Home Furnishing

When Nick and I moved to Chicago in 1989 (before some of you dear readers were born, I know), we rented an apartment in a 3-story brick building.  The landlord, Martin Pomp (I am not kidding), was a middle-aged, gay anesthesiologist whose property was an investment opportunity rather than a public service. A series of "janitors" were happy to bring their hammers to fix problems in the apartments, all the while complaining in broken English about their poor pay and disrespect for Pomp.

photo by nathanbluestone.com

Both Nick and I came to our marriage with a toolbox, so we began doing some of our own repairs. Besides, we preferred screwing our broken blinds back up, gluing down unstuck tiles, and replacing the toilet's flush mechanism to asking the poor janitor to come beat more nails into the aged window frames or pound the floor and toilet with his hammer. Someone must have told Pomp about our fix-it attitude, as he asked us to manage the building for a discount in our rent (a welcome exchange for graduate students seeking distractions from library study). The best part of the whole endeavor was the Clark-Devon True Value Hardware store, located just a couple of gang-ridden blocks away. At the hands of the hardware men, we learned more about plumbing (e.g., how to unclog a toilet into which an unattended child had poured kitty litter), the powers of Kilz (defeater of smoke, mildew, and cooking grease buildup), and the wonders of having the right tool for the job. We refinished hardwood floors, installed new sink cut-offs, and scraped/painted the three-story staircase that connected the building's back porches. Happily, every purchase was charged to Pomp's tab, and he thereby supported our DIY education.

Then I got a job at Dordt College in 1997.  We bought our first house and were thrilled with all its possibilities for renovation.  Our realtor had been pretty patient with our suspicious, big-city questions; at the closing, we asked, "What's under the really ugly, grey kitchen carpet?"  We hoped for original, 1915 hardwood floors akin to those we'd cherished in Chicago. Alas, he was tired of us and responded dryly, "Well, I think there's padding under there."

We quickly found the local hardware store, again staffed by men and women eager to help us fix up our salmon-pink kitchen. We removed the carpet, the paneling, and 9 layers of ceiling wallpaper; with Nick's folks we removed much of the ceiling, strengthened the joists, and built skylights out of windshield safety glass. As the years passed, we ripped out and restored, adding wiring, lights, drywall, and paint room by room. I remember this chaos with warm fondness, but I know there was a lot of sweating and sneezing and maybe even a few extra holes pounded into walls as we screwed up or disagreed about how to move forward or fussed about the kids getting in the way.  But over time, working and learning together through successes and failures became part of our lives.

Now we're living in a small, semi-furnished Korean university apartment in a building finished just before after we moved in.  It's a cement-and-steel building with fresh beige wallpaper on all the walls and ceilings; the ceramic tiles covering the bathrooms and the vinyl flooring are very easy to clean; the wiring, appliances and plumbing are all new. But we have found ourselves longing for a wall to knock down or a fence to build together or even a room to paint in a non-neutral color. I am grateful we're no longer responsible for the quirks of an old house or deciduous trees that whirl their leaves and branches about the yard or dandelions who scare the local lawn snobs. But I find myself restlessly haunting the local places where furniture goes to die so I can fix something.

And so, here are a few projects we've done so far.  These little accomplishments help my heart somehow, making this place feel more like home (and perhaps appeasing my inner control freak) and helping us connect through the work of our hands.

(1) Building a bunk bed for the boys out of broken bed scraps at the campus dumpster:

Sam drills holes for bolts that will hold the top bunk in place.

Nick bolts the bed to the cement wall.  We've learned a few
things over the years as parents of active boys.

(2) Making shelves from the doors of a discarded wardrobe (see picture above).  Most Korean furniture is made of pressboard: sawdust with a wood-grain plastic laminate; the wardrobe doors included some actual wood trim that would support a shelf:

Our coatroom/entry floor is also our workbench. At least the
tiles are easy to clean up.

However, the nearest outlet for our "workshop" is two rooms away,
in the bathroom.  (Why is the only outlet behind the toilet, you ask?
So your shower spray doesn't electrocute you. Obviously.  :)

Our bedroom shelf for family pictures means less drilling into the cement walls.
The steel brackets were actually brought from Iowa - left over from a shelf project in our first house.

(3) Making a tabletop of plywood found at the "dead bed" pile on campus:

Sam masterfully measures before wielding the circular saw.

Ah... my very own corner office (on our bedroom balcony).
Used frequently for sewing and editing.

(4) Re-finishing an old stool reclaimed from a ditch behind a baseball field in Hyeunghae:

 (5) Repairing our broken bed supports:

A paint can (yes, a dumpster find) had been sorely pressed into service
as a temporary bed support these last few months.  

Sam and Nick use scrap pieces from the shelf project
to build new bed supports.

(6) And my favorite project to date, which nicely brings us full circle on our handyman history: re-finishing the wardrobe we bought in 1990 from Chicago's Naked Furniture:

Before: mostly naked (and filthy!) with
green that matched our old living room.

After: A happy sea-glass blue.  Still looking for
new knobs at the Dead Furniture piles.

What's next?  I'm not sure.  I really need to slipcover two armless chairs we found (their vinyl has seen better days); or fix the drawers on the found dresser that stores crafts and seashell; or paint the naked bookshelf Nick built for his Iowa basement office, which now serves as a living room bookcase and room divider.  Or maybe I'll wait for more furniture to show up at the Dead Furniture drop sites and find some clever way to get Nick or Sam to work with me.  

To the Orthodontist: Korean Style

Nick and I have long known that David and Elisabeth's big overbites would need some sort of orthodontic work. We debated doing this in the US but decided to wait until we'd settled in here (and Elisabeth lost more baby teeth).  I got some ex-pat recommendations about English-speaking orthodontists in Pohang and we picked the MIR Dental Clinic.  Today we went during the time we were told the English-speaking orthodontist was on staff (remember: appointments are not typical for medical offices here - you just show up and wait).

My American readers shall now imagine a waiting room, a clipboard of forms to complete, the dance regarding payments and insurance, and a be-gloved guy examining the children's teeth and talking about possible treatment plans.

And you wouldn't be far wrong.  But it's the ten thousand myriad ways that expectations are not quite right that can wear out the foreigner (but today that came only after a period of giddy silliness, which you'll see shortly).

We found the MIR Dental Clinic fairly easily--a minor miracle in itself given the challenging address system in this city.  I vaguely remembered hearing that the office was on the 5th floor, which was a fortunate guess as the building and elevator directories were completely in Korean and my reading level is still slow to abysmal.    

At the reception desk, Nick, being Nick, gave a full explanation of our desires vis-a-vis David and Elisabeth's orthodontic needs.  She looked blankly at him.  I said "Foreign. English.  Doctor."  She nodded and pointed to the waiting area.  

So, we waited.  She eventually brought us clipboards with paperwork for each child, and she asked their ages.  Which, of course, depends on whose cultural context we're working in:  David is 14 in America, but he's 15 in Korea or possibly 16, depending on whether we count this year's "birthday" as happening over last week's Lunar New Year.  I think.  So Elisabeth is 11 or 12 or maybe even 13.  And I couldn't remember how to say any of those numbers in Korean so I just assumed she knew more English than she had been letting on.  So, after fumbling though this conversation, we turned to the clipboarded forms.  

The shortest medical form ever.

The forms were--blessedly--in English. But so brief that I wondered whether we were missing something. (Being a foreigner makes you suspicious about such things.)  In the US, we'd fill out pages of information about each kids' medical history, insurance, payment plans, consent for treatment, HIPPA, etc.  Here it's just a 1/2 page medical checklist and very little demographic information. None, in fact.  

Dr. Kim, center white-coat-guy, surrounded by an
astonishingly attractive array of hygienists.

We were then motioned to come to a private consultation room (this motion was done Korean-style, with an odd hand-flap, fingers down, which in the US might mean "shoo!). A lab-coated man entered, bowed briefly, explained that "My English not so good" and motioned for David to get into the examination chair. Dr. Kim (I proudly read his Korean nametag) donned a single latex glove (right hand), looked at David's profile and in his mouth, then wrote some notes.  He removed his glove, washed his hands, put on a new glove before repeating the process with Elisabeth.  He returns to our little table and explains what he sees. Which sounds simple, but it's a 20-minute, stop-and-start, fill-in-the-blank, nodding-and-smiling-induced headache of a conversation about possible outcomes and treatments.  Bottom line: both kids' lower jaws are smaller than their upper jaws; treatment will depend on x-rays of their mouths and hands.

Wait a minute: hand x-rays?  Yes, for... (much pausing, gesturing toward wrists).. Growth plates?  I ask. He nods.  Ok.  Let's do this.

The kids were escorted down the hall to another plush waiting area.  I went to sit with them and Nick followed, only to discover that a hygienist has more questions for us in the consultation room.  I pretended ignorance and remained with the kids, a little frustrated that it's hard to know when and where we're supposed to be.  I did get to ponder the odd sign in the consultation room across from us:  "Maximum Emotion Service" sounds more like a bad counseling approach rather than orthodontistry. I also wondered about the intended audience, as the sign is only in English and it's clear the MIR clinic doesn't engage in a lot of English fluency.

Elisabeth stands in the jaw-alignment-x-ray machine.
No lead aprons or other protection for  her, though the
technician leaves the room and closes the door.

Anyway, Elisabeth was called in for a panoramic x-ray, then sat back in the waiting area while the technicians (all ungloved) checked the hallway computer to see if the image had turned out.  Then she was called in for a "supplemental" x-ray, and sat back down to wait.  Finally, she got her hand x-rayed.  Meantime, David was called down the hall to get dental impressions (bright pink goo) and photographs. Then Elisabeth and David switched places. The only gloves anyone used were for mixing the goo.

I am not sure what caused Nick and I to start getting silly, but our surreptitious picture-taking got more and more obvious. At least four technicians were actually working with the kids but others occasionally pranced down the hall to visit with their co-workers and point and giggle at us.  I love, love the Korean prance: straight, stiff arms; head down; light-footed trotting with knees barely bent.  Korean males and females both run this way, and sometimes, in my more adolescent moments in the grocery store or elsewhere, I will try it.  Somehow, it makes me happy, like the swings at the park.

I couldn't help laughing at David's plight:
he used plastic tools to pull his lips/cheeks out of the way
so one technician could insert a hand mirror and another could take close-ups.

David then gets his x-rays, following the pantomimed directions
for proper positioning.

At this point, we're obnoxiously taking photos. 

Finally, after all the x-rays and impressions and pictures are done, a woman brings Nick a card with our follow-up appointment.  And she shows us her phone, where she has entered a message for us to see. Despite the translation from Korean to English, we are not entirely sure of what's being asked of us besides "bring a translator next time."  So much for an English-speaking orthodontist clinic.

Bottom line for today: for about $220, we got 6 sets of x-rays, 2 sets of dental impressions, dozens of digital photos, and 2 individual exams by an orthodontist.  Not bad in terms of money, but downright exhausting in terms of social/emotional energy.  I took a long nap when we got home.  The next appointment is in 2 weeks....

Daily Glimpses (or, what continues to amaze and irritate)

No big thoughts here, just a gathering of snippets from recent life that make me pause.  Or, to be slightly more honest, things that continue to irritate me.  :)

(1) Driving courtesies.  Imagine a four-lane street through a retail area with moderate traffic going about 35 mph.  There is no designated street parking. However, it's not uncommon--but still very aggravating--for people to park by the curb, which messes up traffic. Yesterday, a driver didn't even bother to parallel park but just nosed toward the curb and abandoned ship.  No one wanted to let the "trapped" drivers behind the badly-parked car into the other lanes. We got lots of angry honks for pausing to let a driver in.  It is not expected (or much tolerated) to help strangers.

(2) Poverty: We went to Busan yesterday, which is the 2nd biggest city in South Korea (at 3.5 million people, it's the size of Los Angeles).  At a busy McDonald's (happily, McD's supplies toilet paper in their bathrooms - just another little cultural tidbit for you who take that little public bathroom nicety for granted each day), we waited for Nick to buy drinks (side note: the straw dispenser was jammed and when he opened it to fix it--another American-ism in itself-- he discovered a very chewed-on straw. Eww).  Anyway, the kids were messing around with the (rather creepy) Ronald statue and I was standing near the trash counter.  Korean McDonalds's are serious about trash sorting: the reusable cups go in one bin (remaining liquids should be dumped in another bin); food waste goes in a separate bin from paper waste.  I noticed a middle-aged Korean woman with dirty hair fussing around the trash but taking longer than the usual few seconds; she took a straw out of her small black plastic bag, then poured the contents of several  (unemptied) cups into one empty cup, which she stirred and then began drinking.  As other customers approached, she busied herself with her plastic bag, trying to blend in with the trash rituals of the oblivious customers. Curious. Then my memories of living in Chicago kicked in: this lady was poor but had too much pride to beg.  My Christian/American side wanted to help her; my history in Chicago said you shouldn't give money to poor folks on the street; new sensitivity to Buddhist/Korean standards (don't offend, and don't help strangers ESPECIALLY if you're not Korean) meant I should definitely not help her. Nick had brought the drinks, chatting about his straw adventure, and we were leaving.  In the end, I hurriedly folded some money together and dropped it on the counter near the woman, where she found it with a smile and met my eyes before I turned to leave.  I still don't know if it was the right thing to do

(3) Foreign money:  In the US, I rarely carried over $20 with me and usually had less than $5.  I'm not sure why; maybe it's from being a graduate student for so long, when buying a box of Oreos was a really big treat; maybe from living in a rough neighborhood in Chicago and riding the train every day made me cautious.  But Korean money just doesn't seem real, especially given the difference in value vs. the US dollar (1000 Korean won are worth about 90 cents), and personal crime is so uncommon here that I carry a tiny amount or a huge amount with equally little concern. There are no checking accounts here, and our bank statements are in Korean, so inability to balance our accounts makes our finances seem even less real.  I have paid David and Elisabeth's school tuition in cash: 1.3 million won (about $1200) made the school secretary's eyes grow very wide.  I did some editing work recently and the author paid me in cash: a beautiful fan of 50,000 won bills.  It's so freeing to not be bound by money; our rent, utilities, and landline are deducted from Nick's paycheck; his cell phone bill is deducted from our bank account.  We have no bills to pay.  Side note: I love that Korea has a woman on its regularly-used currency; poor American women Susan B. Anthony and Sacajawea got stuck on US coins that no one used.

(4) Names: About  half of all Koreans share just 3 surnames: Kim (pronounced "Geem"), Park (pronounced "Pahk") and Lee (pronounced "ee"). But of course there are others: Jeong, Cheong, Choi (pronounced "Chey"), Gang (pronounced "Kahng"), Min, etc.  First names range all over the place: Youchung, Ganghyun, Min, Hyeung-sup, Juram, Boyeon, etc.  Married women keep their own name rather than taking their husband's; children take the husband's family name. You probably know that Koreans use their family names first (so, Kim Juram) unless they are speaking to an American and they switch it around for you (Juram Kim).  Now imagine seeing names on office doors, in news articles, etc.  Even if you can pronounce every name (the Korean language is pretty easy that way), you have no idea which are family vs. first names or which designate males vs. females.  (There are even generational names, which I have only begun to sort out: every kid in a family gets the same basic first name plus a special suffix just for them).  I mentioned this naming confusion to a Korean woman, who laughed because it was so easy for her - but she couldn't understand American names!  Well, that's easy,  I blithely stupidly said.  Names that end with a "y" sound or have 2+ syllables are usually for women (e.g., Sherri, Debby, Mary, Lisa, Brittney, Rebecca); names with one syllable are usually men (e.g., Nick, John, Bob, Sam, Ken, Paul, Jim, Ray). Easy!  Well, she asked ever-so-politely, what about names like Danny, Barb, Beth, Travis, or Mason?  Oh.  Good point.  I suppose with the creative naming trends in the US right now (Taylor, Aaliyah, Regan) that names will just get messier for everyone.

Being Home (or, Not Working)

I started work as a psychology professor in August 1997.  No, wait, that sounds far too bold. Actually, in 1997 I was a shy doctoral student who was shocked (shocked!) that a room of compliant, (mostly) Dutch-heritage, Christian students just a few years younger than me would write down whatever I said.  (Except Tim, of course, who preferred to pass around his just-received vacation photos--boy, does THAT sound old--while his girlfriend took notes for him.)

And I worked hard to prepare each class.  On my very worst day that first year, I had students discuss the first part of the chapter so I could quickly read the 2nd half of the chapter and prep a lecture outline.  I loved researching the day's scheduled topics (thanks to my exhaustive and all-to-rigid syllabus at the time) and coming up with creative ways to teach the material. I absolutely loved that part of the job: being with my own brain in my quiet office.

As I matured as a professor (and as a human being), I came to enjoy getting to know my students as more than, well, mostly-Dutch-Christians.  Some were hard-working but not particularly gifted; some were smart but lazy; some were bright, hard-working and competitively arrogant.  Some were shy; some were distractingly friendly.  I no longer saw students as people trying to take advantage of me, or quickly judged them as easily distracted by unimportant (non-academic) pursuits.

At some point, I started taking my introductory students to coffee, one at a time, to learn about each of their families, interests, and goals. I later recruited teaching assistants based partly on these conversations: who was easy to talk to, used self-deprecating humor, and was a little bit sassy.  I like spirit.  Gradually, I grew to love my students, seeing them as broken people to be sympathized with; they were trying to find their way as new adults amid the complexities of managing laundry, friends' engagements, facebook, powerpoints, parties, and identity crises.  I no longer saw students in black-and-white terms or as "types."   As I got older, I began to see myself as an aunt--perhaps an eccentric one with a too-bawdy sense of humor--who dearly loved these young people and finally had the self-confidence to show them love (sending flowers for a recital; taking a stubborn but sick student to the hospital) and to kick them in the pants (why weren't you in class last week? why are your grades so bad?).  I transformed from insecurely judgmental to confidently condescending to vulnerably supportive.

Which is all very well and wonderful.  Now, however, after years of searching, my husband landed his dream job: a professor at an overseas university.  He would be the full-time professor now, and I would take my turn being at home, perhaps doing part-time work but mostly managing the house and kids.  He would be in the lime-light now, sharing his notes and gifts from adoring students and appreciative colleagues.  I would be...nobody.  No more gentle scolding of wayward students; no more daily praise (implicit or otherwise) for investing in the growing minds of young adults; no more notes of thanks for helping a student land a scholarship, apply to graduate school, or just learn to enjoy learning.

Now... home with kids.  Who didn't want to live overseas any more than I did.  I had chosen to teach college-age students because I can't really tolerate the noise and mess and check-list-resistant nature of people under 18. I like lots of time alone. I like tidy.  I like control, lists, silence.  Kids offer none of that.  I was not happy.

People who learn that I was a professor for 16 years (and an academic dean for 7 of those) can't help but ask why I'm not teaching here in Korea.  Initially I blamed my husband's university: they hadn't asked me. Then I reasoned I was still settling in and catching up with crafty projects, taking a long-deserved break.  But now?  Now...my answer is changing.  My kids (ages 11, 14, and 18) have a 9-week winter break that I was frankly dreading - so many crumbs and fights over screen time and squabble drama.  But now... I know a lot about my kids.  Which one loves to help around the house; who uses hugs to say he's sorry; who hates being in debt; who is naturally nurturing; who is upset by cursing; who loves sports statistics and using humor to relieve tension. Now I know why one son struggles with math; I see how another's musical gifts transfer to language learning; I know how one uses humor and isolation to deal with stress. I have a sense now of how to motivate each one; I am learning how to follow up on chores; I am figuring out when to push and when to be quiet.

So, why am I not teaching?  Here is today's answer.  Because, for the first time in my kids' lives, I am learning how to enjoy being a mom.  Not a teacher or mentor or eccentric auntie to other people's kids, but a mother.  Mentoring my own kids as quirky, willful beings who are making their way toward adulthood.

And I'm not sure that I've ever been happier.

Spelling Bee

Elisabeth awaits the bee.

It's December 3; it's international spelling bee day for Elisabeth, who finished in the top 2 of her 5th grade class spelling bee. She and I will travel to Kwangju, about a 4-hour drive to the southwest coast of Korea.  We wake with difficulty at 4:30am – even before Nick, who is often to his office by 6.  Elisabeth and I had showered and packed our bags the night before, so we quietly dress, collect the Kindle, laptop, and camera battery from their respective chargers, and debate over final clothing selections.  She and I have had some trouble these last few days, and I am not at all sure I have the patience to spend 15 hours together.  After a quick goodbye kiss to Nick we dash to the elevator and trot down the dark road to school, our clicking heels marking our progress toward the brightly-lit rented bus.

Once aboard, I am immediately thrown by the cross between Greyhound and an Indian parlor.  The seats are a plush maroon with gold swirled throughout; quilted sateen pads cushion each headrest.  Heavily-tasseled golden valences swing above the large windows’ shimmery curtains, neatly pulled back into silver rings. Nets and fold-up cup holders are ready on the seatbacks for our smaller belongings; the overhead bins await our bags and jackets.  Despite the décor, tell-tale signs reveal that we’re in Korea.  The headrest cushions and no smoking sign include messages in Korean; rolls of toilet paper hang intermittently from the ceiling as a convenience to messy passengers. 

The bus at 5am.

The bus is dark and deadly quiet – one wouldn’t know there are 30 high school students contemplating their day at the Model United Nations.  Elisabeth and one other elementary schoolgirl are the only spelling bee students on the bus –the other ten from Handong International School apparently drove with their parents. Three HIS teachers (Canadian, American, and Korean-American) ride the bus with us and I’m somehow comforted by having native English speakers along. 

The bus stops at a tollway rest area every hour; I wonder if a bus drivers’ union mandates a 10-minute break per hour.  Some kids use the toilet (and, Korean-style, you need to procure your anticipated amount of toilet paper when you enter rather than assume its availability in the stalls); we buy a bottle of water from the vending machine for 600 won (about $0.55).  As the bus heats up at my feet, the windows condense, occluding the sunrise. Elisabeth and I drift in and out of sleep, alternated with reading, snacking, and practicing words like “bourgeois” and “epizootic.” As the sun rises, we smear the water off the window and notice blotches of snow in the shadows.  It’s colder here, but the mountains and terraced rice fields, empty now, still tell us we’re in Korea. As we enter the fourth hour of the drive, Elisabeth feels antsy, restless.  It might be motion sickness from reading; it might be nerves. I find a black plastic bag in my purse (intended for shell-collecting) and she uses it quite discreetly. 

She feels much better as we finally arrive at Kwangju Foreign School.  A tall Korean girl in KFS uniform largely covered by her long wavy hair directs the bus to park in the street.  She uses Korean gestures to point, bow, and say no, but they are not well-practiced; we whisper that she needs to work at the Lotte Department store to learn their oh-so-graceful parking garage choreography.   When we disembark, the girl speaks with a strong American accent – perhaps Californian.  I’m surprised at how happy this makes me.

A view from the front before the bee begins.

The school is a newer brick-and-glass frame, with white-painted cement block walls and plastic wood-grained flooring.  The spelling bee will be held in the basement, which has marvelous natural light from its sunken courtyard.  The 75 contenders from grades 5-8 will have their bee in a long room that I suspect is normally used for a cafeteria or perhaps a gymnastics room.  A banner at the front (Koreans do love their banners) announces the school name and event (SKAC Spelling Bee) with a near-fluorescent cartoon-ish bee.  

A serious student awaits the bee.

We are moved toward the rows of padded folding chairs around 9:30.  The participants sit together by school; a few teachers roam the room; a few Korean parents sit in the far back, where a few tables are piled high with student coats and backpacks.  We wait for the last school to show up; five schools are already here.   We then wait for the coordinators to meet.  Then we wait for mysterious events that might be related to the stacks of copied papers delivered to the judges’ table.   In the meantime, some kids wait quietly, studying their word lists.  Others quiz each other and spell words aloud in unison.  Yet others–Elisabeth included–seem blasé, just looking around or taking pictures with their over-sized handheld phones.  Many wear school uniforms; some are dressed casually in fleece sweatshirts and skinny jeans with thick winter boots.  All are nervous: feet and legs jiggle madly, some rub their faces compulsively, attention is fleeting, jokes are stilted. 

Putting on number badges.

Finally, at 10:10, the bee begins.  The event coordinator, an overweight white woman with an indeterminate American accent, moves through the requisite introductions and welcomes. The agenda, procedures and rules are all in English; I realize the children have been talking in English all this time.   Fifth grade students are called up first, where they draw numbers and select corresponding badges and seats across the front, facing the microphone, judges’ table, and audience.  Elisabeth is speller #2; her naturally red hair is particularly striking in a room with so much black hair and brown eyes.

Elisabeth spelling "sketch" - you can also see the runner-up
for the 5th grade on the right.

The reader finally begins: Dragnet.  Sketch.  Attitude. Humorist. Uppity.  All nine students pass their first round, the three judges nodding slightly after each spelling and the reader verbally confirming, “That is correct.”  Round two knocks out the first student on “presence” – or is it “presents?”  A teacher later challenges the failure to notify the student of the homonym, but the judges’ ruling of “incorrect” still stands.  Elisabeth approaches the microphone for “cheapskate” but speaks too quickly, confuses her letters, and the judges shake their heads.  She sits down, her face red and teeth clenched.  Then another student goes down and the fifth graders are down to six students.

Rounds 3, 4, and 5 proceed with legacy, premium, and bassoon.  Rounds 6 and 7 are the same, moving smoothly through enviable and stubble.  In round 8, the reader puts aside the published word lists from which the students have studied and announces that she will read from The Secret List.  The audience groans; the remaining fifth-graders sit up straighter, their eyes widen.  Holograph, demarcate, and accusatory take down three children; superfluous is correct, then deferential and sturgeon eliminate the last two.  But the tiny remaining girl, soft-spoken but bright-eyed above her cream turtleneck and red plaid jumper, must spell one additional word to confirm her as the winner.  When “viscous” pulls her down, the audience sighs and all of the last 6 are back in the game for another round.

Finally, it is down to the tiny Korean girl, her fluffy fur barrette pulling her long bangs to one side, and a sturdy boy from the same school, dressed in a white button-down and blue sweater.  They battle back and forth.  Sometimes both are correct and sometimes just one, who is then tripped up by the confirmation word.  Finally, the boy spells “barrel” and the girl loses by incorrectly inserting a “k” into “antics.”  She bravely returns to her seat, where her teacher hugs her through silent sobs.  

Elisabeth (5th grade) and Grace (6th grade)

Now, to an American nourished by the self-esteem movement, spelling bees are torturous places of shame and humiliation.  As the tension rose in the room, with attention riveted on each sound from a child's mouth, the mood shifted between hopefulness and heartbreak.  Every child but one must publicly fail, his or her wavering composure amplified by the microphone.  But what I observed was remarkable resilience.  Not by every child, and certainly not right away.  But by lunchtime, even the little ones who had misspelled “eel” or “from” played with friends and held their teachers’ hands and laughed over pizza.  Again and again, I saw children shake off their disappointment and say, “Just wait until next year!”  This kind of character can’t thrive on the sugar water of constant affirmation or the hovering of overzealous parents.  Surely, it can’t survive among the thick weeds of bullying and loneliness, either, but I wonder if, like the pain of vaccinations, a little public failure might be a good part of raising kids. I have a new awareness of and admiration for Elisabeth's resilience in the face of her disappointment, and I was so proud to hear her tell her brother "just wait 'til next year." That's my girl. 

Tutoring: English and Korean

The college where Nick works and our family lives (Handong Global University) provides a Korean tutor for interested foreign faculty and their families. I indicated my interest in May, when I moved here to join Nick and Elisabeth, but was told that it was too near the end of the semester to get a tutor (4 weeks to go).  Well, how about over the summer break? No tutoring is available in the summer. Oh. So I signed up at the earliest possible date in the fall semester, checking off my preference for a female tutor (less awkward, I thought) and checking my preference for an upperclassman (more confident and experienced with English, I insightfully reflected).  I waited, happy to finally learn some Korean.

But...my application apparently got lost.  After subsequent inquiries by the honorable Professor Lantinga (note: that is not me. Quite an identity shift this whole move has been.), I finally received an e-mailed tutor assignment in early October.  The e-mail instructed that the tutor, whom we shall call Lee, would contact me within a day.  After a week, I finally called Lee's provided cell number, and a man answered in Korean.  A man.  Oh.  Ok.  I explained who I was.  He spoke very little English and I had great trouble understanding what little he could say; remember that our "f" sound translates as a "p" in Korean and all our "z" sounds (like in cheese or dogs) translates as a "j" in Korean. After a great deal of difficulty, we finally agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop the next day.

However, Typhoon Wipha was doing its thing and I did not wish to go out in the gusty downpour to meet my new (man) tutor. I called; we painstakingly arranged for another day and time.

I took Sam with me, hoping we could both learn basic how-to-manage-in-public Korean.  That was a mistake.  Lee is unusually tall for a Korean (perhaps 6'2"), but he was dwarfed by Sam (who is 6' 6", 240ish pounds, and has a mighty beard).  It was quickly apparent that Lee was shy, overwhelmed by Sam, and even more nervous about tutoring than I was.  Plus, it was very hard to hear each other over the coffee shop sounds of grinders, blenders, and music, so I mostly resorted to smiles and nods.  He was a sophomore (not an upperclassman) from Seoul; not a strong student, he hadn't scored high enough on the college entrance exams to apply for the "big three" universities in Korea.  He had completed his 2 years of mandatory military service; he is 24 years old.

Now to the tutoring.  He thought I was taking a Korean class and he would just help me with homework. Um, no.  He thought I would therefore have a Korean workbook and he would help me with that. Nope.  Lee asked about my hobbies, desperate for a more specific topic.  Photography?  No - he knew nothing about that.  Gardening?  No. Collecting shells at the beach?  No.  Look: I just want to learn how to navigate in the market: how much is this? where is that? and can I take your picture?   I asked him about his preparation for tutoring: did he receive any training?  No.  Was he studying English at Handong?  No.  Why was he interested in tutoring?  Handong requires students to do 2 credits of service and one option is tutoring.  Oh.

It was going to be a long, long semester.

We have continued to meet every Wednesday for an hour or so.  Lee is like many Koreans in that he has studied English in school, so he can read it fairly well but the speaking/listening part is much more difficult. On the other hand, I can read Korean (ok, I can mostly sound out Korean letters), but I'm very slow and make lots of mistakes.  I can speak some Korean words (hello, thank you), but many Korean words sound identical to me; for example, I can't hear the difference between, say, myeong and myeon.  Which is kind of important, since one means "people" and one means "noodles."  To top off this crazy situation, my tutor has sloppy handwriting, so even when he writes words out for me in Korean, I can't read them.  To sum up: Communication is very difficult.  He wants to do well. And I am a pretty lazy student - I want the very basics rather than grammatical lessons on the 5 ways to say "please help me" depending on the other person's status relative to mine and the type of help I want (lifting, directions, etc.).  We had one lesson just on the verb "to go" - and of course, how you say it depends on lots of things, like whether you're going into the military, looking for your "gone" watch, or talking about dead people).  The last one is fascinating because of the influence of Buddhism on the language - to say someone is dead is to say "He is gone (but continues to live through his/her work and may return someday)."  My favorite sentence of that lesson?  "This fish has spoiled."  Only in Korean, you're actually saying "This fish taste is gone."  :)

After a few weeks of torturous tutoring, I devised a new strategy (Very Illegal according to his tutoring contract, but I was not terribly impressed with the Office of Tutoring so far and not afraid to make them grouchy).  Lee would go with me to accomplish some task that my Korean can't handle. So, we walked around campus one day and he translated traffic signs (e.g.,Car Park Place), the bus schedule, and the dry cleaner's sign.  I wanted to find out if the dry-cleaner repairs shoes (no: they clean shoes and repair clothes but don't repair shoes).

While waiting for Lee one day at the campus picnic tables, four ajeemas (oops: it's actually pronounced "ah-joo-mas") asked me to join them for coffee (ko-pee). Completely out of character for me, I agreed. Two of them knew a little English and giggled constantly as they urged me to share their pumpkin/granola concoction, coffee, apples and persimmon slices.  Lee didn't even see me at first, as we all stared and giggled at him (my "too-tah"). Then he shyly agreed to join us, struggling to talk to them in Korean and translate for me in English while using chopsticks to pull apart the sticky orange goo.  After making great fun of him for calling them ah-joo-mas instead of using a more formal term, they sent him away to teach me Korean.

Last week we went to E-Mart (a baby-super-walmart) to exchange the lightbulbs I'd bought with a lamp last week.  Apparently, just knowing the right wattage isn't enough here - you also need to know the bulb's base width in millimeters and the lamp I bought apparently has a rare small size. I loved that Lee was pretty assertive with the 4 ajeemas at the Refund Counter who clustered around - "you sold the lamp you should sell the right bulb - go look for it again."  And, finally, we got the right bulb, which I had to pay for in cash. To do the refund of the wrong bulbs, they couldn't just credit my debit card or give me cash; they needed to re-run my entire original receipt but without the lightbulbs; then in a week or so the bank will delete the first receipt.  Lee didn't really understand it even in Korean, let alone translating it into English. So I finally just agreed and signed in all the right places.  I sure hope that works out.  By the way: signing your name in Korea is NOT the same as signing in the US, where you assume you should handwrite your first and last names.  No.  Here, you make a mark - and if you take too long they shut off the screen and print the receipt anyway.  I've taken to drawing a smiley face and rarely get past 1 eye and a mouth.  Sometimes the cashier will just reach across the counter and make a line on the screen, saving you the trouble.  It cracks me up.

This week Lee and I went with Sam to the local animal shelter. Sam has long wanted to volunteer there to play with the big dogs, but we (a) couldn't find the darn place (pets are a new concept in a country whose older generations still eat dogs, so the shelter is a ways out of the city; also, maps are hard to find and harder to read), then we (b) found it but couldn't figure out how to get past the gate or read the darn signs.

So I talked Lee into calling the place to find out their hours and away we went with Sam.  Lee mentioned to Sam that he'd seem him throwing "so PAST!" with "old man" last week.  Lee was clearly impressed but it took us a few minutes to figure out that he was talking about seeing Sam's game of catch with Nick (his dad).  "Old man" in Korea is a sign of respect - we forgot that for a moment.

Once at the shelter, the owner was happy to talk with Lee all about the dogs ("this one - loves old woman but bites old man!") and the shelter.  Sam was formally introduced and invited to come walk the dogs for free; to clean the dogs he would need to apply.  Weird.  The dogs are caged in 5 barns by size and gender: puppies, small males, small females, big males, big females.  Another barn is for the cats, who are free to come and go through a swinging door.  I fell in love with one free-ranging cat (no go as a pet: Nick and Elisabeth are allergic) and a puppy (clearly a runt); Sam fell in love with some big dogs that reminded him of Ralph (who is living happily with Nick's family).  For today's tutoring session I ended up learning the Korean for dog ("kay") and cat ("go-yahng-ee"), Sam was happy, and Lee... got to pet some dogs and hear some stories.

In the end, I'm not learning much Korean this way. But I suspect that Lee is learning quite a bit about Americans.  And if I'm not teaching in a classroom, at least I can amuse the natives.  :)

NaNoWriMo: Getting Work Done

I haven't blogged in awhile because... well, there haven't been many New or Exciting Events and a girl wants to please her readers.  Sam, though, said I should write a paragraph every day - he prides himself on being an excellent writing coach but a crappy writer. So, I felt obligated to write SOMETHING down and originally intended to just write a November blog in text and pictures (though not the 30 paragraphs Sam recommended) and I was surprised at how much stuff we did.  So, I'm commencing a bunch of short November blogs.  :)

I joined National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo.org).  Translated: I signed up online to write a 50,000-word novel in the 30 days of November. I decided to write a book about being a psych prof and dean at a small college in Iowa. Then I decided to write a bunch of short essays, glimpses, if you will, rather than do all the work of character development and plot and climaxes.  So, it's sort of a stylistic combination of favorite authors Mary Roach, Anne LaMott, and Jim Heynen.

As the daily Writing Chart shows, I got off to a great start, frantically recording all the crazy pranks, embarrassing moments, and run-ins with various barely-disguised people from Dordt. Then, partway through the month, I felt.... finished somehow, like I'd gotten down all the stuff I wanted to remember.  I didn't feel the push to keep going, I wasn't sure about my audience anymore, and maybe this was more of a journaling or healing process than a book project.  I may revisit it someday, but for now I feel very satisfied with my 30,000 word document.

And here is one of the essays, in case you're wondering about style or content or whatever.  :)

Getting Work Done

Late afternoons in the psychology department are dull.  My colleagues are trickling out to take a child to violin lessons, to coach the college’s golf team, or to run errands.  They each shout their “medal” color on the way out, the coach usually “getting the gold” by being the first out the door; the others get silver, then bronze.  I don’t usually place (as a dean, I feel some obligation to be present during business hours), but that’s why I supposedly earn the big bucks.

Too sleepy to grade or start anything new, I decide to wander through the other departments.  Managing by walking around: it works well for some faculty, who like to touch base often and build relationships, but others feel like I’m spying or lording my title over them.  A few people are still here and we enjoy catching up on their kids or grandkids, sharing a story about a particularly good class they had that week, updating me on their research or other projects.  As I finally wander back toward my office, I decide to use the bathroom then sit down to review for the classes and meetings I’ll have the next day.  I double-check that the cleaning crew isn’t around; the folks from the local adult group home, who have intellectual disabilities, often come to clean the bathrooms this time of day.   No signs or buckets, so the coast is clear.

After selecting my favorite end stall (do other people do this?  I don’t know) and going about my business, I hear someone come in.  Quiet shoes, which is odd, as most of my female colleagues wear “clicky shoes” that make us feel more professional.  The steps directly approach my stall, and I see the toes of rather large, somewhat dirty tennis shoes peeking under my door. The door rattles and I raise my eyes to meet the eyes peering through the crack.  Before I can say or do anything, I hear, "Uuuhh, SHIT!" The eyes and tennis shoes disappear and I hear the man's steps running away. 

The bathroom doesn't get cleaned that day, but I'm energized enough now to get back to work.