Deported

I didn’t intend to come home from Korea this year. In fact, I wasn’t planning to come home any time soon. I’d gotten a taste of living life abroad and loved it. The freedoms that come with living as an expat are often difficult to put into words, but one of the things I loved most about living in Korea specifically was how little the locals expected me to assimilate. It was understood that I was a westerner with my own set of western values, and I could not be expected to conform. Sure, I was expected to take note of some cultural everyday norms, but they were small things such as mastering chopsticks and bowing as a greeting. I also loved being able to put to rest the cultural norms I dislike about home, and choosing to partake in the ones I do like. And I also loved the communal feel of living life as an expat. We were all in the ride of expat life together; friendships formed faster and more meaningfully than they ever had in other aspects of my life, even college. Truth be told, I would have been perfectly happy at the school I was at for the next several years. I had good students, I had the freedom to teach essentially what I wanted within reason, I liked my colleagues, and I liked Korea.

But sometimes, life throws curveballs. Things outside of our hands come our way and disrupt our best-laid plans, with little care for the livelihood we’ve created. It’s no secret South Korea recently went through their own political hailstorm. The former President Park has been impeached and now awaits trials against her for various crimes against the country. However, impeachment in Korea is different from impeachment in the states; when the Korean president is impeached, there is a new election. The prime minister acts as president until the new one is elected, and then the entire cabinet and everyone working under them leaves office. So in May, a new president was elected, President Moon. One of the things President Moon promised to do was to reform the schools in South Korea.

School in SoKo is significantly different than school in the U.S. Sure, public schools have a bad reputation for being unsafe at times, and have plenty of cliques and bullying, but there’s also immense pressure for students to be the best in their class, and get ahead of their peers in any way possible. In addition, the public schools are flooded; many classes have 30-40 students per class. There’s also strict emphasis on rote memorization, with very little room for fostering creativity or critical thinking. This is fairly commonplace with most of East Asia, maybe even all of Asia.

One of the ways the wealthy elite insures their children get into one of the coveted American Ivy League schools is by sending their child to English-speaking private school. However, there are citizenship or time abroad restrictions on Korean national students for all of the international schools in Korea. (And I assume International Schools outside of SoKo as well, but I’m not an expert on this.) If they cannot get their child into a larger international school due to citizenship reasons, then they for years have been sending their children to smaller, locally owned international schools. Essentially, these schools are owned by a Korean, have a certain kind of license called a hagwon license, but are credentialed through British, Canadian, or American overseas credentials, and hire certified teachers from those countries.

President Moon has long been against these smaller international schools, claiming they give the wealthy an unfair advantage over those who come from lesser means, and make public schools underperform, kind of akin to the mainstreaming argument popular in public schools at home today. It’s the idea that the “gifted” kids push the “average” or “below average” kids to do better. Having been in mainstreaming classrooms, I can adequately say this rarely happens. More often than not, the “gifted” students end up bored, the “average” kids succeed, and the “below average” kids wonder why everyone is getting information so quickly, and the teachers are exhausted. And yet, the theoretical idea in Korean schools is that the “above average” students are taken away from the “average” students, but it’s not based on actual ability or intelligence, but socio-economic class. Of course, for most students around the world, the higher your socio-economic class, the higher you perform in school, most of the time. But I’ve been in schools long enough to know this isn’t always based on ability or intellect. It’s usually just related to accessibility to resources. In other words, forcing students in private school to attend public school won’t actually solve the public school problems in Korea. They’ll only add to them. But what do I know? I’m just a schoolteacher from the top nation in the world with the largest public school crisis. It’s not like I have made a few observations as to why our system is falling apart.

Granted, statistics support the claim that the wealthy elite students do better than the public school students, but those same statistics exist in nearly every other private school vs. public school scenario in most countries. Regardless, an overwhelming majority of the country voted him into office.

In Korea, there are two different visa types for teachers: the E2 visa, and the E7 visa. The E7 falls under a category of skilled work, and is eligible for up to 2 years’ stay, and is renewable. Most of the larger international schools such as Korean International School or Yongsan International School of Seoul provide these visas for their teachers. However, the smaller schools, such as mine provide the E2 visa, and have done so for the past several years.

The interesting part about the E2 visa is how vague the criteria are for an E2 visa holder. It says it’s for teachers of conversational English. That’s it. It doesn’t define conversational English for the visa seeker or holder, it doesn’t give parameters of what constitutes as conversational and what doesn’t. So the law is vague and has always been left up for interpretation. In fact, this law has been so vague that the language academies that employ most of the foreign English teachers in the country all have their teachers on E2 visas, and have their teachers teaching not only English, but Math in English, Science in English, reading comprehension in English, etc. This is considered best practice for ESL; teach the subject in the language the students are learning. The parents want it, and the schools are willing to supply it. Because of the vagueness of the law, several international schools have popped up over the last 15-20 (?) years, employing hundreds, if not thousands, of foreign certified teachers over the years. In other words: this has been perfectly legal for quite some time.

Until now.

In early April, I was coaching soccer for our girls’ soccer team. One day, we played a team in the international school circuit from British Columbia. The boys’ coach and myself went to meet their coach upon their arrival to shake hands and chat a bit. Upon meeting, he mentioned that he’d had a rough day: all of the teachers at their school had been called into the Immigration Office and were forced to sign affidavits of willing departure within 30 days. He said if they hadn’t have signed, they would have been escorted to the airport and deported immediately. We were shocked of course, and it hit the news in the international community in Korea fairly hard.

Around that same time, the Ministry of Education began conducting searches of smaller international schools such as ours, and started requiring changes. They wanted us to specify that all classes were, in fact, taught in English. Art was no longer Art; suddenly, it needed to be English Art. That specification seemed nit-picky to us, but if experience had taught us foreigners anything, it was that sometimes it’s best to play along with what the Koreans want because Koreans value appearances. It’s no use to ask why, just go along with it. In addition, the MOE required our school to close for five consecutive school days and pay a fine because we didn’t have the criteria required of a school with our licensing. But we were a new school. We all figured hiccups like this were bound to happen. Fortunately, there were a series of national holidays coming up that we hadn’t planned to close school for, so we just worked that in. All in all, we took off Buddha’s Birthday, Children’s Day, and Election Day. At the time, it was like a second spring break for us.

We’d been back for a full week when Immigration came for us. I was off during 7th period, and casually wandered over to our counselor’s office to share some funny details of my 7th grade class. We got into conversation with the high school history teacher and we enjoying some bonding moments as teachers. Then we watched an Immigration official walk into my room and take pictures of my board. He didn’t introduce himself or ask whose room it was – it was all very peculiar. We continued chatting, but kept an eye on him. He wandered the hall some more before he finally came to us and asked if we worked there. (Duh.) He said he was looking for four teachers, and showed us their pictures on their visa applications. All in all, he was looking for our elementary music teacher, our athletic director, our high school history teacher, and our principal. We all agreed to separate and go find them for him.

It wasn’t long before all the E2 visa holders, myself included began to congregate in the chapel because the immigration officials wanted to speak with all of us. There it was decided they would take those four to the Immigration Office for questioning, along with their spouses, for a total of six people. The rest of us would be required to come into the Immigration Office the next day. I remember standing in the foyer crying and hugging my colleagues, watching as they took our friends, colleagues, and fellow expats away. I truly did worry that would be the last time I’d ever see them, and prayed I was wrong. This is one time I’m glad I was.

The whole evening, we received updates on their interrogation, and they were finally released around 11 PM that night. We were told we didn’t have to go into work the next day unless we wanted to, and that those four who had been called in could not go back to work at all.

The next morning, I called two friends before going in. I needed their support. I needed to hear that God had a plan, even if it wasn’t the one I’d wanted. One told me to go in and see my sweet students one more time. It wouldn’t be the last time I saw them, but it was the last time I saw them as their teacher. After lunch, we all climbed into the school busses and made our way to immigration, just as our friends had done the day before.

Upon arrival, we were handed a questionnaire packet, and an affidavit of departure. We were told to fill out the questionnaire and then sign the affidavit. It was clear the questionnaire was intended to appear to be our defense for our case for teaching outside the [new interpretation] bounds of the E2 visa, but when paired with the affidavit, it was also clear they had no intention of reading our responses. In their eyes, we were already guilty. Guilty with no chance to prove innocent.

Just like the British Columbian school a month prior, the affidavits specified that we were guilty of breaking E2 visa law and that by signing, it was a confession, and we were required to leave the country within 30 days. We asked what would happen if we refused to sign.

“You’ll be detained and escorted to the airport and sent on the next flight to your home country. It may not be your home city, either.”

It should be noted the trek to Incheon International Airport is a big deal when forced to come in from Seoul. Imagine if DFW International Airport had been built between Fort Worth and Weatherford. It would be great for Fort Worthians, but terrible for Dallasites. Likewise if DFW International had been built between Dallas and Mesquite what it would be like for Fort Worthians. That’s what it’s like going to the airport from Seoul. The hassle is arduous and long, and I’ll admit, the idea of a free ride to the airport sounded a bit appealing. Score! A free ride to the airport! I wanted to shout. However, I figured that might not go over so well. That and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be stopping at my house so I could pack my bags.

Naturally, we all signed our forced guilty confession.

We were then escorted into another room while they prepared our departure documents for our signature. After signing, they took our mugshots and our fingerprints, and we were informed we had to leave the country by June 17 and we could not return for 365 days.

At some point while we were in the Immigration Office, we found out our school was second on a list of about 12 schools in the city of Seoul alone that would be “hit” or “raided” by Immigration for breaking E2 visa law. Many of these schools had been open for several years. Then, we discovered, after all the schools in Seoul were hit, Immigration would move on to the other provinces, until all the schools like ours had been “cleaned up.” Korean news sources are finally starting to write about this, and supposedly many teachers at these schools have been put on “gag orders” requiring the teachers to maintain silence about all of this. I never received such orders, or if I did, never received translation of them, and hence, have remained silent until I’ve returned to the U.S.

It’s been one big tragic mess. I’ve cried so much; my heart hurts leaving my students behind, leaving Korea behind.

My pastor asked me before I left if I would have made the decision to leave my old hagwon for the international school, knowing then what I know now.

“Oh yes,” I replied, and very simply said, “I’ve had the time of my life.”

But it’s more than that. It wasn’t just fun I had, which is true. But I learned about myself. I saw myself change and grow as a teacher. I pushed myself to full discomfort in so many aspects. I coached soccer, despite all my lack of qualifications. I made major curriculum decisions. I tailored lessons for specific classes. Shoot, I tailored future units in 8th grade for the 7th graders the following year. I clung to Jesus (not always very well) in ways I’d never done before, nor imagined I’d ever need. I mentored, I life coached, I laughed, I prayed and I pushed students like never before. I saw my heart begin to crack open out of love for students in ways I’ve only seen in inspirational Lifetime movies or The Ron Clark Story. I do not recognize myself as a teacher anymore. I do not recognize myself as the same woman and follower of Christ anymore. Everything is different. Suffice it to say, this next year without my Korean students, without my expat colleagues and friends, is already turning out to be a painful one. And yet, for the first time in my teaching career, I am inspired to keep pushing myself further professionally, personally, physically, and spiritually. That’s all we can ever hope for in any tragedy in life.

Yes. I’d absolutely do it all over again.

Home

I am home now. My family met me at the airport with a full greeting committee of hilarious and wonderful poster boards followed by a trip to a favorite Tex-Mex place for enchiladas and margaritas. Upon returning home, I crashed around 10, only to realize the ceiling fan was circulating too high at 3 AM. There are no ceiling fans in Korea, and for an entire year I lamented this fact, especially in the summer months. But now that I have one, it feels like it’s too much and wakes me up at night. So now, it’s 4 AM and I’m sitting at the kitchen table writing, and there are nectarines in the fruit bowl. Their scent floods the room, and it’s intoxicating. There’s also the sound of crickets. Recently, now that the weather has warmed up, I would sometimes hear people in the street below my apartment late at night, chattering away, drunken or nocturnal, and I’d allow the cadence of Korean to lull me to sleep. That is not here. Did you know crickets sing all night long? To me, they’re deafening.

Upon landing in DFW, I did something I haven’t done in nearly a year: pick up a conversation with a stranger while in line. I met so many great fellow travelers while in baggage claim, customs, security, at my terminal, in the seats behind me. For the past year, I haven’t been able to do any of that, at least on a relatable level that didn’t require lots of gesturing, which can be exhausting. I could simply converse without any major language barriers. And also, Americans are generally very smiley people, but genuinely so. We Americans take a lot of flack for that in the international community, but having been in the land of many smiles, and each one means something different, I feel confident in speaking on the sincerity of our smiles. But I think perhaps The American Smile may have developed from our years of major immigration. Language barriers are tough, and perhaps the smile softened that barrier and allowed our own culture to develop. I see only beautiful things about this if it’s true.

I remembered something my pastor said recently upon returning home from a trip to Texas: There’s too much land there. I scoffed at it then, but it was all I could think about on my flight from DFW to Austin. While I’m a far cry away from saying there’s too much land here, I feel overwhelmed with how much there is, which is how I felt about people, buildings, and neon lights in Korea at first. I now feel like I understand why the Native Americans wanted to live here, why Europe wanted to colonize here, and why the pioneers wanted to frontier here: The amount of land here is so vast.

In college, I took an American Literature class, and I remember we read primary documents of early settlers or conquistadors, and they described the vastness of the land as if it were sexy and endless. I never thought anything of it at the time, really. In my lens of hindsight, they seemed greedy to me. But now, I get it. There was just so much potential. It was so ripe for the taking. I don’t say this to justify their actions (the history of which I know I benefit from socially, educationally, physically, etc) but as a means of understanding where their hearts and minds were at the time. It’s funny, I always heard that when you travel, you learn so much about other cultures and people and how we all relate, and that’s true. But never did I think it would make me realize so much about my own culture and its’ history, tainted or otherwise beneficial.

Homesickness

In one week, I’ll check in my one-way ticket get on a plane headed for Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, followed by another to Austin-Bergstrom, and I can’t believe my time here in Korea is coming to an end so quickly. This wasn’t what I had planned when I moved here nearly 11 months ago, but here I am.

Over the course of the last 11 months, there have been a long string of events that I never could have predicted when I left Texas that have led to this journey home for me. It’s a hard story to share in one sitting, and more than enough for a good Hollywood blockbuster or a New York Times bestseller, but it’s not time to go into those details now.

Eleven months ago, on my way home from Steel City Pops after saying my see-ya-laters to friends, I drove down Camp Bowie Boulevard with the windows down and my sunroof open. I played my music too loud, and when I got to my cross street, I found myself doing a U-turn and going back down the brick-lined road again, and then again and again, trying to soak up all of my home from the past seven years. When I first moved to Fort Worth and was depressed and struggled sleeping, I’d go for long drives in the city, learning the roads and the lay of the land. This was before I had a smart phone, and I was learning the streets by feel. I used to roll the windows down and cruise down that same stretch of road. Sometimes I’d pray. I was lonely, and I prayed for friends. I prayed to live in certain parts of the city. I prayed it would be a city that would some day feel like home. That night, I stopped and walked out on the lawn of the Amon Carter Museum, and just stared at the skyline and wondered if I’d ever come to love and recognize the Seoul skyline in the same way. As I stared at the skyline that night, I realized how incredibly blessed I am. God answers our prayers in His own time; He answered every one of those prayers.

Seoul doesn’t have a proper downtown. It’s a mid-evil city that has several different business districts, and is spread out and scattered between mountains. It’s the kind of city that has ancient city walls and gates that are still standing. I never did learn a particular skyline of Seoul. But I did learn to recognize landmarks and buildings. The Lotte Tower close to the soccer field where we practiced, the Shinsegae Department Store at Express Bus Terminal, The Hamilton Hotel where my home church meets, The Han River, and finally, Namsan Tower, which always shone like a beacon, guiding me home on Saturday nights. From now on, whenever I see pictures of Namsan, I’ll be able to point and say, “I used to live halfway up that mountain, right by that tower.” That night I was in Fort Worth, gazing at the skyline, I prayed for Korea to feel like a home to me in the same way Fort Worth had.

I suppose God always knew my time here would be short, so He made a point to answer that prayer quickly. I found a church early on, and found a wonderful community there. They allowed me to grow and be brave and strong and cry whenever I needed to. I learned how to be soft here. I learned that bravery doesn’t always mean you aren’t affected by others or the world around you. Bravery often means being vulnerable and admitting you’re struggling; it means allowing yourself to feel; it means admitting that you don’t know what to do next, and trusting that God will work it out. By this definition, one could argue courage is founded on faith.

Little by little, God made me brave here. I learned how to pick out laundry detergent in Korean. I learned how to tell a cab driver where to take me. I learned the subway system, and I’m still mastering the busses. (They’re crazy complicated!) I learned how to read in Korean. I did not learn what most of it means, but I can read it. I learned how to buy high-speed train tickets and bus tickets, and I learned that one should bring gum on high-speed trains because your ears will pop. I learned where to go to find certain foreign foods, and I learned how to make some simple Korean foods. I learned that Korean strawberries are the best strawberries on Earth, and I learned that produce markets on Saturday mornings here are one of my favorite things. I learned a million little things that are so simple and so wonderful, and some that are complicated and hard. In short, Seoul has felt like home. So here I am now, trying to soak it all in again, and wondering if this is my perpetual cycle now. I always missed Texas while I was here, but now that I’m leaving, I know I’ll always miss Seoul. I have no idea if this is normal for expatriates or other global workers, but I hope so. I need to not be alone in this sentiment. I need to know there are others who miss public transport after months of missing driving. I need to know there are those who would prefer to do all their produce shopping in local markets, possibly in other languages. I wonder if there are those who, even after months of missing a nice dryer, they might also still appreciate laundry on a clothesline.

I am a mess of conflicted emotions. I am homesick for Texas, but anticipating my homesickness for Seoul. At least experience and wisdom has taught me the best way to handle it: enjoy every step of the way, trusting God has you through it all.

Marchin’ On Baby

I turn 30 on Friday. I’ve said that a few times out loud, and it never quite sinks in. The words just hang there in the air, waiting almost it seems, for something to drop. Like certain parts of me that are losing the battle with gravity. What is it Dolly Parton said in Steel Magnolias? “Time marches on, and pretty soon you realize it’s marchin’ across your face!” While my face is pretty much mostly spared still, I’m beginning to feel more aches and pains, and noticing weight sitting differently than it used to. Marchin’ on.

In my last post, I said that for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m really living. And even as I typed those words, I found myself perplexed, questioning, “Is this the first time I feel like I’ve ever truly lived?” I caught myself drifting back to another lifetime ago, the anniversary of that lifetime’s end which came up last week.

Four years ago, I was with a man I thought would become my husband and the father of my children. We took a weekend trip to Austin to watch my cousin’s car race team at the Formula 1 track, and then took a trip to the Salt Lick with his friends. He rented a cute little AirBNB, and we went to brunch at my favorite brunch spot on Sunday morning after church. It was a perfect birthday weekend. We’d been together for a good while, and we did life together. We loved each other. But the crux of our problem was that I could never be who he needed me to be until he showed me how committed he was, and he could never commit to me fully unless I could be who he needed me to be. It ended tragically, and for years I felt like it was all my fault; I was never good enough. But the question I should have been asking myself the whole time was: Is he the man I need him to be? The answer to that lies in the answer to his question regarding us, which was, no. Marchin’ on.

So three years ago last week, he called it. I yelled and threw things and drank and fell asleep on his couch. He cried and sat and waited for someone to come get me. We were supposed to go to a wedding that day. I remember I was so angry that day and said all sorts of horrible things that today I’d probably apologize for if we came face to face, not because they aren’t true, but because I hurt his feelings. Probably. At one point, he tried to wake me up in my stupor, and I noticed he was crying. I was too out of sorts to really do anything, but I remember asking, “Why are you crying?” and he couldn’t answer me. He just cried some more and sat down next to me on the couch. I curled up with him, and said very sleepily, but peacefully and assuredly, “It’s going to be okay.” I had no idea at the time just what that meant, and I was so hurt, but I knew it was true, and I believed it even then. Eventually, my friend came to pick me up and took me to her house to stay for a few days before I moved in with her. I slept in her bed with her and her dog.

I remember in the days that followed, I realized I was 26, about to be 27. When we’d started dating when I was 23, I thought we would have been married by that point. So suffice it to say, my 27th birthday was a hard birthday. I knew I’d be okay, but the immediate hurt and losses impeded my peace. I had thought, up until that point, that being with him meant I was really living. And indeed, I was in love, which is definitely a big part of life. But the way I was living life with him, wasn’t living. I had friends who celebrated it with me, and prayed blessings for my life in the years to come, but I was still sore. That year turned out to be the hardest year of my life. Mom died. He started dating someone new, to whom he’s now married. My grandmother died. My father was hospitalized for severe depression. I moved four times that year. It was a year where I clung to God because that was all I could trust.

But one day, in those early days after he and I parted ways, I woke up in my friend’s bed, and she asked me how I’d slept. I’d had a dream just before waking. I told her, I had the strangest dream that it was years from now and I was living and working in Korea and I was really single and really happy. She asked me how I felt about that, and I think my response was to burst into tears. I didn’t remember it at all until shortly before I left; I’d had a deja vu moment in my friend’s apartment where I stayed in the upcoming weeks, and I remembered that dream during that time. It’s funny how we forget dreams like this until we see them starting to take place in our waking lives.

I used to model for figure drawing classes in college. I try to keep that on the down low because I’m a teacher and I don’t want to cause scandal or anything ridiculous, but I think the thing about turning 30 is you gradually stop caring so much what other people think and are willing to take more risks. You start to really live. The art teacher at school is teaching a PG version of figure drawing (read: clothed) and she expressed in the lounge that she was having a hard time finding people to come and pose for her. I naturally volunteered. While I was sitting there, in front of my students, with my most colorful and patterned dress, an overwhelming sense of familiarity came over me. I smiled watching her go around, making suggestions. I thought of all the years and different times I’d posed before, and how such an unexpected and curious skill has come in handy, even in a small Christian private school in Korea. And it hit me: Everything in life has led up to this life here, in Korea.

I turn 30 on Friday, and I’ve never felt better about my age. I’m exactly where I should be. A friend of mine and I are going to Wonju, a town southeast of Seoul to try some Texas style BBQ (supposedly the best in all of Korea, or Asia, maybe) and I’m throwing a Chili Bar Party on Saturday. I would so love to have a good man by my side to celebrate this big milestone birthday, but only if he can keep up. I’m fortunate enough to have my friends (and chosen family) here instead. I guess I’ll keep on marchin’ on.

Real Living

This past Friday, I celebrated seven months of living in Korea. And oh, if I could write a book.

My first seven months’ time has been eventful, and some would even say borderline insane. This post is long overdue, and will not suffice in any way.

Here’s the gist: I started working at the hagwon and for various reasons, immediately hated it. Through friends at church, I found a middle school English position at a small Christian international school, and turned in my letter of resignation at the hagwon. This is a very precarious and delicate issue in Korea. My resignation was not well-received by my hiring director, but somehow, after explaining to my hagwon owners my unhappiness at the school, and the hiring director’s clear unhappiness, they agreed to give me a letter of release which would release me from my visa sponsorship with them. However, it came with numerous provisions. I needed to give them 45 working days, return my airfare fee, return my recruiter’s fee (which I later found out is illegal for them to require per my contract), continue to “do a good job” and complete a Kindergarten Open House with my kindy class.

I did all of that. They withheld my last monthly paycheck to cover my returned monies, even though we agreed to divide up the payments. My hiring director became vindictive and passive aggressive at one point, criticizing every little thing that would not have been criticized a week prior, claiming I wasn’t doing a “good job,” in an effort to tally against giving me a letter of release, making me powerless in the scenario. In the end, it was the hagwon owner who gave me the letter. It was never her call to make, fortunately.

I moved one cool November morning after saying my goodbyes to my students and fellow colleagues. A friend of mine came to help out, and my international school sent a driver with a school bus to help me move. He was a good-faced Korean avuncular type, with a stubbly greying beard, black rimmed glasses and a tweed driving cap. He knew a little English, and insisted on carrying everything. I liked him immediately. When we finished packing up, as we drove away into Seoul, I felt lighter. Friends came and greeted me at my new place and helped me move in. Internet was installed. Furniture arrived. It was a good day. This was all the week before Thanksgiving.

And then I started work. The school I moved to was going through a divorce of sorts. There was some funny money handling from the Korean owners, and it was causing disruption with the school location. This of course, effected the teachers and the students. The parents stepped in, and began making plans to start a new school that would begin in January. All this was underway when I came on (finally) in November.

There’s more to this story that I’m not at liberty to discuss in a public forum, but there have been many tears. There have been many cries out to God about what I’m doing here. But in past couple of weeks, I really am beginning to feel like I’ve turned a corner. I’m settling into my neighborhood well, making more friends, learning how to use Korea’s version of Amazon. I joined my church, I bought a coffee grinder, and am working on getting my third party mailer finalized. The pharmacist I use and her husband look out for me; they’re always happy when I come in, even if just for vitamins or allergy medicine, and they were worried about me when I came down with bronchitis. They wave at me from the window when I walk by. I wave back and smile.

It’s safe to say Korea is starting to grow on me. I honestly cannot remember a time when I was ever this happy. I never could put into words to everyone why I was moving to Korea other than I just knew it was what God had for me. I feel like for the first time in my life, I’m really living, and I think that’s something God wants for us all. That alone is reason enough to sell all your belongings and move halfway around the world.

United [we stand] in Humanity

Earlier this year, I took a little trip to New York City. I decided to go to the 9/11 Memorial and Museum because I felt I needed to pay my respects.

I was fourteen in 2001. Just old enough to remember clearly what America was like before this terrible day, and have watched so much change from that day forward.

On my way to the memorial, I was busy paying attention to where I was going and was busy listening to my friend as she gave me directions on how to get to the airport from the WTC. I recognized the memorial across the highway from pictures I’d seen. But when I walked up, and saw these words on the stone, a million images flashed through my memory in a brief moment like a Rolodex. The burning building. The second plane flying. The impact. The horror. The falling debris, flames, and people. The people running, terrified, with handkerchiefs and scarves covering their mouths. The piles of rubble, crushing who knew how many people. And then, the two giant smoking holes in the ground. Those holes are now pristine memorial fountains, but they were designed to withstand hurricanes. Who ever knew those holes would hold so much more? Yes, the two holes in the New York skyline are much heavier.

All I could do was weep.

I wept more that day than I did when I was fourteen. In the 15 years of aftermath of this terrible day, I’ve lived enough life at this point to know the country I grew up knowing has never been the same since that day. And I’m wise enough now to know we can never go back. It took me fifteen years and three hours of late morning on a Tuesday to process my sadness from September 11, 2001. Grief is a strange, strange beast.

As I wandered through the museum, I found myself surrounded by some French people, and one grief-stricken French woman said, “Il était comme Paris…” It took me a minute to understand her, as my high school French has gotten rusty, but as soon as I recognized it, I turned to find her. I wanted to reach out to her and hold her hand and say, “I know. I remember your country flying your flags at half-mast in mourning of this horrible day. You wept with us. And we wept with you, too.” But she was lost in the crowd of tears.

None of this has anything to do directly with Korea, but I have seen my viewpoint on globalization change in my short time here, and I think on a smaller level, this moment in New York was preparing me for my year(s) here. Our world is so much smaller than we think, and so much simpler. Grief looks the same on all faces in the world. Fatigue in the fluorescent subway lighting isn’t flattering on anyone. Anger is still loud and abrasive. And, thankfully, of course, the happier feelings look the same as well. Tickle fights between siblings. Running to embrace at the subway after a long journey. Daddies sharing cokes with their children when away from mommies. The smiles, the laughter, the tears. It’s all the same, no matter where you go.

Human life is always the same, and it always matters. I may not understand the language here, or the customs, but everyday I see more and more that as people, there is so much more that unites us than divides us. I may not have any answers for solving our worlds problems, but this truth seems like a good place to start.

 

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. – 1 Corinthians 13:13

When Endorphins Speak

Since becoming a teacher, I’ve been struggling with my weight. Previously, I’d been working for a wholesale company, and tended to burn off most of my calories each day, even when I stress-ate. But with teaching, even with all the standing and walking, it still wasn’t the same. I went through serious emotional stress my first year, which usually causes me to lose my appetite. I did. I lost ten pounds: my first year teacher weight. I then hovered back and forth another five pounds once things settled down. And at some point in the last year, I’ve packed on ten pounds again. I watched what I ate. I drank more water. It would all work, but only temporarily. More than anything, I’m concerned about my long-term health. When your father has a heart attack at fifty, and your mother passes away from one at sixty, that knowledge tends to weigh on you.

This summer, I finally succumbed to acceptance. I came to accept that in order to see change, I had to make some changes. I decided to wait until I moved to Korea to get into the swing of working out. Moving was incredibly stressful, and I wanted nothing to do with balancing that with working out and trying to count calories and macros. Experience has taught me that when I try to do everything at once, I fail miserably. I drop all the spinning plates. So I waited.

Currently, there’s a beautiful city park that is less than one block from my place. How I lucked out with this, I have no clue. But I love it. The track is wide and shaded most of the way, and the weather has finally cooled down enough to be bearable. I did begin running when it was hot, but it was so insufferable I made no real progress with anything other than dehydration.

This week I made myself a goal to run three times this week. Tuesday, my first run this week, was beautiful. I’m using an app that does intervals between walking and running, which is ideal for making the adjustment from noK to 5K. And Tuesday was the first day where I actually ran all of the running intervals, and while they were still challenging, they weren’t awful. I regretted the granola bar I ate before hand, but no near-death experiences. My runner’s high even started to kick in closer to the end of the run, too, making a cool down annoying more than favorable.

But tonight. Oh, tonight. Tonight was a beast. Humidity is back in the air, and it’s warmer than it was on Tuesday. But that wasn’t everything. For some reason, my body, my legs were just…not feeling it. They were lazy and curious and wondering why I was forcing them to work so quickly, and wanted me to pay for my insistence of physical health. You want me to do what? No, they said. I’m not about that life tonight. Try me again on Monday, when the week is new and fresh and I’ve had enough rest to carry out your Type A tendencies. My body was not having this run.

A week and a half ago, I burst into tears at work. Fortunately, I wasn’t teaching at the time. Unfortunately, it was on a day that I really couldn’t afford to break down and cry. I’m no stranger to crying at work for various reasons, and despite cultural workplace norms, I’ve given up caring if I cry at work. I don’t care if someone thinks it makes me look weak. Stress is a beast on the highly sensitive types, and if someone is insensitive enough to not understand that, they probably should take a crash course in human decency.

My first year as a teacher, I used to crawl under my desk and cry my eyes out. The pressure to get everything done and to be everything to every student every single day of the week is soul crushing. Spinning plates again. Everything all at once. They make such a terrible noise when they come crashing down.

My second year, I cried less, but I still had my moments. My third year, I cried three really good cries at the beginning of the school year in the comfort of my classroom, and then another closer toward the end. As the years have gone on, it’s been less tears with work, but with the new school, the new system, the new colleagues, the new country, it was only a matter of time. Spinning. Plates.

But the beautiful thing about years past is that when I break down crying at work, I have my own classroom to escape to, and desk to crawl under, safe from the prying eyes and shame I would feel or throw upon myself. This year, however, I share an office with approximately 25 other people, most of whom are Korean. My desk is about as wide as a sleeping bag, and I definitely cannot fit under it, even when I pull my knees in. At least not comfortably. But this was no time to care for appearances. I was stressed and drowning in work. Appearances be damned. This of course is very unKorean. Korea is all about appearances, and one of my Korean co-workers tried to get me to escape to the bathroom while I was crying because she didn’t want one of the owners to see me in tears. No, I told her. They need to know the pressure their foreign teachers are under. She looked at me curiously, and somewhat enviously. In that instant I knew: she somehow hated me and admired me all at the same time. She hated that I might make her and the other Koreans look like unsupportive jerks to the foreign teachers (which they totally aren’t) but also admired me for my honesty and gumption.

In the past, tears at work would cause me to throw in the towel. Call in a sub or scrap the lesson plan to something less intensive. But subs aren’t really an option here, and the lesson plans are too easy as it is. The administrative work is stupidly complicated and obnoxious, which is what invoked the tears to begin with, a form of professional culture shock that I’m still grappling with. But the week of tears got better after that. It was somehow more manageable. Two of my colleagues offered to help and support me in my adjustment. And this week has been better, also. There have been moments of difficulty, and more than anything, I know I just miss home and how things are at home. But I also know enough to know that how life is at home isn’t the only “right way” to live life.

After several minutes of tears, I dried my eyes, somehow managed to pick myself up, and wait for it…carried on. I have no idea who this lady is, this lady who keeps going. Jenny Leigh from three years ago would not recognize this woman today. Shoot, I didn’t even crawl under my desk to hide. I just cried in broad daylight, for the whole damned office to see. There’s something about moving around the world that makes previously perceived embarrassments a thing of the past.

Tonight while I was struggling to run, I thought about that day when I cried and then picked myself up and kept going, and I realized my running wasn’t too dissimilar. I wanted to quit. I wanted to throw in the towel and say, screw it. We’re all gonna die one day anyway. But for some reason, I remembered sobbing in the office last week, and how when I was done, I patted my face dry and got back to work, culture shock be damned. I reflected on the last week, and how I’ve handled it, and huffed and puffed and swore under my breath about the stitch in my side and before I knew it, a favorite song on my running playlist came on. My feet caught time, and my stride lengthened and fell into place, and before I knew it, my run wasn’t [as much of] a struggle anymore.

I can’t help but think this is exactly how dealing with culture shock is.

I can’t help but think, this is exactly how dealing with life is.