The Mystery of the 7th Floor

Having taught in Korea before, the idea of cameras in the classrooms is not entirely foreign to me. It is however, a bit creepy when teachers tell me that if you write a message on the board asking the office to turn off the air conditioning, they actually do it. As the first week of the session drew to a close, teachers exchanged stories about classroom doors flying open and office staff snatching cell phones from sneaky text messaging students. It never happened to me; perhaps because I'm super teacher and am so alert and entertaining that my students are enthralled by my lectures on pronouns, which I feel like I'm making up as I go along, even though I spent three hours preparing for it. Or maybe the camera in my classroom doesn't work. This is more likely. In any case, a group of us went out for a quick dinner the other between the end of class and the start of our hours of prep work. As we walked back to the school, we saw trees on the roof of the school. Many of the buildings in Korea have gardens on the roof, so we got excited and decided to investigate. We took the elevator to the 7th floor and took the stairs to the roof. The door was locked, but we could see a small garden and trees from a half floor below. We turned and headed down the stairs and noticed a set of frosted glass doors. Assuming that they led onto the roof, my co-worker reached out to slide it open. Before his fingers hit the glass, a woman slid the door open from the inside, giggled nervously and shooed us away. The three of us exchanged looks, now so much more curious to discover what lay behind them. We headed for the stairs and as we reached the sixth floor, one of the office staff burst out of the office and in broken English asked us why we were up there. I pointed to the rooftop of the building next door, which had trees and a small rock garden. He shook his head and told us very secret things happen on the 7th floor. It was not a place for teachers. We apologized and bowed our heads to indicate how sorry we were, but we weren't sorry, just curious.

In other news, the young man that I discovered passed out in the street is doing just fine. I pass him on the way to school every morning and am happy to report that is up and about. It's a bit strange crossing paths with him every morning. Foreigners are such a common sight in this area that he never notices me, but I see him every time. It's weird that he had such an impact on my thoughts last week, but since he was asleep he has no idea that it was me that talked an ajimma into calling an ambulance for him. She suggested we let him sleep.

The End of Stability

I sit at a café on St-Catherine Street- coffee in hand, and watch those passing by the open door. A cool breeze wafts in, mellowing the overpowering stench of perfume that is overtaking my nostrils- assuring me that spring has once again arrived in Montreal. Skeptical Montrealers leave the house in winter jackets, with gloves and tuques- fearful the weather is trying to trick us once again. Hopefuls take to the city's terraces and convince themselves that outdoor beer is here to stay. The bike lanes are open, and rollerbladers far braver than I are taking to the streets to enjoy every moment of sun. The city's notorious pot hole problem/collapsing streets make rollerblading unthinkable for those of us with a brain in our heads.

I awoke this morning at 8:00am, having promised my grade six class that I would come and see their fashion show presentation. I took the bus over the mountain and looked forward to othe long walk from the bus stop to the school. The bus dropped me off at Parc Lafontaine and I made my way through the hoards of cyclists, rollerbladers and strollers till finally I reached the school. It was my last day at l'École St-Joseph. The teacher has returned from sick leave, leaving me to contemplate, once again, where I'm headed. At the moment, I am relishing in my return to unemployment. Montreal is the best city in Canada in which to be unemployed, and there is no better time than the summer.

As the last week in this teaching position drew to a close, I'm suffering from very mixed feelings- as I so often do. On the one hand, I quite like having money in the bank and not worrying about what magic tricks I'll need to pull off to pay all my bills. On the other hand, I fear that such stability is sending me in the exact opposite direction of where I would like to be. You have probably noticed that my posts have become few and far between since mid-February, for a few reasons. For one, working forty hours a week is quite exhausting and has killed any creative impulses I once had. Secondly, the reality of teaching in Canada seems to mean never seeing an end to the work on your desk. I'm not a fan. This may be the most I've ever made, but it isn't very good. I can't imagine what sort of insane person would spend another two years in school to obtain an education degree (that cannot be used outside of Quebec) to make 35,000$/year, with poor benefits and be considered, by the children and their parents, to be a glorified babysitter. I'm so glad that I had the opportunity to see the reality of the profession in Canada before I was tempted by the promise of summers off. Schools have changed. The older teachers predictably discuss each day the differences between my generation and this one in the classroom. They fear the coming of age of these students, many hoping they won't be around to see them children in their adult years.

This experience was invaluable. I realized that I am far too impatient with nonsense and excuses to teach children for a living. I just don't care enough. You didn't do your homework? Whatever, your loss, not mine. English is useless, you say? Okay, sure. You're off to a great start in life. Call me in ten years when you want to work in Toronto. In any case, all this chasing children around and pretending to care wore me out and distracted me from what I would rather be doing- writing and acting. Worse than distracting me, the experience drained me. When I was teaching in Korea, I was exhausted from listening so carefully to everything being said and trying to make sense of it. From reading very slowly aloud every message on the photocopier, hoping that eventually I would understand why it wasn't working. From bouncing kids on my knee and being poked in the eye with little fingers. Teaching here is exhausting because of the atrocious amount of work. It's never ending. And like I said, draining.

So I have the summer to contemplate. The Commision Scolaire de Montréal is still anxiously awaiting the scores from my French test so they can hire me on full time for next year. I've come to terms with the fact that my procrastination is based in fear and I'm going to register for an online refresher course in French grammar, which will do me good. My agent has been put on alert to find me some good work for this summer, and I'm awaiting the announcement of next season's auditions at the English theatres. I snapped last week after another health scare with Fred and bought myself my expensive, over-priced yoga pass. I decided if there was anything that could take my mind off the upcoming transplant for an hour and a half a day, it was well worth the money. Today will be day six of my Bikram routine and I'm loving it. I feel amazingly healthy and my winter tummy is quickly melting away- or should I say thankfully. I'm off to yoga class and promise to be more active in my posts. It would also help if my computer would stop trying to speak to me in Korean- which looks very little like Korean and a lot like this ?????????????????????????????????????????????. There's nothing more obnoxious than having every button and tab on a web page full of question marks. Hopefully the next post will also be more direct, as we say in theatre. I struggle with being shockingly indirect, for which I blame the ADD. But summer is the time for ADD and summer is very, very close. I plan on spending an obsene amount of time under a tree reading a book.

This was the biggest patch of grass I found last summer in Seoul... It was not a comfortable place to read a book.

Tragically Nameless

These posts are getting fewer and farther between as my teaching job eats up more and more of my day. I'm really not sure why people do this. I understand that some people are passionate about it, and it baffles me. I can't imagine dedicating my life to chasing kids around in an effort to help them learn and grow, and receive so little appreciation from the kids, their parents and society. I simply wouldn't be able to justify six years of school to make 35 000$ a year. Not even summers off could convince me to pursue this as a career. Three weeks into my teaching job and the unthinkable has happened; I've turned into my Uncle. My Uncle Bob has been an English teacher in Quebec since the beginning of time (or at least my time). The summers that I spent out in Montreal with him and his family meant being subject to his comments about hating children and being fed up with babysitting. Even worse seemed to be the student teachers who weren't, in his books, sufficiently well read to be doing a stag as an English teacher. Only years later upon meeting Julien did I discover that my Uncle may hate children, but he clearly loved his job. He was one of those teachers that changed lives, but didn't want anyone to know and now I've gone and publicly ruined his reputation.

Work is going alright. I don't hate it, I just don't like it. It's difficult to see any sort of improvement and garner any satisfaction from teaching a second language as it is, pair with that the large class size and it's nearly impossible to leave feeling you're making a difference. I'm not passionate about teaching English. Maybe if I could have real discussions with them- push them to see a piece in another light, or provoke and challenge new thoughts. Unfortunately the nature of the work is that you spend most of the day trying to suppress the urge to finish sentences for your students just because it would be faster. You try not to scream as you listen to the hundreds of different excuses for homework not having been finished and actually try to make that student believe that you just listened to whatever gibberish spewed forth from their mouth. You try in vain to avoid the flashbacks to your own Elementary school days, especially when you hear yourself yelling, "Stéphanie. Assis-toi. Comme il faut. Avec les quatre pattes de la chaise à terre et tes deux pieds sur le plancher." (Stephanie. Sit down. Properly. With the four feet of the chair on the ground and your two feet on the floor.) I nearly collapsed when I heard the words explode from my mouth- shocked that it took me so far back. My tone, my pacing -it was all so familiar! I suddenly felt like Mme. Nicole Jolicoeur, my grade three teacher. It was eery. My frustrations are heightened by the disrespect of the students, their indifference to learning and their ability to complain about absolutely everything. I had slotted to spend today's class reviewing vocabulary with my grade five class today, which promised to be painfully boring for all parties involved. So rather than have me talk at them about how these words were important, I put the students in groups of four and explained they would be playing charades. The only requirement was that they preface their physicalization with the phrase, "I like (don't like) to ______," and then they would proceed with their animation. The amount of students who bothered to approach me to inform me the activity was stupid absolutely stunned me. I finally replied if they didn't like it, they were welcome to take their seat back at their desk and read the key words to themselves over and over again. They shut up.

School has changed, kids have changed and I'm glad that this path is just for the moment. Swearing is fairly common in the classroom now, the students refer to their teachers by their first names (Mme. Stephanie, Mme. Julie- although often the madame is dropped) and address them with the more familiar tu, as opposed to vous. In the past three weeks, I realized beyound a shadow of a doubt, that I don't want children. As our society seems to move further and further from values that I still hold precious, I cringe to think of how little respect and hard work will be valued in ten, twenty years. The Western materialism has reached its peak when every student in my grade six class describes shopping as a favourite activity and believes they are entitled to a Playstation3 and an iPod. I can't help but think we have gone so, so wrong.

While it is far from what I want, I know that teaching will bring me closer to what I want to do. Hopefully I can manipulate the desperation of the Commision Scolaire de Montréal into a contract that will only amount to part time hours, leaving me open to do other things. In the meantime, it is providing an eye opening experience with this next generation. This post has perhaps seemed negative, and I don't mean it that way. I'm feeling fairly indifferent about my situation at the moment- apart from having to wake up at 6am. I hate 6am.

As I settle into a routine, I'm struggling to balance my life. I don't know how people work a job this demanding and actually have a life... which explains why these posts are becoming fewer and farther between. I started Bykram Yoga last week, in a room heated to 42 degrees celsius to prompt you to sweat out all your toxins and protect your muscles from injury. I felt amazing all last week and have developed quite an addiction to it. Unfortunately, difficult as I am, I had to choose the most ridiculously expensive type of Yoga to fall for and am currenly arguing with myself about whether or not its worth the 150$ per month. My cheap intro pass expired on Monday and now I've decided to bounce around from studio to studio for awhile until I make a choice. I wonder how many cheap intro weeks one can enjoy at Yoga studios in downtown Montreal... I'll let you know.

Teaching Position Near Seoul

I have a friend just outside of Seoul whose school is desperately looking for a kindergarten teacher. It's a great school, the owner and boss are super nice and the accomodations are way nicer than the usual. They need someone to start ASAP- preferably within the next two weeks. If anyone is interested, leave me a message and let me know.

On The Road to Stability

Earlier this week, I had an interview for a teaching job at a private Catholic school in Montreal's plateau area. The interview went well, with the principal and vice-principal impressed by my French and asking, as usual, for clarification as to how a girl from Calgary came to be so comfortable in French. The head of the English department was impressed by my insights into the education system of Korea, and by my experience as an actor. They promised to call me back by Friday to let me know if I had the job. Thursday I received a call saying they were concerned that with only one year of teaching experience, I may be a little lost when it came to classroom management. Of course, I didn't tell them this, but I was concerned too. My biggest class in Korea was ten kids- at this school, my class size would increase to 28. They asked me to come in the following day and teach a class, to demonstrate my level of comfort and ability to manage the students. Fear kicked in. I was fairly certain that they would sense my inexperience and eat me alive. I awoke painfully early Friday morning (6am) and began the long trip to DeLormier and Sherbrooke East. As a testament to the time of day, my dépanneur was closed and I was forced to go without coffee until I arrived at the school. Then they tossed me in with a class of grade three students to see how I fared. And I learned something. Teaching English in Korea is a thousand times harder than teaching English in Montreal. As the kids grumbled and grunted their confusion about why a young blond woman was demanding their attention and their usual English teacher was nowhere to be seen, I understood every word effortlessly. I could give them the English word when they asked how to say, for instance, guimauve (marshmallow) in English. The biggest difference, however, was the fact that I wasn't expected to play the role of an overly enthusiastic mime. With thirty kids in a class, they aren't accustomed to individual attention the way Korean kids are in classes of ten. They had all their books on their desk when I walked in. Canadian boys aren't used to their mothers dotting on them, so they don't expect it of their teachers. They're accustomed to hearing English spoken around them, so they already have the ear for it. My fear subsided right away and I breezed through the class and was offered the job. Unofficially. I'm still waiting on the final verdict from the principal, but the woman in charge of the department assured me I would be hired. The only catch is that the position in temporary. A replacement for a teacher who's going on leave for an operation, but apparently a date for the surgery won't be confirmed until 48 hours beforehand. So sometime in the next four weeks, I will be working. Needless to say, I'm still looking. It's comforting to know what I'm getting into, however. At first I felt like I was taking advantage of a staffing shortage to gain employment in a position that I was in no way qualified for. Now I can see how much I learned in my year in Korea, and how it definitely prepared me for teaching in Montreal. Once I start working, I'll deal with the question of how exactly this teaching thing can fit into my acting world... or a busy University schedule. Step by step, as crazy Mr Choi would say.

368 Days in Seoul

Golf in Korea

It's over. I leave Korea on Wednesday morning. The new teacher has arrived and moved in. He has completely taken over my classes and the kids are excited that he has curly hair. He has successfully reminded me that I never again want to have roommates. He has cluttered my kitchen and stomped through my apartment with his shoes on. He's a good guy- I've just become particular. I have four different pairs of slippers in my apartment, all for different spaces. This time I can honestly say that it's not him, it's me. He's proven himself perfect for the job- laid back and unconcerned with all the little things that drove me crazy about my school.

Book vending machine- 2,000 won each (2$)

I just experienced my last week-end in Seoul- mostly calm and relaxed. I went for dinner with Song in Gangnam (or the world's plastic surgery capital) last night, hoping to find billboards encouraging me to have my face redone. Part of me hoped to be dragged off the street by some doctor pleading with me to allow him to perform the dreaded calf-reduction surgery. I hoped to leave Gangnam with stories of the craziness of the plastic surgery explosion. But alas, it was free of unsolicited offers of plastic surgery. We were, however, surrounded by Louis Vitton and Gucci stores. I tried to count the designer purses for awhile, but lost track and gave up. We had Vietnamese food and then indulged in four dollar ice cream. I had to get something obscenely expensive there. After dinner, we hopped on a bus to Hungdae to meet Simona for drinks. The night was largely uneventful- just a casual night out with Song and Simona. It was exactly what I wanted for my last week-end here. I didn't want a ridiculous drunken crawl through the streets that I would regret in the morning, and in years to come look back on my last days in Seoul and kick myself for having spent them recovering from a hang over. It seems Song wasn't ready to say good-bye, as she ducked out early declaring that she was too drunk. A terrible lie when I know full well that she can drink me under the table. We made tentative plans to meet the following day, but it never came to pass. It seems we avoided out tearful good-bye simply y not having one. I know that we'll see each other again because neither of us have finished traveling. In fact, we've barely started. It's just sad that after six months of spending nearly every week-end together, it's come to an end. Just like that. I hate good-byes. When I left Calgary, I learned that you keep in touch with those most important to you and even some you never expected to. But it's harder when you can't see ahead to the next time you'll sit together face-to-face and have a beer. As the stretches between my visits to Calgary grow longer and longer and the visits themselves become shorter, I lose touch with more and more people every year. But that's okay. We have alot of people in our lives who are just 'filler'. People that we don't have a particularly strong connection with, but they're okay to go for drinks with. I've lost touch with all of my filler friends in Calgary. Distance and circumstances have cut the list of people I call when I arrive in town- and of course, it's nothing personal. There are still alot of friends in Calgary that I suspect will be in my life for years to come. But I wonder how many of those relationships only stay alive because of my annual drop-ins. The unspoken promise that I'll pop in to say hi once a year. I hope that Song and I are up to the challenge. That we'll last through the separation until the next time we meet, because I know that there will be a next time- whether it's in Canada, Korea, or some random country in between.

Turtles for dinner?

I've reached the end of a year and the end of my Korea rants, it would seem. Amazingly, I've run out of things to say. That's not exactly true, I suppose. Were I to stay another year or two, I know that I would have just as many rants in me as this year. But my Korean experience has come to an end and I'm looking forward to the next phase. On Wednesday, I leave to run about in Thailand and Laos for two weeks before returning to Canada. The next month will find me running here, there and everywhere. I may or may not update everybody next week on my travels - I suspect that Internet access will be hard to come by in Laos, but plentiful in Thailand. I'll continue to post for as long as I have things to say- and I'm sure you'll find my rants about my first few weeks back throughly entertaining... For those of you in Calgary, I'll see you for my annual stop-in on November 16th - where you hopefully won't feel like tossing me back on the plane as you experience the brunt of my culture shock. Beware that I will probably complain about the cold and how expensive everything is. I may embarass you by trying to barter at 7-11, Moxie's or even KFC. And I'll definitely be speaking a version of English that has come to be recognized as "Konglish". I'll be speaking painfully slowly and doubtlessly making big x's with my arms when I say no. You can't say you haven't been warned. I will expect the undivided attention of everyone in sight for no particular reason. I may become irritable if some random person doesn't tell me I'm beautiful at least once a day. I might take my shoes off in restaurants and try to sit on the floor. I may insist that the server help me put my shoes back on, and then offer him no tip anyway. I will doubtlessly bowl people over in the street in a race to get there first. I apologize in advance to any old ladies who might be knocked to the ground. Ajimma, as they're called here, are a force to be reckoned with.

So the sadness and reluctance to leave have mostly passed and I'm ready to go. After all the ups and downs this year- the excitement, shock, frustrations and occasional anger- I come to an end of my time here, but I look forward to my next visit to Korea. Somehow it'll always be a home away from home. I'll be curious to come back in five, ten, even twenty years and see how much Korea has changed- because as much as I've enjoyed living here this year- this culture is also verging on some immensely exciting changes. It will be a very different place next time I'm here, for change is in the air. My final count of women smoking in the street rests around. I suspect next time I'm here, there'll be many more. If there isn't, it will be because Koreans have finally realized that their healthy food is no match for the amount of cigarettes and soju consumed here. Kimchee might battle some illnesses, but I suspect lung cancer isn't one of them.

The Imminent Good-Bye

As I predicted, the best part of their trip to the War Museum was the pond outside...

October has never been a good month for me. When I was younger, the back to school excitement had worn off and I would look forward to Christmas break. In my days at Bishop Carroll high school, it meant crazy rehearsals and stress. Every year we put together a piece about war for Remembrance Day- and every year I was on the planning/tech committee, and performed as well. Once the show was written and cast, October was the only month we had to rehearse and promote. It usually involved intense arguments with other departments at school over facilities as well. Octobers after high school carried with them an extreme boredom. Maybe I missed the chaos of the Remembrance Day shows, but it always seemed like more than that. October is an ominous month in Canada- it's a little chilly, but you know in your head that you're verging on freezing cold. You prepare for the painfully long winter. October is a little bit sad. So the first year that I experienced this boredom, I headed down to the piercing shop and awarded myself with an eyebrow ring. It eased the boredom a little, and it became an October tradition for awhile. The following October, my friend Tom and I went together for piercings. I was under strict instructions from my boss not to get another facial piercing (which I would have disregarded were he not also a friend), so I had my belly button pierced. Tom had his lip done, but took it out only two days later. The following October, I opted for a tongue piercing. And the following October, I was at theatre school in Montreal and was ordered to take them all out. A perfectly good tradition spoiled by school. Good thing it wasn't tattoos, that would've been expensive. October came to mean something different for me two years ago. Something about that whole month in 2004 didn't sit right with me. I had nightmares, which I've never had before. I had vivid dreams in which my mother died. I had a sick feeling in my stomach, and the sense that something was about to happen. I had been lucky too long. No one close to me had died since I was eight years old. I was certain that my mother was going to pass in the next few weeks. I called her often and always became very anxious when she didn't answer the phone. The week before Halloween, I called my dad and spoke to Travis also. I had talked to Tyler the week before and didn't want to push my luck- he wasn't really a phone person. It drove me nuts all week. Why hadn't I asked to speak to Tyler? I dismissed my uneasy feeling and promised myself that I would call the following week. The night of October 30th, Fred went to a party and I stayed home. I was really sad and didn't know why. I thought about calling Tyler, but decided to do it the next day instead, when I felt better. As it turned out, there was no next time. Tyler passed away the following afternoon, without warning. I look back on pictures from Halloweens past and wonder if there was a reason that it had to be Halloween. Was there a special significance for Tyler? Was it simply that he set out to be remembered? Tyler was born on February 15th- to my memory missing a Valentine's birthday by only a few hours. He died on Halloween and we buried him on Remembrance Day. So many Halloweens that we spent together, trick or treating and playing together without ever the thought that on this day many years later, it would all end. Tyler once clipped off the top of my middle finger on Remembrance Day- there was blood everywhere and I think he cried more than I did. Though the only mark left is a scar only I seem to be able to see, there is also a certain numbness on the tip. I don't really feel anything there. The days after Tyler's death, it throbbed. On the one year anniversary of Tyler's passing, I was here in Korea. The school was chaotic with kids in costume and I ducked out for a little while to take a walk. On the way back from the bank machine, my pictures fell out of my wallet and I went for lunch without noticing. As I crossed back to the school an hour later, a Korean man came running after me, holding out Tyler's picture. I was so confused. In his broken English he explained that he'd seen me drop it and waited for me outside my work. I managed to hold myself together for the rest of the day, and finally made it back to my apartment where I could let it out.

Jacob, Mary & Jennifer

The last week has been really sad for me. The kids have begun to understand that I'm leaving and are acting strangely. A few kids can't pass by my classroom without ducking in to say hello. The four kids that I've taught since day one are the hardest to deal with. I thought that they were young enough that they wouldn't really understand, but they do. They scrunch up their faces in total disgust when I tell them that they'll be meeting their new teacher on Monday. They frown and ask me if he's silly. Yesterday they said good-bye to their Korean teacher, Kristine- who, truth be told, none of the kids particularly liked. Kristine is a very sweet woman, but so afraid of losing control of the kids that she requires absolute order in the classroom. After her good-bye party, I stepped into the class to find the four of them- Mary, Sally, Jennifer and Jacob, sitting in complete silence. Jennifer was crying. We played a game and I hoped that they would quickly feel better, but as they left to go home I could see it hadn't helped. I told them Halloween was coming and we were going to have a party, but they looked at me and said it wouldn't be a happy day because it was my last. I fought back tears for the rest of the day and was relieved to make it home where I could contemplate the next ten days.

I've nearly burst into tears three separate times at school this week. You might remember that one of favourite kids, Ryan, lost his dad about six months back. On Monday, I was eating lunch with a group of kids and they were talking about their families. When it came to Ryan, he told the kids that he didn't have a dad, he had only a mom. The other kids, who weren't at the school when it happened, started to argue- saying everybody had a dad. Leah, Ryan's best friend- stepped in to correct them, and shut them up before I could. Ryan turned to me and told me that his dad was in the sky. I told him that my brother was there too- maybe they were together. He looked at me and asked how my brother got there- and I told him that he was sick. Ryan nodded and asked if he had too much soju. That's how his dad got to the sky, he said- he had too much soju and his face was red and he was very sick. I started tearing up- I hadn't known that. His mother had told the school that he had died in a car accident, but we didn't know the details. The next day, Ryan came to school with a note from his mom. The note thanked Reggie & I for being good teachers to her son and said that he had come home crying the day before because he knew that I was leaving and Reggie would soon follow. As Ryan said good-bye to Kristine yesterday- a teacher that never taught him and rarely spoke to him, he burst into tears. I held him as he cried and when he calmed down, asked him if he was alright. No, he answered, and turned away. Ryan is six.

Ryan looking scary

When I arrived here in Korea, I watched Shane (the teacher I replaced) burst into tears when he hugged the kids good-bye, and I told myself that there was no way that I would get that attached to them. But I did. I have spent six hours a days with these kids, five days a week for a whole year. I've spent more time with them than many of their fathers have. Some of my kids didn't know a word of English when I arrived and now speak fairly fluently. I've seen them go through different phases of growth- and noticed it. Jennifer went through a phase for a few months where she thought she was better than everyone. Sally went through a phase where she cried everyday for no reason. Jacob went through a very long temper tantrum phase. Mary hated me for the first month I taught her- but I've become her favourite teacher. Leah went from being a pretty cool kid- to being a mini-adult as she's helped Ryan through this year. Ryan has aged years in the past six months. Ryan asked me why I was leaving and I told him I have to go see my family, my friends and Fred. He told me Fred should just come to Korea. I told him that Fred is sick and he needs to be in Canada. So Ryan told me he was going to talk to Mr Choi about moving the school to Canada. My feelings about leaving are so mixed. I'm excited to take my trip through South East Asia, looking forward to my week in Calgary and I absolutely can't wait to see Fred. But I just wish I didn't have to say good-bye. I'm not looking forward to the next ten days. Tomorrow the new teacher will move in with me and begin to take over my life here. My pictures are off the walls and my bags are half packed. On Monday he'll meet my kids and part of me feels jealous that he gets to spend a year with them. I think of how weird it is to develop such a relationship with these kids, but still be totally replaceable. It's different from being a teacher in a regular school in Canada. The school year and the days are longer. I'm the first contact these kids have had with someone who is not Korean. And they recognize how special that is. The kids love the Korean teachers because they become like second mothers. They dote on them- help them in the bathroom, fix their hair, but they love the Canadian teachers because we become their friends. Strangely enough it was Jack- four years old, who pointed this out. I still get emails from Tom, a five year boy who left in March to go to a better school. I don't want to deal with the next ten days. I just want to wake up on November 1st and be on the plane to Thailand. I don't want to say good-bye.

My baby class- Daniel, Tim, Anne & Sarah (three years old).

Vacation in Korea

Simona & I in front of Korea`s biggest Buddha. You can`t see them, but there are two old Korean ladies killing themselves laughing at us...

As my high school years drew to a close, I looked forward to moving out of the house. Of having my own apartment. I often thought about how liberating it would be to walk into my apartment and throw the keys on my kitchen table. Of plopping down on my couch to read a book in absolute silence. With this in mind, I held two jobs for the last few months of high school- determined to have this dream happen as quickly as possible. On Monday, Wednesday, Friday & Saturday I worked nights as Head Hostess at Red Lobster (referred to from now on as the Lobster Pit). On Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday (morning) and Sunday, I worked at IMAX- scooping popcorn and ripping tickets. Weekdays, of course, I was at school- mostly sitting in the testing center catching up on a year's worth of exams that I'd left to the last minute. For most of April, May and June I was probably in there four or five hours a day. At night after work, I'd come home and hammer ou t any papers that I had left to the last minute. Somehow this ridiculous system worked out and I graduated high school- miracle of miracles. In August, days after my eighteenth birthday, Alex and I moved into our first apartment together. I kept up the two jobs- giving IMAX all my days, and the Lobster Pit all my nights. This lasted until October when I finally snapped. I quit the Lobster Pit and decided to stick to one job. Until HMV called me up and offere d me a Christmas position, with the promise of 50% off CDs... but that's different. Over the next few years, I often found myself with multiple jobs and I came to enjoy the chaos of multi-tasking. For those who haven't lived in Calgary, I should perhaps explain the phenomenon of employment there. One morning I woke up and thought- hmmm... I think today I'll find a new job. On a whim, I head to my folder full of cv's, and head downtown. I pass out about twenty resumes to random stores and restaurants before I get bored. I go to work at IMAX. Later that night when I arrive home, I play my voice mail messages and scrawl down the names of fifteen places that would like to interview me. I go down the list and decide which places I'll call back and which I was just playing around by dropping off a resume. Like the tanning salon I once applied at. They were ready to hire me too, until I admitted that I wouldn't fake & bake even if it was free. Finally I would accept a job and keep it for a short time, when inevitably something better would come along. Before I moved to Montreal, I decided to maximize my time by working at IMAX, La Vie en Rose and Moxie's restaurant. I thought perhaps the different jobs would keep me sane. The phone continued to ring with job offers, one restaurant offered to hire me just to work on my lunch hour from the lingerie store. Last year, I accidently stuck myself with tw o jobs and promised myself that I'll never do it again. As the Hyatt prepared for a strike, I quickly covered my ass by picking up a job at a restaurant, just in case. When the hotel didn't strike, I found myself with two jobs- one that promised me hours at low pay, and one that promised me high pay, but no hours. The days that I had to work both jobs nearly killed me. I will never do it again.

Me & Simona get closer for a better look. Song says we`re crazy. Seoraksan National Park

I asked my kids to draw a picture of their fathers a couple of weeks ago. One little girl drew her dad in front of his bed, with a cell phone in his hand and a briefcase in the other. She told me she never sees her dad, he's always at work. Korea has only recently reduced it's work week to five days, and the truth is that it's only been reduced on paper. In practice, many Koreans still work six days a week. Song rolls out of bed at 5am, to arrive at her work by 8am. It's not unusual for her to be there until 10pm, sometimes even later. If this were unusual, I'd have smacked some sense into her already, but truth is that this is standard in Korea. Arriving here, I was shocked to discover that they seem to have an inexplicable ability to work stupid hours. In Canada we benefit from having government policies that allow us to have real lives. The labour board says it is illegal to work your staff the way they do here. But here, if the boss says to stay, you stay. On Tuesdays, I finish work at 4:30 and enjoy an easy ride home on the subway. It's always empty. When I finish at 6:30, the subway is crowded but not yet to capacity. At 9, the subway is packed. I overheard a foreigner asking his Korean friend why they worked so much. The Korean replied that if they ever wanted to have a stronger economy than China, this was what had to be done. The foreigner pointed out that China has a billion people to Korea's fifty million. The Korean shrugged as though it didn't matter.

Korean safety measures

It's quite easy to make Korea sound as though it's an all work and no play kind of place. But bars are always full of business men and there seems to be unending energy to douse oneself in soju at the end of a long work day. The twenty-four saunas are a testament to that. Rather than return all the way home, many will roll into a sauna for a few hours before heading back to the office. For two glorious weeks a year, Koreans enjoy their vacation time. Altogether. The last week of July, the entire country pack their bags and head to the beaches on the East Sea and Jeju Island. There is literally no visible sand on the beaches, as tents are pitched so they can enjoy the view of the sea without risking a sun tan. In anticipation of this week, I booked my vacation to Taiwan in February, as you need to if you want to be sure to have a flight out.

Chuseok traffic. Guess which way is Seoul...

Chuseok (Korean Thanksgiving) is a time spent with family. Not like Canadian Thanksgiving which seems mostly half-assed these days (I suppose complicated by the immensity of our country). Chuseok is a week long affair which finds most people travelling to their hometowns to spend the holidays with their families. So picture this. Fifty million Koreans having their last real break until next July. Once again, trips need to be booked and details planned out far in advance if you`re to have any hope of getting out of Seoul. For Koreans, your hometown is not necessarily the place where you or your parents grew up. It can also be the place where your ancestors are buried. Chuseok is traditionally a time to thank your ancestors for watching over you by cleaning up at the burial sites and making a offering of food. There is not necessaily a cut-off with how far back you thank your ancestors, so in traditional families it can be quite an event. More modern families take to the mountains or the beaches of Jeju Island for a more laid-back vacation.

Traditional Chuseok foods on a traditional table. Fruits, vegetables, rice cakes and dried fish.

Offering to the ancestors.

A few months ago, it occured to me that this vacation would soon be upon us and I had yet to make any plans. After some difficulty and several sets of plans later, Song and I decided to head to the Seorak mountains to go camping. Now when Canadians talk of camping, we imagine hiking up to the camp site with tents and sleeping bags, your bag stuffed with enough food to last you the duration of the trip and various gadgets to make cooking a little easier. We imagine ourselves surrounded by trees, alone in the woods with our friends and a campfire. Koreans don`t have the same love of solitude and the outdoors. So it fits that Song and I had very different ideas of camping. Simona, recently arrived in Korea, was brave enough to jump on board for this Korean camping experience. We met at 8am on Thursday morning at the bus station and settled in for a long drive. Seoraksan National Park is only some two hundred kilometers from Seoul, but with the insanity of Chuseok traffic, it took us five hours to get there. In my naivete, I thought we would get off the bus and find ourselves right in the mountains. But I was wrong. We climbed into a taxi and finally pulled into the condo where we would be 'camping' for the next three days. Song picked up the key and we took the elevator to our room. I noticed that there was a swimming pool, sauna and noraebong in the basement. Excellent. We tossed our bags down in the room, taking note of the yos (traditional Korean beds- thin mattresses) piled in the closet, revealing that we would be sleeping on the floor. Perhaps that`s why the kids call this camping...

We set off in pursuit of food. I suppose this is what you could call the 'hunting' portion of the trip. We took a taxi to Seoraksan National Park and paid for our bibimbap (rice mixed with red pepper paste, vegetables and egg), kimbob (seaweed rolls with rice, ham, crab and vegetables), and omu-rice (rice and vegetables wrapped in a fried egg). We walked around and evetually came across a cable car, which we took to the top of the mountain. The view was incredible. Just off the chalet at the top, we found a path leading up the mountain. I was excited, despite the steps and guard rails along the way that were put in place to make the trail accessible to everyone. I suppressed giggles as I passed Koreans in full hiking gear- it was after all, more of a brief walk than a hike. As the path ended I looked up. The trees had cleared and we were standing on a ridge, with rock on all sides. The streams below looked like thin lines and I contemplated the drop over the cliff. The guard rails found along the path to keep you from tripping into the forest were nowhere to be found. A small sign politely asked that you not jump. Simona and I climbed here and there amongst the rocks for a better view. I ignored the fact that the hand and foot holds had been artificially hammered into place. The view was absolutely beautiful. The clouds hung low over the mountains in the distance, and the setting sun shone through the clouds. As the sun set, we made our way back to the cable car and sought out food once again.

Just me & the mountain.

I`d like to preface this next story with a couple of short, somewhat related tales. Many months ago, on the opening night of Never Swim Alone, I was craving a patch of grass. All I wanted was to stretch out in the sun on the grass and read a book before I went onstage. So I left work quite early and headed to the theatre, determined that I would find my grass before I went on. I walked and walked. Through school yards and past government buildings. Through parks and past soccer fields. There was no grass to be found. Even the kids playing soccer had dirt under their feet. Finally in a school yard next to the soccer field, I found a small patch of grass about two feet wide. I decided it would have to do. So I lay back, trying to appreciate the grass that I had found and ignoring the sign that begged students not to sit on it. In early September, I found myself craving a beach. Being that Korea is a peninsula, you can be sure that there are beaches everywhere. I looked up the closest beach to me and discovered that it was famous for its sunsets. That was good enough for me. All I wanted was to lie on the sand with a book and my music for a few hours. I packed a bag and left at 10am on a Sunday morning, carefully following the directions obtained from the Korean Tourism site (rather than my own common sense). I spent an hour and a half on the subway and arrived in Incheon, the city next to Seoul. From the station, I took a bus to the port. I scanned the signs and found Yeongjongdo, the name of the island that I was heading to. The sign was entirely in Korean, but the name of the island was there, so I paid my 14,000 won and boarded the ship. Half an hour later, I wondered why we had not yet arrived. The ferry was supposed to take only twenty minutes. The island came into view and we saw it, turned around, and went right back to the dock. I got off and starred at the booth from which I had bought the ticket. Then at the booth next to it, which also had the name of the destined island. I paid 4,000 won and boarded the ferry. Twenty minutes later, I set foot on Yeongjongdo Island. My trusty directions told me to find the bus terminal and take the bus to Eurwangni Beach. I stood at the station contemplating the map, trying to figure out where it was and what bus would take me there. An American girl, headed for the same beach, confirmed what bus and we sat and waited. And waited. The bus finally came an hour later. We boarded the bus and she consulted her Lonely Planet. The bus ride should take twenty minutes. An hour later we became concerned that we`d missed the stop. We passed the airport. Finally after an hour and a half on the bus, we arrived at the beach. The tide was low, and there was no sand. Just mud. Fish heads stuck up through the mud and we watching the fully clothed Koreans frolicking in the mud with some skepticism. After a six hour journey, the mud beach was quite a dissapointment. But we went swimming nonetheless, had dinner and I called a taxi to take me to the airport. I was fed up. This was the last straw. No, in fact I realized when we passed the airport that a brief trip out on the airport express bus would have had me at the beach in half an hour. Sure enough, I got home some five and a half hours before I would have taking the suggested route.

So the next morning, we awoke and flipped through our Seoraksan tourist guides. We decided on a hike that would take us first past some hot springs, then to some waterfalls. It was a relatively short hike, the 3km could be expected to take us about three hours, but I was excited to put time in at both the hot springs and the swimming hole at the base of the waterfall. We hopped on the bus and took it to our starting point. The hike began along a river bed, and I wondered why the water was so low. We walked along the river for most of the hike, along with a long line of Koreans headed for the same place. The trail confused me. It appeared that we were walking where there should have been water. The stagnant pools of water here and there looked as though they were aching to move, but they lacked a current. We kept walking. The trail went into the woods and I was momentarily excited- perhaps it was about to become a real hike. But the sandbag steps proved otherwise. We made it to a mountain temple and enjoyed some spring water from the fountain and took in the smell of incense before moving on. Footholds on big rocks along the way continued to annoy me a little, but I tried simply to take the unaltered route when confronted with these aids. I bypassed the log bridges in favour of jumping from rock to rock in the stream. I began to suspect that our waterfall would not be all we hoped for. There was little water in the river. Finally we rounded a corner and Simona and I stopped short. Seriously? Could this be it? In front of us stood a steep drop off with a drizzling of water falling over it. The same effect can be achieved at home, in fact. Take a simple watering can, or a bottle of water and pour it over your balcony. There you have it. A waterfall. As we contemplated the shape of the rocks and the river bed, it seemed to us that the river had probably been damned up further upstream to allow for the walking path. I tried (unsuccessfully) to suppress my frustration and disapointment. It`s very nice that there have been efforts made to make the mountains accessible to everyone, but at what cost? Broken bridges and discarded safety railings scattered about the trail to the waterfall somehow wrecked the illusion of being alone with nature. Although I guess the long line of us walking along the trail didn`t help that either. I have to remind myself that it`s hard to wow Canadians when it comes to nature. Growing up next to the Rockies has spoiled me, it seems.

The waterfall

We boarded the bus back to Sokcho city and, though we were too late to take in the sun on the beach, still went down and played in the water. The tide was high and the waves of the East Sea crashed high on the sand. A couple hundred people stood on the beach, setting off fireworks and racing each other through the waves. Song, Simona and I were completely drenched, and seemed to be quite amusing to the group of middle-aged Korean men watching this display of sillyness. We made our way back to the condo and prepared to leave the next morning.

Song and Simona head for the tent after a long drive...

As the end of my contract approaches, I seem to feel differently about it every day. Two weeks ago, I was thrilled to soon be on my way back home. Last week I was terrified, confronted with the question of what I`ll do when I arrive home is a frightening thought. This week I`m mostly sad. I`ve had alot of frustrations here, but I`ve also come to consider this home. I`ve become accustomed to encountering unique situations every day, challenging myself to learn more about the Korean culture and language. Forcing me to reflect more and more on my own country, my language and my views. I`ll miss my kids. I`ll miss Song. Some days I`ll be relieved not to stared at in the streets, but some days I`ll miss it. I wonder how many stories have been told about me around Korean dinner tables. There`s at least one for every day I`ve been here. Tales of the local blonde that I`ll never hear. Soon my life will return to normal- whatever that means- and I`ll be faced with life. The last year has been a break from life. At least life in Canada. Everything at home is on pause for awhile until I decide that it`s time to come back- and it keeps getting closer and closer...

Song & Simona drenched at Sokcho Beach

Luck

We hear a lot about luck. About good luck, and bad luck, and then about the people who have no luck. I've never really known where to rate myself in terms of luck. I've had good luck with some things, and terrible luck with others. As a Canadian, I've often heard how lucky I am to be born and raised in Canada. It is my home, and sure there are things that I love and things I hate, but this year I have come to realize why I am lucky to be Canadian.

My parents really tried their best to encourage me to follow a Christian path. Between Catholic school, Christian summer camp and a Christian version of Girl Guides, it's a wonder that they didn't succeed. For awhile I bought into it all. I accepted everything as children do, whole heartedly and satisfied with the vague answers I was given. But then things stopped adding up for me. This was, of course, right after the unfortunate incident involving a Bishop and oil on my forehead. In the eyes of the Catholic Church, I was stuck for life. I find it interesting that the sacriment of Confirmation takes place just before most children really start questioning their faith. It's even more intriguing that today very little prep time goes into this ceremony that supposedly has life long consequences. In comparison, Jewish children spend years preparing for their bar mitzvas/bat mitzvas. Whatever. Catholic kids are kept ignorant- the less they know, the fewer questions they'll have. Or at least, that's the view from a disgruntled 'Catholic'. It's not that I've found a different faith, or that I've tossed aside a belief in a higher power. It just seems to me that organized religion has taken a few wrong turns, and I'm not interested in identifying myself under a label I don't agree with. I'm not Catholic because I believe in a woman's right to have control over her body. I believe in a person's right to love, marry and sleep with whomever they might want to (unless it's Fred-hands off!). I wonder if the Church would be so concerned about who you were sleeping with if anyone in Vatican City had ever had the pleasure of getting laid. I believe that people should be able to challenge their faith without being kicked out of the Church. I believe that people need to learn to laugh at themselves. I'm amazed that the Vatican's tantrum over daVinci Code succeeded in winning more press attention than the President of Kenya begging the Church to okay the use of condoms to help stop the spread of AIDS. Priorities are all wrong for my taste, and so, when approached by the countless swarms of Korean Christians trying to save my soul, I can't help but feel a little nauseated. Although the sea of gleaming red crosses in the night sky doesn't help either.

But this isn't going to be a rant about religion, fear not. I haven't the time, nor the patience to take on such an issue. Not to mention the fact that I have no real concrete opinions on that front. It's more about growing up, I suppose. I was confirmed to the Catholic faith in grade six, in grade seven I became dissatisfied with the answers I was getting. I had always hated being carted off to Church on Sunday morning, but now that my parents were fighting more than usual, I realized I had a way out. I asked my mother if maybe she wouldn't mind going to another church with me. Of course, she jumped at the chance as tensions between her and my dad had mounted to the breaking point. En route to this eutopia of a church we were heading to, I told her I'd changed my mind and asked her if she wouldn't just want to go for breakfast instead. Simple as that. For the next few months, my mother and I pretended to be off to our own church when in reality we were at McDonald's having egg mcmuffins. A sneaky and questionable rebellion since I was with my mom all the while, but it was the best I could come up with to get out of Church on a regular basis.

I was always one of those dorky kids that loved school. Maybe because I never had to work particularly hard at it. I was always kept busy with sports after school and to my memory, did very little homework. The nights I stayed up till all hours to write papers were always my fault- I had usually just started the paper that day. I was never very good at math, but I still got decent marks. When I started complaining of blurred vision in grade two, I was taken to the eye doctor. Tests said I had 20/20 vision. But blurry patches would come and go, accompanied with pressure building up in my eyes. I still get it every now and then. In grade seven, the eye doctor told me I was reading too much and insisted that I not read more than twenty minutes at a time. So I stopped reading. How much could you possibly do in twenty minutes? I breezed through high school with little effort (not always with the best marks) and headed off to University. I finally had a teacher call me on my lack of effort in my learning, and it shocked me. Was it that obvious? Of course it was- a mediocre effort had usually gotten me by, so I became accustomed to offering the bare minimum. Why work harder for no good reason? I've never thought that I wasn't smart enough to go into a particular field of study, but I have wondered if realistically I could commit myself. (Phobic, remember?) A question that I'm faced with now that I contemplate a return to school... I know I'll find myself back in school soon enough, but the direction that I'll take is still up in the air. It was important for me to break away from academics and explore my creativity- and I'm not giving up on that. I'm thankful that I've had that opportunity.

There are of a course countless variables that impact who we become as adults. As I look at these kids that I'll soon be leaving, I contemplate the differences between how I grew up and how they will. All of the most important moments of my life have come from tearing myself away from my friends, family, faith, boyfriends and academics. It's seen as a normal part of the process of growing up. But these kids are already experiencing tremendous pressures that I never had to deal with. They are already aware that image is everything. They are aware that their mothers always have perfectly manicured nails and that a hair is never out of place. They are aware that mom diets really hard to make sure that she is not labelled 'fat'. They are aware that in their world, there are roles for girls and roles for boys. They know that living on the twenty-second floor is better than living on the tenth floor. They are aware of what brand of shoes they wear to school, and the student who goes to the most schools has the most money. The pressure to look the same as everyone else is intense. Middle school girls are not allowed to have their hair shorter than their chin or longer than their shoulders, and will be sent to the barber shop to have it fixed before returning to school. Fingernail checks are done to make sure that your nails are not only clean, but of a uniform length. Jewelry and make-up is still forbidden. Most things in Korean culture can be chalked up to image- in fact, my very presence here has less to do with an active interest in learning English and more to do with keeping pace with everyone else. It is fashionable to learn English. Korea is the plastic surgery capital of the world for a reason. The Korean knock-off industry is worth a billion dollars a year. That's alot of fake Channels. It's all about image.

The kids I teach range in age from three years to sixteen years. Some of my three year olds start school at 9am and finish at 4:30pm. Half of that is Korean school, the other half English school. Some of my Elementary school students attend as many as eleven schools- so they leave the house at 8am and return home around 8 or 9pm, just in time to finish their homework and pass out. Middle school children are often dropped off on their doorsteps by the school bus at 1am. Even during their much deserved breaks from school, the average Korean student spends more than 48 hours in school or studying, each week. All of these schools are designed to give students a 'leg up' in the horrid exam that they have to write their final year of high school. Children learn to fear this exam from the time they start grade one. The Korean Scholastic Aptitude Test determines what University you will attend and what course of study you can follow. Because image is everything- it also impacts how successful you will be in your career and in your marriage prospects after graduation. The exam takes place in November. In August, mothers start frequenting temples and churches (often both, not either or) to offer prayers for their child's performance in the exam. One month before, mothers make their way to the temples to light candles for their children. The teachers responsible for writing the exam are sequestered for a month before it takes place. Businesses open an hour later to help ease the flow of traffic, as the 700,000 students make their way to the exams. Flights into and out of Seoul are stopped for the listening portion of the exam, to cut down on outside noise pollution. The exam last eight hours, and will determine the course your life will take. Ironically, once you're accepted into University, it's a joke. By all accounts, no one learns a thing.

As a Canadian, I breathe a sigh of relief that I was able to choose my field of study and that there isn't a point of no return in our education system. A high school drop-out could still go back to school and become a doctor. It is so difficult to wrap my mind around some of these differences. Koreans are incredibly strong as a collective, but in terms of individualism, they have a great deal of trouble breaking out of the confines of everyday routine. I wore my hair in a braid to school one day and not only did all my kids notice, and comment, but all the girls in my classes showed up for the next three weeks with their hair in braids. It still baffles the kids that I could spend a year away from Fred. It doesn't fit into their formula, and it doesn't make sense. Just as they thought they had it all figured out, I surprise them by telling them that we're not getting married when I get back. It's unheard of in Korea. The Dutch soccer coach that led the Korean soccer team to the semi-finals in the 2002 World Cup made one change- and it was hugely controversial. He insisted that all players be treated equally, regardless of age. Suddenly the team started winning, and he's held up as national hero. The solution was so simple, but it's difficult to see it from within the box. How can you be a team if you have a hierarchy? I could go on forever here. My point is this. I have realized this year how lucky I am to be able to make choices. That there is nothing limiting me to what I can and cannot do. I can take my BFA and go onto law school, or I can throw myself into a conservatory for the next three years. I can decide to get married tomorrow, or ten years from now or never, and no one will bat an eyelash (well, maybe tomorrow is a little quick...). I can choose to leave my faith because it doesn't fit. I can choose not to follow the path my parents hoped for me. Better yet, they're happy that I did. I got to make mistakes. I can tell Fred's family openly (although they are all aware) that I hate cooking, and I'm horrible at it. We don't need to pretend just because I'm the woman. I can decide not to have kids. I don't have to own a Louis Vuitton purse, or spend 80,000$ on my wedding (the average cost of a Korean wedding). I can run on the treadmill at the gym, because I don't care if men see me sweat. I'm proud to have muscular calves (I've worked damn hard for them), and I don't feel the need to inject poison in them to make them smaller. I've had alot of ups and downs this year- and occasionally questioned my choice in coming to Korea for some of these very reasons. But I think I really needed to experience this. Because I never would have belived it if I hadn't.

East/West Relations

Despite my questionable residency in the eyes of some, Montreal is my home. I was born there, and though I was raised in Alberta, something never quite fit. I always felt mal a l'aise there. I grew tired of explaining to people that I wasn't a separatist, nor were my parents (despite the fact that such ignorant assertions made me sympathize with the separatist movement). I became annoyed that people could not understand that there was a difference between speaking French and being French Canadian. I developed an impatience for the government who propagated the idea that speaking French meant being French and being French meant being separatist. The Alberta goverment defines a francophone as an individual who's first language is French, or who has spent two or more years in a francophone school. According to the government, I was francophone. It's not that it's offensive, it's just that it's always grating to labelled something you're not. I have the same reaction here when people call me American, or Russian. When I arrived in Montreal, I finally felt comfortable. Speaking French was somewhere between a bonus and an expectation and no longer meant that I was in league with Rene Levesque. My last name, Bogue Kerr, was no longer a great mystery that would require lengthy explanations.

Being that my parents and I left Quebec shortly after the referendum of 1980, it is little wonder that I grew up hearing the tales of injustice done to the English people of Montreal. Bill 101 had just kicked in, and guaranteed that my very English father would face challenges in his career. My parents tell tales of the clear French/English divide down Boulevard St Laurent and find it difficult to believe that my Montreal is so different. There are still tensions, it's true. I found working in restaurants that I would always get good tips from French tables if they didn't hear me speak English, and good tips from English tables if they didn't hear me speak French. If my sections were mixed, my tips were mediocre. When Fred and I were apartment hunting, my messages left in French guaranteed a phone call back, while his English messages went unanswered. Sure, the Office de la Langue Francaise keeps itself busy running around to offices and checking to make sure the inter-office emails are sent in French, but all in all, from the point of view of a bilingual Montrealer, tensions aren't so bad. Once I stopped saying that I was from Calgary in interviews, I never had another problem finding a job. It is a little ignorant to assume that a Calgarian could not speak French, but it is less ignorant than assuming that Montrealers cannot speak English.

I had a rough introduction to Montreal, but it quickly became home. I am proud to live in a city that is so rich and so diverse. I knew it was unique in Canada, but I never thought that it was unique on an international scale. When I arrived in Korea, a Korean co-worker was studying Montreal in University, as a model of a bilingual city. Discussion surrounding how to make Seoul the next Montreal in terms of bilingualism was a popular topic at her school. She was absolutely shocked to discover that the politics of speaking French or English in Montreal were so complicated. Today a Montrealer who is born and raised there should speak both languages, but still many don't. The reality is that Bill 101 has given anglophones the upper hand. Anglophone children are going to school in French, so they learn to speak both languages fluently. Francophone children have no choice but to go school in French, and so they only learn French. I can't imagine being 25 years old and realizing I couldn't work in Toronto.

All that said, my point is this. The English language is artificially migrating all over the world in the name of progress. Languages are meant to evolve and change, but in an effort to keep pace with faster growing economies and an increasingly educated population, some countries are being pushed years ahead of where they actually should be. Korea has only just begun to accept foreigners into their country, but now we are here en masse. It didn't happen organically- it was forced. This country was devastated by war fifty years ago and they closed their doors to the world to rebuild. Up until 1980, Koreans were not allowed to travel outside of their country. It was a police state and they were striving to keep Korean money in Korea in an effort to rebuild the economy. When I look around, it is so difficult to wrap my mind around the rate of progress in this country. Soon after Koreans opened their doors to the world, English teachers began to trickle in. The country has quickly became Westernized, to the extent that children fail to realize where Korean culture ends and Westernized culture starts. But when two such different cultures begin to blend, we have to expect that there will tensions and challenges.

Before I arrived in Korea, I had heard that the police and media looked for excuses to pin things on foreigners. That in the media, foreigners were unfairly treated and torn apart. It makes me wonder, are they ready for Western culture? Are they pushing too hard? English teachers here have an E-2 visa, which allows us to work in a private English school, and prohibits us from working in other areas while under this visa. That also means that we are not permitted to take on private tutoring- a point of contention with foreigners and Koreans alike. Many Koreans don't have the time or the resources to attend private schools and seek out lessons with foreigners. The rule about private tutoring came about years ago because the media claimed that marriages were falling apart left, right and center because Western men were tutoring Korean women. Allegedly, these tutoring sessions resulted in affairs between Western men and Korean women, and as a direct result the institution of marriage in Korea was walking a fine line. I find it a little far fetched, but what can you expect? Rules were put in place to prevent this from continuing and most of all, to promote the conservation of the homogenous Korean race. As quickly as that issue was laid to rest, the next quickly took center stage. Western men were pushing their way off the plane, fresh from Canada or America and making their way through the streets of Seoul in hopes random women would begin throwing themselves at them. According to the Korean media, Western women were too independant and refused to care for their lovers, marry or have children, so they were forcing Western men to leave their countries in search of women in Korea. Korean women were caring, loving and subservient (said the papers), and that was what Western men wanted. But more then anything, Western men were here to deflower Korean women. The issue is ongoing and it is still taboo in the eyes of the older generations for Koreans to mix with Westerners. In the streets of Seoul, you see countless Korean women with Western men. But her parents usually don't know. I can understand the attraction between Korean women and Western men. The media almost got it right, but still missed.

Canadian women of my generation were raised to be strong and independant. Our mothers instilled in us the importance of standing on our own two feet. Of choosing a career path that we valued and never relying on a man to carry us along. But maybe we went too far. Many of us came to associate femininity with weakness, and so we suppressed it. We wanted so much to run with the boys that we came to embrace masculinity, leaving our feminine traits on the sidelines. We began to reject part of ourselves. I grew up a tomboy- and still am to some extent, and I remember being offended by being called feminine. I prided myself on being able to run as fast as the boys, but failed to realize that I didn't have to give up being a woman to do that. Feminism made many great strides in Western society, but that is one aspect where we seem to have fallen short. Feminism should be about choice. About choosing what it is you want for yourself, and being able to take that on without ostracism. But we still look at stay at home moms with a bit of pity. As though they aren't doing all that they dreamed because they're at home with the kids. If there's one thing that our generation should have learned, it is the value of having a parent at home. Maybe TV wouldn't have become a full time babysitter in so many houses if a parent could afford to stay at home.

Korean women have travelled. Many have spent time in Western countries and undoubtedly come back depressed. Freedoms enjoyed by Western women have yet to make their way to Korea. It is common for Korean women to have to ask permission of their husbands to go out with their friends. It is expected that they will do all the cooking and the cleaning. It is expected that they will have children and stay at home with them. It is expected that they will keep themselves delicate. Returning to Korea after time abroad is a difficult adjustment for most women. It follows that they would get on well with foreign men who won't have the same expectation of women's roles in society and in the home.

Some Western men, it seems to me, are at a bit of a loss to determine their roles. Women have developed independance to a point that relying on a man is no longer even a consideration for us. We've been raised that way. But men had little say in the changes that swept through the family homes and through society. Men have been socialized to believe that they are stronger than women- that they need to play the role of protectors. But we've asked them not to. We like to think we can take care of ourselves. Men will of course, always be physically stronger, but women have shown we can be just as strong in other ways. Many women are content being single mothers- making it increasingly common to raise their children alone. Our superwoman complex has put everything off balance. Of course it is possible for a woman to raise a child on her own, but that doesn't make it ideal. So we have taken from men both their roles as protector and provider, leaving them (I imagine) feeling a little unsure about what it is we want them to do. They're damned if they do and damned if they don't. A man standing up on the subway to give his seat to a woman could be seen as charming by one woman and chauvanistic by the next. Is it any wonder that they are relieved to find themselves in a place that has clearly defined roles?

In Korea, man is king. Korean men are raised to expect that one day their wives will be gentle, caring and attentive with them. Who would give that up for a woman who will tell you when she's going out, not ask? For a woman who might cook, but only if he does the dishes? The combination is like oil and water, they just don't mix. After all, I wouldn't take too well to a man who expected these things of me.

One of my biggest frustrations this year has been with the lack of respect shown for my culture. I recognize I'm a guest here, and I need to accept Korean culture. And I have made an effort, but I have to draw the line at some point. When I'm out and about in the streets of Seoul, I accept Korean culture. I absorb it, I enjoy it, I suppress my frustrations with it. But when I arrive at school, I quickly lose my patience. I have tried to stress to the Korean teachers and the children the importance of learning about Western culture if they want to learn the language. It is impossible to properly learn a language without a concept of how the culture works. But this has fallen on deaf ears. In my culture, it is rude to laugh at others because they are different. But try as I might to express this to my kids- and my co-workers, they simply don't understand. They not only fail to see an issue, but in fact feel that being different is an adequate reason to be laughed at. It is frustrating that because Korean society is so regimented and there are rules for who deserves the most respect, those of us who fall outside of the rules don't get respect. It is so difficult to remember that as frustrating as it is to be treated like a new and interesting play thing, it is simply because Koreans have yet to find a place for foreigners in their culture. Working out the kinks, I suppose. The line between Korean and foreigner is clear cut. After eleven months, I can't help but roll my eyes when I'm asked absolutely ridiculous things about my culture. Like if we sometimes eat dinner at restaurants. Or if we drink beer in pubs. As though all the McDonald's restaurants in Canada are only a facade because Canadians only eat in the privacy of their own igloos. Much like the old English/French divide in Montreal, the Korean/English gap is wide in Seoul. I wonder if in the years to come, Korean culture will change by leaps and bounds and find reconciliation not only with a new language, but also with a new culture. As I prepare to leave Korea, I feel a bit like I'm leaving home. I know I'll always have a soft spot for Korea and I look forward to coming back here in ten, twenty and thirty years and seeing first hand how much of an impact we made by being here. I hope to see many blue-eyed Korean children on my next visit.

A Severe Case of Commitment Phobia

I have always suffered from a severe phobia of commitment. From the time I moved out of my parent's home at the age of eighteen to twenty-one when I moved to Montreal, I count five apartments and twelve roommates. Alex was the only one that lasted a full year. The perpetually complex state of my revolving-door relationships must have been difficult for my friends to follow. Until I met Fred, the longest of these had lasted four months. The first of these four month relationships, was of course the infamous Rob who I believe was forced out of the apartment after promising to move to Montreal with me and revealing he believed we were 'meant for each other'. Famous last words, it would seem. The second of these was the less than infamous Daniel who was kept a guarded secret (one that mysteriously leaked out anyway, Caycee) because of the questionable age difference between us. Daniel saved me the trouble of ending our relationship at the four month mark when he announced he was moving to Ireland to pursue his Master's in Acting (or some such non sense). But Daniel had not yet boarded the plane when I met Fred. I distinctly remember telling Fajer (my roommate of the moment), that Fred terrified me because I had the unsettling feeling that he might break through the four month expiry date. It seems that uneasy feeling was right- here I sit four years later wondering how it is that he snuck up on me like that. I have come to realize that this fear of commitment is not unique to roommates, apartments and boyfriends. It seeps into every aspect of my life. I hate to make plans ahead of time- commitment phobic, you see. More than anything, this commitment phobia has affected my direction with theatre. Teachers and fellow students in school told me that I was a bit of a mystery to them- I had all the pieces to be really successful, but I was choosing not to put it all together. It's true. Putting all those pieces together means making a commitment to myself, to follow through. It means no more excuses, no more bad jobs. It means making a real commitment to theatre.
I glance at my fancy Korean cell phone and realize that the countdown it began long ago to my final days here is fast approaching. As I stumbled in late last night from a day out with Song, I began to feel the first pangs of resistance. Was I ready to leave? For months I had promised Song that I would be back, but the realization has begun to hit that this may be it. Maybe I won't be. Throughout this year, Fred and I have talked many times about returning to Asia together in the future. Part of me loves to believe that it'll happen, but another part of me wonders. I have been bitten by the travel bug- it is certain that I will find myself back 'dans ce coin', but in promising Fred and Song that I'll be back, I suddenly feel as though I'm promising to put my life on hold again. Life in Canada has been on pause for nearly a year now- my career and education plans put aside for a time while I take a year to work on me. The only thing that has changed in Canada is my relationship with Fred. It's continued to grow and change as it needs to under these odd circumstances. In saying that in two years we'll be back, implies that we'll be perfectly willing to again pause our lives in Canada and return to Asia. I'm not sure that's reality. I have found a direction this year. I have come to realize that committing to theatre does not need to mean a commitment to poverty. It doesn't necessarily mean that I am deciding to pursue acting at the exclusion of other interests.
Years ago someone told me that Sesame Street was to blame for the existence of Attention Deficit Disorder in our generation- that we had become so accustomed to receiving a full story in the space of a minute or two that this later affected out ability to focus in school. Perhaps. If this is true, than it is not only my knees that bore the brunt of my active childhood. My parents encouraged and supported my involvement in ballet, gymnastics, figure skating, soccer, basketball, baseball, swimming, synchronised swimming, horseback riding... the list goes on and on. It wasn't until I reached high school that the line was drawn, as it seemed that it was suddenly impossible to participate in everything that I wanted to. My activities were grudgingly narrowed to drama, soccer and basketball. Maybe this is where the reluctance to commit stems from. There's so many choices, so many options- why commit? Why should I choose? To be honest, I've come to realize that it is just not in my nature. There is too much to life that I want to experience, and I've acquired interests and skills in too many areas to say that 'this is it'. My reluctance to commit to theatre is exactly that. I have scattered passions, and I want to pursue them all. And I've realized I can.
Months ago I began to have minor panic attacks at the thought of returning to Montreal. The prospect of returning to customer service both infuriated and terrified me. Now I find myself looking to it excitedly- Montreal, that is, not customer service. At points this year, I have fallen into the trap of treating this year as though it's my one and only opportunity to make money. I felt incredibly guilty buying my computer, convincing myself that I should put the money aside for savings. Illogical when you consider that I'm not sure how I made it through my first degree without a computer, and I am certainly not going to do it again. I contemplated my trip to Taiwan, again thinking I should save the money instead. Fortunately logic kicked in at moments. I've waited since high school for an opportunity to travel, I'm not about to waste this opportunity to see the world. Further, this year has prompted me to see how many opportunities there are and assured me that if I am willing to go a few uncomfortable months upon my return to Montreal, it will pay off. I know what I'm going to do, and I love that I'm tossing around a hundred different possibilities, none of which involve passing out CVs to restaurants.
I seem to be rambling today. Truth of it is that my feelings about returning to Canada change every ten minutes, making it very difficult to articulate them without contradicting myself. Even with the contradictions, it's hard to communicate. Last week, my secretary at school passed me a belated-birthday present. I held back tears as I read her note that apologized for her poor English and expressed how sad she was that I would soon be going home. Kate and I have hardly spoken this year as her English is only slightly better than my Korean. I hadn't considered how difficult leaving was going to be until that moment. I never realized it was possible to feel so close to someone that you had exchanged so few words with. And even fewer were understood. My countdown tells me that I have 50 days until the end of my contract. Part of me feels like that I need more time. I wish I had fewer week-days and more week-ends before October 31st. As Song and I parted ways last night, I felt upset that I am now left with only six Saturdays before I head home. The interviews for the poor sap that will replace me are in full swing. Whoever it is will arrive in five weeks. October 31st will be an incredibly emotional day for me. Not only is it my last day at school, but it is also the two year anniversary of Tyler's death. Instead of rushing home after this emotional day, I'll be packing my bags to rush through Thailand, Laos and Cambodia (true to my nature, making things as difficult as possible) for two weeks before landing in Calgary to visit my mother and my few remaining friends. With all these thoughts floating in my head, I went to bed last night and called Fred this morning when I woke up. He was busy and we only spoke for a minute before hanging up. Suddenly the seven weeks before my departure felt like an eternity. I checked my cell phone, hoping that somehow in the last ten minutes time had sped up and it was finally October. No such luck. The end is so close and so far all at once- and time seems to be slowing down the more excited I become at the prospect of being home at last...