Some Say It Better

Spoken (or written) language is often a horribly disappointing medium. As an ordinary human being, there are countless times when words are incapable of expressing the power and urgency of a certain feeling. And so the emotions of the moment are blurted out hesitantly or repressed altogether.

The expatriate is an especially susceptible victim of this phenomenon. When you don't speak the language shared by 99.9% of people in close proximity, you're prone to spurts of uncontrollable honesty (often under the influence of stress, lack of sleep, alcohol, loneliness, etc.). The urge to communicate overcomes the obstacles of doing so. Unfortunately for most of us, we're poorly equipped for this task.

I'm often amazed at the unspoken suffering floating amongst foreigners in Korea. Including my own. We're all transplants. All of us running: to something, away from something, or simply in place. Thousands of stories to tell, but very few skilled storytellers. And there's a simple reaction to uninteresting or poorly-told stories - the audience stops paying attention.

You get used to this pretty quickly. 

"Why are you here?"

"Ah, <debt/adventure/boredom>. You know how it goes."

Filler. Pure and simple. You might get close to a handful of people, and the fuzzy picture of their motivations gets a tiny bit clearer. But you're still filling in the blanks of their story for the most part. Meanwhile, people's hearts are straining through their chests, their minds and vocal cords are bursting with a million thoughts and ideas and unfocused feelings, desperate for an outlet, any kind of outlet. We have so much to say, but so few ways to say it.

Try as we might, we just can't find a way to express how we feel. So we turn to musicians, poets, writers, anyone who seems to have a goddamn clue when it comes to communicating human sentiment. We re-read essays and novels for the umpteenth time, we sing the same sad songs at noraebang, we latch on to anyone who has consumed the same literature in the hope that maybe there is some kindred spirit who understands our mindset, even if we can't articulate it.

What if we could just come out once and scream it? "I am ______, and I feel like _________ right now."  Would it be cathartic? Maybe. What about the aftermath? I don't know. Venting is rarely a clean process in real life. 

It seems, then, that storytellers are incredibly important. They say what we wish we could say, only they say it better.

Maybe you're tired and broken,
your tongue is twisted with words half spoken
and thoughts unclear.


What do you want me to do, to do for you
to see you through?
A box of rain will ease your pain
and love will see you through.

~Robert Hunter

Race in Korea

I knew something was up when I read the words, "Cow dung huts."

During a staff meeting in January, the teachers were discussing a new project aimed at informing our students about global cultures. The kids were, after all, almost 7 years old. It was about time they memorized the capital cities of Finland, Mozambique, and Papua New Guinea. How else were they supposed to succeed in the cutthroat world of kindergarten education? Valuable berths in prestigious elementary schools were at stake.

We were handed a garishly designed packet of materials. Purportedly, these were intended to facilitate students' learning by providing a quick rundown of the essential facts for about a dozen nations. Through a series of strenuous coloring exercises, the students could learn about the food, clothing, shelter, and environments of each country. Which all sounded perfectly reasonable, until we actually looked at the packet.

One of the countries in question was Kenya. Under the category of "dress", there was a picture of several Kenyan women wearing what appeared to be lion-skin togas. Their ears, noses, lips and eyebrows were full of piercings; their cheeks and foreheads were streaked with paint. It was the same caricature of "dark savage" that convinced 17th century Europeans that full-scale colonization and conversion wouldn't be such a bad thing for Africa.

When it came to housing, our materials were equally unforgiving. According to the packet, Kenyans lived in "cow dung huts". Having never been to Kenya, I'd have a hard time claiming this is unequivocally false. However, look around the streets of Nairobi and you probably won't see bovine feces used as a building material. The most generous thing I could say about the packet is that it was purposefully inaccurate.

Our students, though they are extremely young, already have prejudicial views towards Africans. Anyone who thinks that racism is a major problem in America would be flabbergasted to see its manifestations in Korea. The color of one's skin is incredibly important - the lighter, the better. Hence, the many cosmetic creams that contain bleach to chemically obliterate any trace of pigmentation.

Dark skin is considered "dirty", for reasons that continue to befuddle me (if anything, a tan would help hide the facial blemishes that plague many people here). Old women wear enormous ahjumma visors that flip down in front of their faces like riot police helmets, and it's not unusual to see beach-goers wearing full tracksuits as they splash around in the tide.

It is quite astonishing to see the undisguised scorn that many Koreans, old and young, hold for dark-skinned peoples (especially those from Africa and Southeast Asian countries such as the Philippines or Thailand). My students, who write incredibly endearing notes and give  more unsolicited hugs than a room full of hippies, are also capable of spouting incredibly racist comments that would get them expelled from an American kindergarten. And they have no idea that someone could consider this offensive.

Of course, in a homogeneous society like Korea, one could argue there's no reason to watch what you say or do. Over 99% of people in this country are ethnically Korean. If a TV show features comedians in 1930s blackface and no black people see it, is it offensive?  There are very few big angry black men who would cause a fuss over such jokes. Besides, Koreans never owned African slaves so they have none of the residual guilt/sensitivity that comes with such a stain on a nation's historical record. It makes sense, in a way.

Considering Korea's own unpleasant experience with exploitative colonial powers, though, it's a little surprising to see Koreans so easily stepping into the role of ubermensch. The Japanese occupation (with requisite oppression, deprivation, and wholesale rape of the country) hasn't made the Korean people any more inclined to feel a connection to fellow victims of imperialism.

In my entirely uneducated opinion, I think the recent economic success of Korea has gotten its people a bit high on their own supply (of electronic goods). Put simply: Korea makes refrigerators, cell phones, and affordable mid-size sedans. Africa can't even figure out how to stop everyone from getting AIDS. The memory of poverty fades, and all that's left is a smug sense of superiority and some crotchety old ajusshis.


Americans haven't yet succeeded in getting all creeds and colors to sing Kumbaya under a triple rainbow while enjoying unicorn stew, but life in Korea gives one a greater appreciation for the progress that has been made over the past 50 years. We don't always move quickly or gracefully, but I do believe we are slowly stumbling our way to a better society.

It would be tempting to end this blog post with a grimly condescending analysis of Korea's future, saying something along the lines of:

 "As the former Hermit Kingdom is drawn into the multicultural world of tomorrow, it will need to radically alter its attitudes and policies to cultivate greater equality and tolerance if it wishes to maintain its place as a major economic power."

But in reality, I don't think it really matters (in that sense). Korea is already too damn crowded to accept a massive influx of immigrants. Their electronics-based economy isn't really dependent on the cheap labor that comes from underdeveloped countries, so the demographics aren't likely to shift in a manner that requires a new evaluation of race relations. Koreans marry Koreans, few foreigners move here permanently, and thus the cycle is continued. Korea can enjoy basketball and rap music without having to worry if those menacing black teenagers with baggy pants are going to rob them.

And foreign English teachers will continue to be bemused and slightly offended at all the odd little bits of racism in Korean culture. Like the time our Arts and Crafts project was a black paper-cup "African" with a grass skirt, bulbous eyes, and a Sambo-esque pair of giant grinning red lips that would've made D.W. Griffith say, "Damn, fellas, ain't that a bit much?"

But eh, that's Korea sometimes.

Starting Again

I like to paraphrase people, because usually I have a hard time remembering their exact words.

For example: my meditation teacher used to say something to the effect of, "Meditation practice is difficult. You will probably lose focus at least a hundred times during each sit. So, it's important to remember one thing. Don't get discouraged, don't beat yourself up. Just take a deep breath, and be willing to start again."

He was, in my opinion, a pretty smart dude. So I'm going to take his advice with regards to this blogging business. 

I've been in Korea for a little over 8 months now. During that time I've written dozens of emails, hundreds of Facebook posts, and thousands of vaguely inspirational/admonitory notes in my students' diaries. "Keep up the good work, Sally!", or sometimes, "I'm sick of reading that you slept and watched TV on Sunday, Billy, tell me something different next time." However, my blog post count has yet to crack double digits.

When I arrived here I thought I'd be writing far more frequently. This is Asia, after all, and interesting stuff happens all the time here. Not like Minnesota. We have earthquakes, odd restaurant dishes, and cultural misunderstandings galore. If you can't be inspired to write in a place like this, you're probably lacking a pulse.

There's a catch, however - the fundamental difference between being in a place as a visitor, and actually living there. Meditation practice teaches us to be wary of sleepwalking through life. If you're not paying attention it's easy to wake up and go to sleep a few thousand times without really noticing a thing. Vacations are usually great because our surroundings are so unusual that we become deeply curious automatically. 

When your mindset switches from tourist to long-term resident, however, the normalization process kicks in. At least it did in my case (to some extent). You've seen the monuments, you've been to the festivals, you've eaten the live octopus. During a walk to the supermarket, you become accustomed to 99.9% of fellow pedestrians speaking a different language than you.

And after all, you're not being paid to broaden your cultural horizons. Grade reports need to be typed. Supervisors need to be schmoozed. Worksheets need to be written at 8 a.m. for uber-frenetic little weasels who will throw them in the trash can if you turn your back for a second (sometimes they fold the papers into odd little geometric shapes if you're lucky). Before you know it, your exotic adventure has become awfully goddamn ordinary.

Of course, this is all a sly trick of perspective. For most of us plodding through the indefinite midsection of the Korean experience, we're just trying to make a buck (or won) and survive until the weekend when we can enjoy a few hours without wiping up a 5 year old's nosebleed. But to the people back home, our friends and family, we are in the midst of a grand and life-altering adventure.

And they're right. I'm incredibly grateful for every note that says, "Wow, you're in Korea! Bet that's amazing, you're so lucky!" That outside perspective is hugely valuable for shaking us out of our routines. Tthanks folks, for reminding me that there's no need to be a 9 to 5 robot (or in this case a 11:30 to 8 robot with a break in the afternoon). The big picture is where it's at - get hung up on the details and it's a long, slow, boring trip. We're in Korea, we're basically getting paid for speaking our native language, and we get to bum around Asia a couple times each year. Life's good.

It's April 12 and I'm back in the blog-writing saddle. I'll be making a conscious effort to make a consistent effort. It might not work all the time. But I'm confident that no matter how many times I get stuck, I'll find a way to start again. Like Robert Hunter once said, they can't revoke your soul for tryin'.

(Or something like that.)