Is "Please Teach Me English" Korean For "Will You Marry Me?"

I have a vague memory of recently writing that nothing surprises me anymore. That culture shock has worn off and that I've accepted that this is my reality for the next seven months. It seems I spoke too soon. Mere days after writing that I was unphased by the open markets and the casual ways in which hygiene and cleanliness are treated, I was once again shocked. I am for one reason or another, very sensitive to smells. Anyone who has walked down St Catherine St with me in the summer should know that I fight hard to suppress the nausea in my stomach when confronted with garbagy-smells (wow- I said garbagy. That's a Koreanism if I ever saw one. Someone save me, my English in suffering!!). Knowing this about myself, I take the long way to the subway in the morning to bypass the fishy smells of boiled eels and snail larvae. 8:30am is simply too early for my poor stomach to deal with these smells. But of course, running late and faced with the choice of booking it through the market or being late for work, I did it. I cut through the market. And it shan't happen again. I held my breath as I saw the boiled eels first on the right, leaving time for a quick exhale/inhale before I was confronted with the next boiled eel shop on the left. Exhale/inhale. One more to go and I'd be safe. I made it- not a wiff of the pungent aroma reached my nose and I was pleased. Maybe I could cut through the market after all. It may be well worth the extra two minutes of sleep. But not ten seconds later I let my guard down, raised my eyes and saw a pig's head in front of me. Recently detached from its body, or so it appeared. And as sick as I felt, I broke into a run and raced my nausea for the exit. Turns out my mind quickly erased the image and I'm left only with the tale, which suits me just fine.

On a less disgusting note (or possibly more so, if you're Korean), the topic of gender roles emerges once again. This is the point, it seems where most Koreans feel that at some point in the conversation, you may utter the word sex, so they quickly change the subject. Or attempt to. As I sat with my friend Glen and our Korean friend Sunghee at a bar last week-end, we fell onto this very topic. Sunghee is not your typical Korean girl. She taught herself English and fled to Australia for a year where she perfected her second language and examined the cultural differences that distinguish East and West. And it seems she came back with some highly subversive ideas. Smoking is, as I've mentioned previously, completely unnaceptable for Korean women. And in a true show of rebellion, Sunghee took up smoking, making her only the third Korean woman I've seen smoking in public. She is twenty-nine years old, intelligent, and beautiful, but has never had a boyfriend. Why? Because she smokes. As we discussed her bravery in blazing new ground for Korean women, and insisting that marriage should not be an expectation, nor should it be a sign that your education is complete and your career life has come to an end. We looked around the bar in which we are known to drink, realizing that we were the only table of mixed men and women. The other tables were surrounded by men, and there were no women amongst them. In Korea, school children attend girls or boys only schools from elementary school straight on through to high school, and sometimes even in University. For those who attend mixed Universities- can you imagine the shock of reaching the age of 20, and for the first time in your life having a man sitting next to you in class? Of having to do a group project with a man, never having had a friendship with one? I suspect that University is one of few places in Korean society where the two genders mix in any way. Given that the goal of most women is to marry a man with a career that will allow her to be a housewife, I don't imagine there are too many women in upper management at Samsung. Not to say that there aren't any. I'm sure there are women like Sunghee who make the choice to put themselves first and not settle for the first man who proposes. But what sort of choice can you make for a husband if you've never had a male friend? I suspect my life would be in a pretty bad state if I'd married my first boyfriend. If I'd married my first love, even (pause for laughter from IMAX crowd). At the age of nineteen, when I first 'fell' - it lasted four months. And I still believe that it was legitimate love- my feelings were strong, but it just was not meant to be. I wasn't ready, not to mention the fact that had it worked, I would have sold myself short. Moving in together just expedited the break-up process. But even at that, I had had boyfriends before Rob, and still I fell for someone who was not right for me. All traces of my time with Rob have fallen from my material life. It took time, but finally they're gone. I quit smoking, a bad habit taken up on the night of our break up. I paid off my Visa, maxed out nearly six years ago by our ridiculous relationship. Fred tossed out his old hoody (he's convinced for the second time, somehow it found its way back to my closet), and his expensive sweater that I used to line the cat carrier with when I moved to Montreal, in hopes that Tigger would bitterly pee all over it (which he didn't). The IMAX, where we met, now closed. The Night Gallery, where we drank- closed. Our cafe, Van Gogh's - also closed. The only part still to be resolved is the mysterious dissapearance of my glasses from our apartment, and the 300$ that is still owed to me. I'm not holding my breath. And the one thing of that relationship that continues to last is the rediscovery of my friendship with Thelma, as we bonded over our break-ups with Rob and his best friend, Syd. But without those stories, what would I have learned? I never would have had to deal with an ex 'dropping by' for a glass of water at 5am. My sleep would not have been disturbed at 4am so Rob could get his kneepads (so he could go rollerblading, obviously). The saga of the missing mail key would never have happened, and I may just have thought that break-ups were always roses and sunshine. After Rob, each relationship that followed was a better fit than the last, and then I met Fred (closing in on four years). What if I had married my first ever boyfriend? I suspect that I may be trying hard to find excuses to leave the house, like so many Korean women do. Unhappy in marriage, they register for English classes and complain to Glen about their husbands. And that's what married Korean women do.

In any case, we look around and see all these men in the bar. Koreans are suckers for love and romance. But is it all a rouse? How can you possibly begin to love if you don't know what to look for? Men and women cannot be friends, it's unheard of. Even showing my older kids photos from home got some laughs, as they pointed to boys in my pictures asking who they were, and eyeing me suspiciously when I said friend. They felt that I'd tripped up when they pointed to Fred and I said boyfriend. As more and more people pack the bar, our table fills up and we're now sharing it with several Korean men. And I can feel them staring at me- and I know what's coming. Glen gets up from the table and is gone less than two minutes, but they've been waiting for a chance. Like vultures fighting for the last piece of meat. Bad analogy? Maybe, but not far from the truth. In Korean terms, these men are over the hill. They should've been married, but they weren't- leaving me to think that they were trying their luck with blond girls hoping cultural differences would work in their favor. Four times in the next two hours I was asked to teach English to this drunken Korean man, or that. And over and over refused, leaving with a small pile of email addresses and tentative promises to hang out. And you can feel the desperation in these men- over the hill by Korean standards- they should well have been married, but none of them were. So they lived with their parents and hoped to meet someone forgiving of their age. Why was Glen not approached to teach them English? Because Glen is not a blond, and probably can't pull off heels... not that I can. Before leaving, I was approached one more time (Glen having deserted me at the table for a mere five minutes), by the owner of the bar. A Japanese woman, fluent in Korean and English who knows us pretty well from our weekly trips to her bar. She had waited patiently for Glen to get up from the table and raced over to ask me if I would teach English to her friend that ran the restaurant next door. When I told her I was interested in making Korean friends, but had a boyfriend, she stuttered and told me to forget about it. Although as we went to pay our tab, she slid me his email address and said, "Well, if you change your mind...".

The innocence is both refreshing and disturbing. As Sunghee questioned my reasons for leaving Canada when I had a boyfriend at home, I can see she's envious. At 27 (Korean years), I should be concerned with 'locking him in'. But I tried to explain that in Canada, we just don't think that way. That people can happily live together year after year, and it's perfectly acceptable to marry at 40. Or 80. Or never. To their way of life, Canadian thinking is subversive. I strongly believe that TV shows are monitored carefully to ensure that there are more shows that encourage love and marriage than there are 'living in sin' shows. I'm sick to death of the Bachelor, the Bachelorette, a Wedding Story and the whole lot. Seoul boasts the world's largest wedding district, and I think TV shows are carefully chosen to drive people there in droves. The three Canadian teachers that worked at my school last year all went home and immediately got married. Is it something in the water? At this point, my kids are convinced not only that Canada is a place to which their teachers and fellow students flee - but that it's a massive wedding factory, fed by former school teachers in Korea.

Canadian "Regionalism"

As movies like Crash and Brokeback Mountain accept their awards, and the world claps, commending their daring approach to risque topics, I sit at home and I fume. My parents raised me to be not only accepting of other cultures, but to embrace them... I'm sure only feeding my desire to travel and explore. I like to think that I am someone with relatively few prejudices. Of course, we probably all do. Yet stereotypes surround us all the same, and unfortunately, they exist for a reason. Women my age represent the first generation to spawn from the sexual revolution of the 70's. We are the first generation who looked up to our mothers and truly appreciated the tremendous amount of work they do, regardless of whether or not they were 'stay at home moms'. We are a generation that has grown up knowing and believing that our gender does not limit us to three career choices (housewife, teacher or nurse). All the same, things change faster on paper than they do in our minds. In my junior high school, boys and girls were separated for gym. The boys played football, while the girls arm wrestled. Myself, I was more interested in football. My high school didn't have a girl's soccer team, because, according to our Phys Ed department "Girls don't play soccer". They refused to start a team, even when approached by half of my soccer team, who all attended the school. I guess we're still working out the kinks. But at the same time, the stereotype of weak women comes from somewhere. It comes from the girls who giggle and say they couldn't imagine playing soccer because they'd be seen sweating. It comes from the girls who seem to be born in high heels and go for weekly manicures, leaving the rest of us to wonder how their nails stay so perfectly intact. Try as I might, my nails will break and chip with or without the manicure. And of the three or four times a year I may be caught wearing heels (usually at weddings, thanks to all you newly weds that force me into them- I hope you're happy!), you'll notice that they are quickly discarded under the table and abandoned for the rest of the evening. Maybe I'm just not strong enough to be a girly girl. But then I suppose if my parents had raised me to believe that girls were meant to be in the kitchen and not playing soccer, I may have had some serious questions about gender. Are these stereotypes the reason that some girls say they've always felt like a boy, and vice-versa? I think so. We have come to recognize a boy who plays with dolls as a warning sign of an impending sex change. Athletic girls are quickly labelled lesbians, eroticized, and the world smiles and moves on.

I use gender stereotypes as an example because I have simply never experienced racism. I've had a couple instances since arriving in Korea where I've had trouble getting taxis because I'm white, but I think it had more to do with drivers being lazy and not wanting to have to decipher my horrible broken Korean. But I can't really classify that as racism. But when it comes to prejudice, we have become hyper-sensitive. Our generation has seen the fall of terms like waitress, stewardess, Madamoiselle, chairman and fireman from our vocabulary. Eskimo has become Inuit. Indian (accept for real Indians... from India) have become Native. Black has become African American (or Canadian, I suppose). I think it's fantastic. Except for the extreme PC- I was against the Bible being edited so that every reference to God read as He/She. I was against the lyrics of the national anthem being changed to "In all thy sons & daughters command". Enough's enough, people. But why are some types of prejudice incredibly taboo, yet others are perfectly acceptable to scream from the rooftops?

I was at a housewarming party in middle of nowhere Korea (which here means an hour bus ride from the subway) last week-end, and I left fuming mad. I've always had a confused Canadian identity. Born in Montreal, raised in Alberta, sent to French Immersion and Francophone schools throughout my education. Immersed in Quebec culture in the school environment, and then tossed out into the realities of a culture-free Albertan society. Despite living in Alberta, my winters always included a good 'tire a sucre' and a mini Carnival, complete with Bonhomme. In grade ten, I was violently shoved into English school. I couldn't understand anything math or science related. All the terms were new to me. I realized that I had never in my life been taught English grammar, and to this day when someone says third person, I think Je- Tu- Il. I failed math exams because I used a virgule (umm, comma?) when answering questions relating to money. I put the dollar sign after the price. And still do. I write the date backwards in English. All of these revealing my French education, which in Alberta, was greeted with nothing but contempt, particularly since I was born in Quebec. I was constantly referred to as French, even according to the Alberta government- who claims that you're Francophone if you've spent two or more years in a Francophone school. Not that it's a negative to be called French, but it helped a lot in keeping me throughly confused about my Canadian identity. And I got grief from people because I was 'one of those seperatists'. As if my first thought upon arriving in Alberta at the age of two was "Maudit Anglais!" So I get fed-up with Alberta's lack of culture and refusal to open their eyes to anything beyond beef and oil and I move to Quebec. All of a sudden, I'm even more confused. "Are you Quebecoise?" Hmm... well, um.... no. "But how do speak French? Oh... you're from Alberta.... hmmm... (ackward pause) Well, you speak French well." In case, so I'm at this party. And the guy who's house it is, is proving himself to be your typical redneck neanderthal. He's from middle of nowhere, Northern BC, but had spent the last four years living in Calgary. And I have to admit that I have serious questions about anyone who moves to Calgary to have a cultural experience. In any case, the Koreans that were at the party were excited that I spoke French, and they asked to hear a little. And so I spoke a sentence or two in French, and they were super excited to hear something other than English or Korean. And from the other side of the room, I hear a snarky redneck voice declare "Quebeckers are nothing but a bunch of pussies." And the room paused. And I lay into him. I suppose one could argue that I'm from Alberta, so the comment wasn't directed at me, but in point of fact, it most certainly was. This is the boy who knew so little about Quebec that he was unaware that McGill was in Montreal. And he began to list off stats in an attempt to prove that Quebec is nothing more than a drain on the Canadian economy. And as we all know, anyone who has visited Quebec knows that there is a culture there that's worth keeping. The Koreans had left as the argument became more and more heated. I suppose it wasn't so much an argument as me accusing him of ignorant rednecked ideas. It was down to just the Canadians. And BC boy was left alone with one Quebecoise/Albertan and four Newfoundlanders... representing the two most marginalized provinces in the country. And as I left- fuming mad and determined never to see such an ignorant person again, I wondered why it was so acceptable for people from different regions of the country to hold prejudices against those from other regions. Why is it still okay to trash Quebec and mock the 'dumb Newfies'? And why is the West always attacking the East? The Canadian couple I work with are from Jasper. And when they arrived, I had a similar argument with the boy, Reg. The argument about separatism was so ridiculous, that he in fact made me side with the separatists. And over the next week, his argument evolved into the belief that it was not fair that I was more employable because I spoke French. Not fair? Are we five years old? Not fair that I worked for years to learn and maintain a second language? Not fair that he didn't get a free ride? What, exactly, was not fair? Without Quebec and Newfoundland, I think Canadian culture would be a pretty sad state of affairs. Montrealers will openly say that they don't like Toronto- but it seems to come from a place of slight envy. Toronto is like the older more responsible brother who stayed home on school nights and worked hard to get where he is. Made sacrifices that allowed Toronto to lose some of its Canadian Content and become more Americanized. Montreal is the younger, irresponsible brother who drinks too much, indulges in drugs, has too much sex and says 'screw the final, I'm going drinking!' And which brother would you rather be? But I don't think I have ever a full out attack on Toronto by a Montrealer, or vice versa. The problems, as far as I can see, seem to stem from the West. What does this say of our country? Our sense of national pride? Is this why there is no Canadian identity? In saying that we're Canadian, are we really just specifying that we are not American? What does it mean to be Canadian? Are there any sort of values that extend from one end of the country to the other? My generation has and will travel all over the world. We will spend years of our lives examining other cultures, without even understanding our own. How many Canadians have really experienced Canada? We have quite possibly one of the most beautiful countries on earth. Our sheer size insures it. Why are we so quick to hop on a plane and take off to exotic European or Asian destinations, without ever having seen the Rocky Mountains? What is wrong with Canadians?

Late But In Earnest, A Kerr Tradition

Well if I fooled any of you into believing that I'd acquired some computer skills since arriving in Korea, I suppose last week's post is proof that I haven't. I typed out my whole brilliant rant, hit save and my time ran out at the PC bong... and apparently it didn't save.

Last week's post was a reflection on life. The father of my favorite student, Ryan (my wolf in the play), was killed in a car accident two weeks ago. Onto the shoulders of one of the happiest kids I've ever met- is dumped a weight that he won't even understand for years to come. Ryan still asks me if I saw Shane (the teacher I replaced, who returned to Canada in October) the night before- because he can't comprehend either the distance between Canada and Korea, or the size and population of such big countries. In his five year old mind, I know all of Canada (although to his credit, many adults think the same way). It seems that whenever we experience the shock of someone passing, there were flags that we chose to ignore- or failed to really think about. The same week Ryan's father passed away, I yelled at the kids in his class for making fun of Ryan. All my millionaire kids were comparing what kind of cars their parents drove, and Ryan said his father didn't drive. Yet three days later, he won't return home to see his little boy who defended his dad's choice to take the subway. The day before it happened, one of the Korean teachers had had the kids draw a picture of their happiest day. It was nothing more than painful to see that picture in the morning after I'd been told what had happened. But these signs are always around someone's death. Is it coincidence- are they just day to day things that take on greater significance because of the loss? Or are they signs to prepare us for what's coming? Two weeks before my brother Tyler passed away, I had what would be the last talk I'd ever have with him. And all the things I needed to say, were said. How strange is that? That coincidentally, I told my brother that I missed him, and I loved him and I couldn't wait to see him at Christmas. And what did he want anyway? The only thing I didn't say was sorry- but I'm happy that I hit all the other points. But a few days later I called to talk to Travis, and I spoke to my dad. I hung up without talking to Tyler. And it drove me crazy all week- I had a nagging feeling that I should call and talk to Tyler. But, logic outweighed emotion and I didn't call. I thought I'd talk to him the following week end. But that was it, there was no next time. What am I trying to say? I'm not sure. The signs are there, but sometimes we choose not to see them. I had been having strange dreams before Tyler passed away, but I ignored them. I had a sick, uneasy feeling in my stomach for weeks before it happened. I knew, but I chose not to listen.

As adults, we often look around at people we know and wonder why they are the people they are... or at least I wonder. Why is she is angry? Why is he so immature? Why is he so old? And I think it's events like this that answer those questions. Ryan has returned to school, and after a few days of exhaustion, seems to be himself again. Although I've noticed that while Ryan was always a little older than the other kids, he's clinging to me a little more now than before. As though he realizes that they wouldn't understand what's happened in his life. As though he realizes that over the next few months, as his father's passing really sinks in, he knows that he'll mature years and years ahead of his friends. And that is why little Ryan will grow up to be one of those people that is older than their years. Maybe those we label as immature, are just people who saw the flags and listened. Maybe averting some of their pain, and thus missing out on some lessons that they were meant to learn. Why and how Ryan is suppose to learn those lessons at the age of five, I'm not entirely sure. But I guess that's what will usher him into adulthood years before he's due.