--one of which is that you can't really be good at something you don't care about. This is fine. I don't think every Korean student really needs to learn English, as much as I love the language. (Perhaps they do, if what I'm being told is correct; that any college-grad needs English qualifications to even hope for a "good job.") I teach four Global English classes, which are for non-English majors to fulfill Kosin's mandate for English immersion, or exposure at the very least. It's been made clear by an amount of students in each class that they don't care. I think that's OK. They're old enough to think through their decisions, but not caring means accepting that a bad grade will be administered, maybe a failing grade, if one doesn't practice the language. The gall of these kids, I tell you. But back the question: When can a professor be angry at students?

It's trickier than it seems--to say that adverbs give more detail regarding how or why something is done (and add an -ly to the end) isn't easy, but the students practice persistently. And then I come across this gem:

I really don't like my sister, because she treats me sillily sometimes.

Hmm. Darn.

More:

I hate to eat pumpkin gruel because I ate it in childhood but I brought up it. (vomit) -K

You really hate bugs--kind of like spiders, moths, grigs because they're crawly. -Peach

My friends hate me so much because I'm more beautiful than they. -Esther

My boyfriend dislikes taller people than himself. Because he has a lot of greed for height. -Hani

Hahahahahah!

This post is a reprise, or a "That's what he said," of Elijah's a few days ago. Except for the drunken fight, everybody seemed to be in good spirits. And who wouldn't be?

--Blogspot is terrible for viewing images. Click for more better.

A lot of foreigner jerks take their table at a cafe for hours and hours to watch people and sip their much-too-expensive coffee (who do they think is impressed?) and--this is the good part--occasionally scribble something in a notebook with a thoughtful look molded on their faces. Even if I confidently spit out a few Korean phrases in a timbre that has been described "like a voice actor's" every once in a while, make no mistake: I am one of those foreigner jerks. And the coffee usually really is very expensive.

There are no binding rules in the journal(s). A dry exchange with interesting rhythm, a description of something or someone intriguing, or--most often--a prompt that may or may not be expanded and explore further if revisited.

And then you read something on the internet and wonder how to proceed because this jerk basically already did it, and did it better than you would have. The persistence and anger is equivalent to hating the new Christopher Nolan movie because you basically had that same idea a few years ago whenever. (Hahaha.)

Dispatches from Adjunct Faculty at a Large State University. (McSweeney's)

"One reason we're funny is, we keep tryin' and tryin', meeting infrequently for just an hour at a time, to profess something of value to a diverse and often large audience, who may not have had enough interest in the subject to look into it on their own, and who, over the previous 12 to 16 years of their educational lives, may have developed an antipathy to schedules, textbooks, the English language, teachers who remind them of their plumber fathers, and the screech of chalk on slate." --Oronte Churm

So without shame, I spake: I will be wise, and just, and free, and mild, if in me lies such power, for I grow weary to behold the selfish and the strong still tyrannise without reproach or check. I then controuled my tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

Percy Bysshe Shelley from the dedication to Laon and Cythna.

I wrote this on the board today in my Intermediate English Conversation class--my most advanced class because the unit in the book that we would have covered today was in regards to what we want to do, how we want to be different. My most confident students, the outspoken ones, the ones that have lived abroad, asked me, "Why are we doing this? It's too hard. I can't think through this." and I felt at home, struggling through a passage from literature class. "You wrote spake instead of spoke... and you spelled controlled wrong."

And then we explored what was there: why the quotation begins with so, and what it means to respond; what it means to be just, and mild; what powers lie within our own selves, and when they are revealed; when and why we grow weary; who the selfish and strong are, and what they are tasked to do; that controlling tears means to stop crying and be at peace in conviction. Perhaps this passage was too difficult, but we worked through it as a class and within groups and as a class again, and struggling to understand is not exactly discouraged in a classroom.

And we talked about tyranny, and its many forms, and how we respond to it. How, then, do we respond to goodness and beauty?

Larger themes, sure, than "If I had ______, then I would/could _______ ." but I thought, every once in a while, that I should allow the conversation to wander towards something not incessant and benign. I don't really mean this. My primary argument for putting my students through the a glimpse of the glory that is Mr. Shelley was that I firmly believe good teachers show why they love what they're teaching, and why it's worth toiling through.

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.