by Chris Tharp
“Hey dude, it’s Andrew.” Andrew owned the Crown, as well as holding down a daytime teaching job. I lived just a ten-minute walk from the place and had passed uncountable hours sitting at the bar, talking and drinking beer. Andrew had grown to know me very well in the couple of years since he had taken the place over. The amount of trust that can be built between men through successive sessions of binge drinking can never be underestimated.
“Hey Andrew, what’s up?”
“You want a job at my college? We need a couple of people.”
“Uh… sure.”
“Great. You got a job. Just bring me your resume, transcripts, and a photo sometime this week.”
Click.
I felt my face flush as I hung up the phone. Andrew just offered me a job at his cush little two-year college. This is exactly the phone call that I said would keep me here, and guess what? It came. So why don’t I feel so stoked about it?
Despite the fact that taking this job would squelch any plan I had to move on, that my dreams of brand-new, culturally disorienting environs would have to be put off indefinitely, I followed Andrew’s directions and delivered the documents within a couple of days. I felt that I had no choice. I thought it totally unlikely that I would ever be offered a great gig out of the fucking blue, but here it was. I feel that sometimes, just sometimes, the universe sends us clear messages. This I could not ignore.
The next time we spoke, Andrew told me that he’d set up an interview very soon, but this didn’t happen. I started to get concerned, because I was due to head home to the US for a few weeks, and as the departure date got closer, this crucial interview never materialized. The job in China was awaiting my decision as well, and here I was, in a limbo of sorts, entirely unsure of where I’d be in one and a half months’ time. I talked to Andrew one more time the night before I was going to leave.
“Do I need to change my ticket? I still haven’t met your boss and I’m scheduled to fly to Seattle tomorrow.”
“Ahh… don’t worry about it. I’m the head teacher there. I just tell ‘em who to hire and they do it. Enjoy your trip, mate.” Andrew flashed me his toothy Aussie smile. He had a cleft chin and blue-black hair, complete with a little forehead squiggle. He was covered in sweat and fryer grease from just having whipped up a few burgers in the war zone that was the kitchen of the Crown. This gave him the appearance of Superman, if the hero had traded his tights and cape for a t-shirt and sweat pants and had slathered himself in a light sheen of lard.
I ended up leaving the next day without having sat down to an interview. I had nominal faith in Andrew’s promise, and just chose to surrender to my fate, leaving it in the hands of an Aussie barman, a Korean boss I’d never met, and, perhaps, God. But in the end, Andrew made good on his word. After only one week back home, I received an email from Suyeong College, officially inviting me to join their staff for the 2007-2008 school year. I now had a new job, with a contract that started exactly when my old one ended. The transition would be seamless. Andrew had come through, delivering me a full-time community college teaching job without so much as an interview. A year of drinking at the same bar can sometimes have its benefits. You gotta love Korea.
A Step Up or a Step Down?
Earlier, I made reference to the hierarchy that exists in the world of Korean ESL. At the top are the university jobs. At the bottom are the hagwons. And before, I had been at a large four-year university. It was by no means high or even mid-ranked–but it was a university. I was now at a two-year junior college. Within the ESL community, this is generally viewed as a demotion. After all, most anyone could enroll at our school. The place has almost no reputation: it’s located in a nameless section of midtown Busan and to this day many of the people I meet here have no idea it exists. I had also taken a slight cut in my base pay (though this was easily made up for in the availability of extra classes–teaching adults and kids–that the college offered). So, when considered from a certain perspective, I had been knocked down a notch.
However, in other ways, I now had a much more prestigious gig. I was on a different visa: that of an actual, real, non-pretend professor, and this was reflected by my job title (as ridiculous as it may be). Instead of sharing a giant room with loads of the other foreign staff (there were only six at the new school), I was given an office, which I shared with only one colleague. We were given individual keys. The office was huge and had a good view of the city beneath, for Suyeong College was perched on a mountain even more precipitous than the one underneath my previous place of employment. Another perk of the new job was the class sizes. I taught small groups of students several times a week. Within a month I got to know their names. They all greeted me in the hall. The place was laid-back, lacking the institutional rigidity so pervasive at Gaegum University. I had a friendly boss who seemed to view me as something else than another foreigner who’d just come down the chute. Suyeong College just had a much more human feel, and after just a couple of months on board, I was happy for the move.
Two-year schools in Korea serve a few purposes, not so different from any community college back in the States. They’re there to train people for specific careers, as well as to act as a stepping stone to a “real” four-year school. I was hired to teach in the Department of Hotel and Tourism English. The majority of my students were fresh-out-of-high school kids who had probably choked hard when it came time to take the college entrance exam. Some of them were pretty bright, a lot of them average, and a few about as inquisitive and mentally acute as driftwood. They were there ostensibly to improve their English, as well as to learn the nuts and bolts of the hotel and tourism business. About half planned on heading on to university, while the rest seemed content to enter the workforce after getting their two-year degrees. Not all of these students were 19-year-olds, however. In the mix were a good number of older students, in their late twenties and thirties. I never quite knew their story. I think some of them had flunked out of university when they were younger. A few never went at all. A handful of these students had actually lived abroad–in Australia, Canada, and the US–and spoke excellent English. To put them in a class where half the students couldn’t even answer “What did you eat for lunch?” proved to be a challenge. The fact that the levels of ability varied so greatly proved to be a shortcoming at Suyeong College. It’s hard to teach a class when the students are all over the map.
New Tricks for an Old Dog?
One student during my first year at Suyeong College stretched my patience to its snapping point. It had nothing to do with her behavior, per se, but more to do with her lack of ability to pick up even a whiff of English. She was an ajumma–probably in her mid-50s. For some reason she had decided to go back to school and study English. Why she chose English remains a mystery, given the fact that it was obvious she had no background in the language whatsoever. But this woman was a total sweetheart. She was incredibly nice and I very much liked her, personally. She attended every class and was never late. She’d sit with her book open and try to write down everything I said. She’d often bring a can of coffee or some juice, offering it up as a little gift before class started. But there was just one little problem: She couldn’t say anything. I mean nothing. Even after several months of constant English bombardment, when I’d ask her, “Hello, how are you?” she was totally unable to reply with the requisite “I’m fine, thank you.” A look of horror would invade her eyes, and she’d start babbling and stammering in an unintelligible garble of Korean and English, half-repeating the question over and over again in a frantic attempt to understand what it was that I asked her in the first place. She never improved: one full school year of five-days-a-week English study, and still no “I’m fine, thank you.” Kindergartners learn this in five minutes. Not only was it astounding, it made me feel like a fraud, as well as a cynical jerkoff:
Why does she keep coming to school when clearly she’s not improving at all? Should I sit down with her and gently tell her that it’s hopeless, that she
should give up, that she’s clearly past the learning-a-new-language pull date and should spend her time gardening or learning pottery instead?
It was frustrating, because she bogged down the class. Once the speaking came around to her, the gears ground to an agonizing stop. I’d sometimes just skip her, but she was a tuition-paying student and deserved at least an inkling of effort on my behalf. I tried–I did try–but it was really like trying to get a Jell-o mold to speak. To put this into perspective, that same year I taught a mentally disabled man. He struggled and mainly just sat alone, in the back of the class, but by the end of two semesters, even he was able to hold a very basic conversation in English.
Is it just an age thing? Do we reach a point where our brain just says NO NEW LANGUAGE! I’m 40 now and still studying Korean, and while at times I wish for my more open teenage brain that picked up Spanish so quickly, I’m still doing okay, I am improving, slow as it may be. Or do I just think I am?
Yeah, we know that some people are better at learning languages than others. Like anything else, it’s a knack that some folks possess to a greater degree. But is it possible to have a total language block, where no matter how much you study, you can never perform even the most basic task? I think maybe yes. I've seen it a handful of times with my students, as well with some expats here trying to get a handle on even the most elementary Korean. I think that sometimes the brain just refuses to go along…
Or maybe I’m just a really shitty teacher.
Beware of Thieves!
It was a really pleasant fall day during my first year at Suyeong College. It had been a great start to the semester and I was well settled into the rhythms of the job. The place was welcoming and really laid-back. I felt as if I had found a place where I could comfortably stay for quite some time without a problem or hassle. I had let my guard down.
It was three in the afternoon and I had finished my regular classes. I just had to head down the hill to teach an hour of kindergarten English and I was done. I only had ten minutes to get to the Social Education Building, where the class was held, so I went into my office and grabbed my bag and my keychain, which I had left sitting on my desk. I took the stairs down to the first floor and exited the building, taking the keys out of my pocket so I could hop onto my motorcycle and go. But the bike wasn’t there.
Did I park it somewhere else? No. I never park it somewhere else.
I felt the blood leave my head, and my mouth suddenly dried up. When I looked at the keys in my hand, the truth slammed into me. My bike’s ignition key, along with the one for the lock, was missing from the chain. Someone had come into my office, taken the keys from the ring, and stolen my bike.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I sprinted up the stairs back toward the sixth floor. My boss needed to know that a major theft had just occurred. As I climbed the stairs, I ran into Tae-hyun, a student of mine. He saw that I was upset.
“Teacher, what is matter?”
“My motorcycle’s been stolen. Do-duk!,” I said, throwing out the Korean word for thief.
“Oh, no. You are sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure! My keys are missing from my chain!” I held up the jingling mass.
“I will ask if anyone know about. I help you. Okay?”
When I erupted into my boss’s office, he at once appealed for calm.
“This is very serious,” he remarked, rising from behind his desk.
“I think it was one of my students.”
“Oh, no… no… Maybe you should not say that. We must not… run to conclusion. Probably it is someone from outside the college. There are some bad people who come.”
“But they stole the keys right out of my office. It has to be someone who knows not only that the bike is mine, but that I also sometimes leave the keys on my desk.”
“You must always lock your door. Even when you use the restroom. Let us look some more. If we cannot find, I will call the police.”
I walked down to the kiddy class in a Hitlerian mood, foul as a cold cup of black bile. The kids were oblivious to my situation, other than the fact that Gorilla Teacher was in no mood to play. I made a few copies of a coloring sheet featuring a giant clown, passed out some crayons, and sat in the front of the classroom, percolating in my own juicy hatred. Toward the end of class, my phone buzzed. It was Cowboy, a recent Suyeong graduate who now worked as the department’s secretary and general assistant.
“Hello, this is Cowboy. You must come to front gate security building. We see thief on CCTV.”
After class I met Cowboy at the security shed. He was on the phone when I approached, speaking lightning Korean in dark, threatening tones. He hung up and said to me: “Look.” He led me inside the guard’s kiosk and pointed to a screen. On it was a grainy shot of the back of my bike. A young man wearing a white jacket could be seen riding.
“Do you know who that is?”
Cowboy nodded his head in the affirmative, just as a security guard rolled up on his motor scooter.
“Go. Get on,” Cowboy said.
I jumped on the back of the scooter and we were off, zipping up the hill and pulling into the gargantuan LG Apartment City development next to the school. The multiple towers rocketed over us like canyon walls, giving us the look of insects. We rode into one of the place’s many parking areas and stopped in the front. Right there, sitting in a space between two cars, was my motorcycle–my black-and-orange Hyosung Troy 125.
Just moments later, Cowboy pulled up on the back of another security scooter.
“Here, Chris.” He handed me my ignition key. “I am sorry.”
“But Cowboy–who did this? Who did you see on the tape? This was one of my students, right?”
“I… I am sorry. I cannot say.”
* * * *
The next day I was summoned to Professor Kim’s office. As I walked in, he stood up and invited me to take a seat. His expression was grim, as if we were heading to a funeral. I also sensed a tinge of embarrassment, recognition that my prediction had been right: one of my own students had indeed tried to steal my bike.
Professor Kim dialed his phone, uttering a few words before hanging up. One minute later there was a knock at the door. The door then opened, revealing Tae-hyun, the student that I had run into immediately after discovering the bike was missing.
The sneaky little fucker.
He hung his head as he shuffled in, placing his gaze firmly on the floor. He clutched a paper in his shaking fist.
Professor Kim barked a few terse phrases his way, to which Tae-hyun could only reply in Korean, yes. I tasted his shame. I felt a heat rise in my chest and fought the compelling urge to slap the kid’s head.
“I had him write a note of apology.” Professor Kim cued the student, who handed me the note, avoiding even a glimpse of my eyes. The note read as follows:
Yesterday, I went to your room to be given sam professor’s lesson print. There were no professores, then I thought print is on the desk. I looked at deskes accidentally, I saw Bike’ key. Ordinary time, I have thought Jone professor’s Bike is great. As soon as, I saw the key, I though I'm very wish for riding the Jone’ bike. I knew that casue big trouble. with no scared my, my hands went to the key. I stolen Jone’s bike keys, as soon as out of room I went down riding the bike, but starting was difficult, I put the bike in an apartment parking space. not catch sight of the bike. Next I ran back to the college. I repented all along from when I stolen bike key and go out of the room. My big troubles scared me keeping up. then I knew mistakes. When I met Jone that stolen the bike, I couldn’t tell you the fact. keeping up I was scared when lesson next lesson. I repented keeping up when lesson in the middle. then I got a calling from breaking I gave the key to breaking I know my fault. I beg forgiving to you. stealing professor’s precious bike, that I told you the lie sincerly I beg pardon. I’m sorry you.
After I finished the note, Tae-hyun bowed to me several times, apologizing both in Korean and English. He then left, leaving me alone w
ith Professor Kim, who took the opportunity to press for leniency.
“It would be best not to involve the police in this matter. In Korea, a police record is very serious, and will stay with him for the rest of his life. He is young. Perhaps we should leave the punishment for his family.”
“Well can’t you at least expel him from the school? In the USA, he would be automatically expelled, no questions asked.”
“That is a problem. If we expel him for committing a crime, then we must also press charges. So we cannot expel him without involving the police.”
“Okay. Okay. But I don’t want to see him in any of my classes again. Automatic F.”
“Yes, I will tell him that. But please, please… please do not let any other professors or students know the name of the young man who did this. It is a very delicate matter. I hope you understand.”
“Sure. It’s just between you and me,” I lied.
If this had been America, I may have acted differently, but I chose to shut up, to go along with my boss, to avoid making waves (as much as possible), since keeping your head down is what really translates into job security on the peninsula. To do so did chafe, however, since I knew for a fact that this student was no joy-rider, that his theft of my bike was as premeditated as it gets. Just a few days before, he had come into my office with a can of coffee from a vending machine. Very few students actually came into my office during that first year, so I already thought it strange. He gave me the can and told me he wished to hang out and practice English. I noticed that he was very jittery at the time, which I just chalked up to nerves from speaking English face-to-face with a foreigner. He lingered for less than two minutes–so much for the English lesson. Little did I know, he was actually casing my office that day. My keys were lying right there on the desk.
