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| Not the one with nukes and belligerent Kims. At least not the ones on CNN. |
If my fellow conversationalist was a teacher, he or she would usually ask something along the lines of, 'Do you prefer teaching in Korea or here in Vietnam?' Then I would chuckle, gaze thoughtfully out the window, and silently curse myself for ever leaving the house.
It's not as if this question is hard to answer. Teaching in Vietnam is much, much better than teaching in Korea. And it's not even close. But I found it hard to answer truthfully without sounding like a callous, cynical turd. And since most of our daily lives (and by 'our' I mean 'mine') are spent in the vain effort to conceal what callous, cynical turds we really are, a question like this is the Edward Snowden to our PRISM database of douchedom.
But screw it. Let's go all Anonymous on this bitch.
~
When I first arrived in Korea, I had absolutely zero teaching experience. I arrived in Seoul at 8pm, caught a bus to Cheonan (the first city I lived in), and hitched a ride from my school's owner to my new apartment. By this time it was almost midnight, and after putzing around my closet-sized digs for a few minutes I passed out from a combination of jet-lag, nervous excitement, and three donuts (a welcome gift from the owner, who apparently believed jelly Bismarcks are every white person's favorite bedtime snack).
Seven hours later, I was in the classroom. And that's when I realized that I wasn't actually going to be teaching for the next twelve months.
English instructors in Korea are half teacher, half babysitter, half amateur psychologist, and half hostage negotiator. Please direct any comments about my shitty math skills to Al Gore. Anyway, I hadn't been in the classroom for more than a minute before a little girl started crying and hysterically babbling in Korean. After frantically conferring with my TA, who spoke as much English as your average pencil case, I discovered the cause of Sara's angst: a boy had accidentally knocked her eraser off the table.
Jesus. Christ. It was going to be a long year.
I soon learned that the emotional fragility of Korean kindergarteners is matched only by their inability to tolerate any type of physical discomfort. This was made crystal clear during a game of 'Duck, Duck, Goose'. To make a long, boring story somewhat shorter and (hopefully) more interesting, a boy we'll call 'Tony' tapped a boy we'll call 'Jimmy' lightly on the back of the head. If you're familiar with the game, at this point Jimmy should have leapt up from his chair, chased Tony around the circle, and then given his teacher a $50 gift certificate to Applebee's. Instead, Jimmy fell on the floor, clutched his head like he was JFK in Dallas, and screamed louder than any boy should reasonably scream if his testicles aren't caught in a bear trap. All I could think was, 'You pussy...'
But this being Korea, I had to pick him up and take him to the front desk, where the hatchet-faced receptionists fretted over him like nervous mothers and pacified him with so much candy that he immediately developed Type II diabetes. Later that afternoon, my Korean co-teacher received a phone call from his actual mother, who (I am guessing here) had roughly fuck-all else to do with her day besides harass underpaid twenty-year-olds over the phone. My co-teacher was practically in tears when she finally hung up. And we never played 'Duck, Duck, Goose' again.
It's not as if such unbelievable sissiness is limited to the young'uns, either. During my second year in Korea I was teaching in a city called Yongin, which is an overgrown suburb of Seoul home to Korea's most obnoxious nouveau riche. I worked at an academy called LCI Kid's Club, renowned for its batshit insane mothers and criminally incompetent management. Here are two almost-verbatim transcripts of conversations I had with the Korean staff during that year:
Exhibit A: The Dance
Korean Manager: Amy's mother is upset because she is at the end of the line for your class dance.
Me: Amy was absent for a week. Everybody else learned the dance while she was gone.
Korean Manager: Yes, but her mother is angry. Amy wants to be in the middle.
Me: Can you tell me why?
Korean Manager: Amy is very sensitive. Her mother does not want her to feel bad. You must change the dance.
Me: But there are only four days before the performance. What about the other kids?
Korean Manager: Amy's mother is upset. You must change the dance.
Me: Has anyone ever told you that you are a fucking idiot?
Exhibit B: The Test
Co-teacher: Chloe's mother is upset with her test score. It is too low.
Me: What's wrong? She got 84/100 on the test. That's not bad.
Co-teacher: But Chloe is a smart girl. Her mother wants her to get the high marks. 84 is not OK for her.
Me: Fine, no problem. She'll do better next time.
The following month...
Co-teacher: Chloe's mother is upset with her test score.
Me: *genuinely surprised* But why? She got a 96! That was the best score in the class?
Co-teacher: Her mother thinks the test was too easy. She is angry at you.
Me: Next time just ask Chloe's mother what score she wants, and I'll give it to her.
Co-teacher: Ummmm...ahhhhh...you must only give her the good score to make her mother happy.
Me: Fuck this place.
~
After two years of dealing with this parental nonsense, I was ready to leave. I had absolutely no idea what teaching in Vietnam entailed, but as long as I wasn't coddling spoiled little shits in Burberry pea coats I would be happy. So you can imagine my delight when I learned that teaching in Vietnam involves absolutely zero interaction with mothers. Or fathers, for that matter.
Korean kids attend English class, on average, between 3-5 days a week. Vietnamese children, on the other hand, only have two days of class each week. This might not seem like a drastic difference, but it is. Sweet infant Jesus, it is...
~
'Wow...that kid can take a punch.'
I uttered those words to my Vietnamese TA during our 8 year-old class's break time. I had just watched a small boy take a running start and deliver a series of vicious blows to the back of his friend's head. It looked like this. Much to my surprise, the victim of this vicious bushwhacking didn't immediately start bawling and begging for attention. Instead he turned around, chortled happily, and aimed a kick at his assailant's face. I was so delighted that I didn't bother trying to break up the fight. I always tell my Vietnamese students that they are free to beat the shit out of each other during break time, as long as they behave during class. And I'm a man of my word.
The physical toughness of Vietnamese kids was the most obvious difference between them and the Koreans, but I soon grew to appreciate the lack of helicopter parenting even more. This might seem odd when you consider that every Sunday the hallways of my school are choked with daddies toting Doraemon bags and wiping their kids' noses (even the older ones), but Vietnamese parents seem content to let the teachers teach without imposing their own agendas on the classroom.
Granted, this is probably due in large part to the fact that most Vietnamese parents don't speak a lick of English, and in many cases didn't finish high school (as explained to me by the helpful TA during our break-time Thunderdome). But whatever the reason I am quite grateful for their lack of interest or ability in critiquing my teaching style.
I am making certain assumptions here, but from what I've seen Vietnamese kids are allowed to fend for themselves far more than Korean children. And I believe they are far better off for it. Not only do they soon learn to defend themselves from sudden roundhouse kicks (a more frequent hazard than you might think), but they develop thicker skins as well. My teenagers in particular can be absolutely ruthless when razzing their classmates, but I've never seen a kid cry in class. Or even mope, which is especially surprising coming from that notoriously angst-y demographic. It's as if Tom Hanks personally delivers a pep talk to all the nation's maternity wards so they learn it young.
~
Having said that, teaching in Korea wasn't all bad, and teaching in Vietnam isn't all lollipops and unicorns.
While having the same kids in a class for five consecutive days can be a repetitive nightmare at times, Korean kids do learn to speak English fairly well. I had a lot of fun with some kindergarten classes; at one point, I had a group of twelve students convinced that being a hobo was the greatest thing a person could achieve in life. I also taught a unit on animals entirely in Steve Irwin's voice, which led to a bunch of Korean six year-olds running around yelling, 'Crikey, lookout mate! It's a toi-gah!'
Also, I was stuck with some of these little monsters for eight months at a time. And some of them turned out to be pretty neat. I'll never forget huddling my first LCI kindergarten class together on our last day for a group hug. For once I was glad of their runny noses and constant facial leaking, because all the tears and snot blended together and nobody could tell I was crying too.
I only spend one day a week with my Vietnamese students, so we don't get to bond quite as much. For the most part I'm quite OK with this - there's something very, very nice about showing up for two hours a day, dropping some knowledge on the little bastards, and then going about my merry way. I don't have to deal with their neurotic mothers or wipe their butts after they shit themselves (happens more often than you'd think in Korea, though I always delegated to the Korean staff, often with a diabolical grin as I delivered the poop-stained child directly to their desks). Sometimes I get nostalgic for the days when my favorite students would invade the teachers' room to climb on my lap and steal candy from my desk. The feeling usually passes quickly, but I never entirely forget.
It's true that Vietnamese kids don't speak as well as Koreans - in many cases, the kids can't string two words together unless they're parroting the teacher. So the ego-boosts that teachers in Korea get from their students are non-existant. Nobody writes letters saying, 'I love you teacher,' in that endearing childish scrawl. But every once in a while they'll surprise you...
And having dealt with the Tiger Mothers from Hell, that's good enough for me.
~
When I first arrived in Korea, I had absolutely zero teaching experience. I arrived in Seoul at 8pm, caught a bus to Cheonan (the first city I lived in), and hitched a ride from my school's owner to my new apartment. By this time it was almost midnight, and after putzing around my closet-sized digs for a few minutes I passed out from a combination of jet-lag, nervous excitement, and three donuts (a welcome gift from the owner, who apparently believed jelly Bismarcks are every white person's favorite bedtime snack).
Seven hours later, I was in the classroom. And that's when I realized that I wasn't actually going to be teaching for the next twelve months.
English instructors in Korea are half teacher, half babysitter, half amateur psychologist, and half hostage negotiator. Please direct any comments about my shitty math skills to Al Gore. Anyway, I hadn't been in the classroom for more than a minute before a little girl started crying and hysterically babbling in Korean. After frantically conferring with my TA, who spoke as much English as your average pencil case, I discovered the cause of Sara's angst: a boy had accidentally knocked her eraser off the table.
Jesus. Christ. It was going to be a long year.
I soon learned that the emotional fragility of Korean kindergarteners is matched only by their inability to tolerate any type of physical discomfort. This was made crystal clear during a game of 'Duck, Duck, Goose'. To make a long, boring story somewhat shorter and (hopefully) more interesting, a boy we'll call 'Tony' tapped a boy we'll call 'Jimmy' lightly on the back of the head. If you're familiar with the game, at this point Jimmy should have leapt up from his chair, chased Tony around the circle, and then given his teacher a $50 gift certificate to Applebee's. Instead, Jimmy fell on the floor, clutched his head like he was JFK in Dallas, and screamed louder than any boy should reasonably scream if his testicles aren't caught in a bear trap. All I could think was, 'You pussy...'
But this being Korea, I had to pick him up and take him to the front desk, where the hatchet-faced receptionists fretted over him like nervous mothers and pacified him with so much candy that he immediately developed Type II diabetes. Later that afternoon, my Korean co-teacher received a phone call from his actual mother, who (I am guessing here) had roughly fuck-all else to do with her day besides harass underpaid twenty-year-olds over the phone. My co-teacher was practically in tears when she finally hung up. And we never played 'Duck, Duck, Goose' again.
It's not as if such unbelievable sissiness is limited to the young'uns, either. During my second year in Korea I was teaching in a city called Yongin, which is an overgrown suburb of Seoul home to Korea's most obnoxious nouveau riche. I worked at an academy called LCI Kid's Club, renowned for its batshit insane mothers and criminally incompetent management. Here are two almost-verbatim transcripts of conversations I had with the Korean staff during that year:
Exhibit A: The Dance
Korean Manager: Amy's mother is upset because she is at the end of the line for your class dance.
Me: Amy was absent for a week. Everybody else learned the dance while she was gone.
Korean Manager: Yes, but her mother is angry. Amy wants to be in the middle.
Me: Can you tell me why?
Korean Manager: Amy is very sensitive. Her mother does not want her to feel bad. You must change the dance.
Me: But there are only four days before the performance. What about the other kids?
Korean Manager: Amy's mother is upset. You must change the dance.
Me: Has anyone ever told you that you are a fucking idiot?
Exhibit B: The Test
Co-teacher: Chloe's mother is upset with her test score. It is too low.
Me: What's wrong? She got 84/100 on the test. That's not bad.
Co-teacher: But Chloe is a smart girl. Her mother wants her to get the high marks. 84 is not OK for her.
Me: Fine, no problem. She'll do better next time.
The following month...
Co-teacher: Chloe's mother is upset with her test score.
Me: *genuinely surprised* But why? She got a 96! That was the best score in the class?
Co-teacher: Her mother thinks the test was too easy. She is angry at you.
Me: Next time just ask Chloe's mother what score she wants, and I'll give it to her.
Co-teacher: Ummmm...ahhhhh...you must only give her the good score to make her mother happy.
Me: Fuck this place.
~
After two years of dealing with this parental nonsense, I was ready to leave. I had absolutely no idea what teaching in Vietnam entailed, but as long as I wasn't coddling spoiled little shits in Burberry pea coats I would be happy. So you can imagine my delight when I learned that teaching in Vietnam involves absolutely zero interaction with mothers. Or fathers, for that matter.
Korean kids attend English class, on average, between 3-5 days a week. Vietnamese children, on the other hand, only have two days of class each week. This might not seem like a drastic difference, but it is. Sweet infant Jesus, it is...
~
'Wow...that kid can take a punch.'
I uttered those words to my Vietnamese TA during our 8 year-old class's break time. I had just watched a small boy take a running start and deliver a series of vicious blows to the back of his friend's head. It looked like this. Much to my surprise, the victim of this vicious bushwhacking didn't immediately start bawling and begging for attention. Instead he turned around, chortled happily, and aimed a kick at his assailant's face. I was so delighted that I didn't bother trying to break up the fight. I always tell my Vietnamese students that they are free to beat the shit out of each other during break time, as long as they behave during class. And I'm a man of my word.
The physical toughness of Vietnamese kids was the most obvious difference between them and the Koreans, but I soon grew to appreciate the lack of helicopter parenting even more. This might seem odd when you consider that every Sunday the hallways of my school are choked with daddies toting Doraemon bags and wiping their kids' noses (even the older ones), but Vietnamese parents seem content to let the teachers teach without imposing their own agendas on the classroom.
Granted, this is probably due in large part to the fact that most Vietnamese parents don't speak a lick of English, and in many cases didn't finish high school (as explained to me by the helpful TA during our break-time Thunderdome). But whatever the reason I am quite grateful for their lack of interest or ability in critiquing my teaching style.
I am making certain assumptions here, but from what I've seen Vietnamese kids are allowed to fend for themselves far more than Korean children. And I believe they are far better off for it. Not only do they soon learn to defend themselves from sudden roundhouse kicks (a more frequent hazard than you might think), but they develop thicker skins as well. My teenagers in particular can be absolutely ruthless when razzing their classmates, but I've never seen a kid cry in class. Or even mope, which is especially surprising coming from that notoriously angst-y demographic. It's as if Tom Hanks personally delivers a pep talk to all the nation's maternity wards so they learn it young.
~
Having said that, teaching in Korea wasn't all bad, and teaching in Vietnam isn't all lollipops and unicorns.
While having the same kids in a class for five consecutive days can be a repetitive nightmare at times, Korean kids do learn to speak English fairly well. I had a lot of fun with some kindergarten classes; at one point, I had a group of twelve students convinced that being a hobo was the greatest thing a person could achieve in life. I also taught a unit on animals entirely in Steve Irwin's voice, which led to a bunch of Korean six year-olds running around yelling, 'Crikey, lookout mate! It's a toi-gah!'
 |
| I'd make that face too if I had to stick my thumb in a snake's butt. |
Also, I was stuck with some of these little monsters for eight months at a time. And some of them turned out to be pretty neat. I'll never forget huddling my first LCI kindergarten class together on our last day for a group hug. For once I was glad of their runny noses and constant facial leaking, because all the tears and snot blended together and nobody could tell I was crying too.
 |
| I still miss these little hobos. |
I only spend one day a week with my Vietnamese students, so we don't get to bond quite as much. For the most part I'm quite OK with this - there's something very, very nice about showing up for two hours a day, dropping some knowledge on the little bastards, and then going about my merry way. I don't have to deal with their neurotic mothers or wipe their butts after they shit themselves (happens more often than you'd think in Korea, though I always delegated to the Korean staff, often with a diabolical grin as I delivered the poop-stained child directly to their desks). Sometimes I get nostalgic for the days when my favorite students would invade the teachers' room to climb on my lap and steal candy from my desk. The feeling usually passes quickly, but I never entirely forget.
It's true that Vietnamese kids don't speak as well as Koreans - in many cases, the kids can't string two words together unless they're parroting the teacher. So the ego-boosts that teachers in Korea get from their students are non-existant. Nobody writes letters saying, 'I love you teacher,' in that endearing childish scrawl. But every once in a while they'll surprise you...
 |
| Sir Mix-a-lot must've sown some wild oats over here. |
And having dealt with the Tiger Mothers from Hell, that's good enough for me.
