MERS Madness Continues

At time of writing, there have been seven deaths due to Middle Eastern respiratory disease (MERS) since it was first brought into Korea earlier this month. This is less than a nasty accident on a Johannesburg highway. All of them were elderly, and thus more susceptible to respiratory illnesses. While these deaths are still tragedies, the amount of panic that has resulted from them is ridiculous, and shows the true power of mass hysteria where there is a potentially lethal disease involved.

Over 2000 schools have now been closed across the country, and countries such as Hong Kong have begun to suggest that people adjust their travel plans if they were thinking about traveling to South Korea, and Seoul in particular. All of this because a handful of people have contracted a disease that is new and unknown and has no cure. This last fact in particular seems to be causing a large portion of panic. People like to know that a disease can be cured. Most severe infections aren’t as intimidating, because they can be cured. Sure, the cure may involve horrific processes and drugs with side effects worse than the infection, but there is the light of treatment at the end of the dark tunnel of sickness, and this eases people’s minds. MERS joins the ranks of those enigmatic illnesses that have no cure, and this is terrifying people.

The reason I am not in any way worried about this particular threat is because it is, in all honesty, a very difficult disease to catch. One has to have prolonged exposure to an infected person involving close physical contact and extensive fluid exchange. One cough from someone on the train is less likely to give you MERS than it is to get you pregnant.

In addition, as I have said above, the only people that have currently died from MERS are elderly. Their weakened bodies could not fight off the disease, and the symptoms were more severe due to their age. As a healthy 25-year-old, I am confident that my body, and the body of anyone who is similarly healthy, will be able to fight off MERS.

While I agree that something needed to be done to contain the disease before it spreads throughout the country, it seems like Korea was unprepared for something of this nature, panicked, and overreacted. This is human nature – if something is new, it is most often seen as scary: something to be shunned or poked with a very long stick. Mass media thrives on feeding the terror of the unknown. And, right now, MERS is that unknown to the Korean media, and the panic is spreading far faster than MERS could ever hope to.

MERS has been a double-edged sword for us. While it has meant that we have had a break that will end up being longer than our mid-year vacation, it also forced a beach Ultimate tournament that Kristen and I were both heartily looking forward to to be cancelled. So, we shall continue to keep ourselves out of the hospitals and indoors, spending time with friends and generally enjoying our unexpected break away from the madness of children.

Leaving the House: Dangerous but Fun

Korea is still gripped by fear of the Middle Eastern Respiratory Disease (MERS). The number of people sporting preventative face masks is increasing every day. The disease features prominently in most conversations. A major Dongtan elementary school has even confirmed that it will not re-open this week, and wait another week for the quarantine to take effect. Kris and I have largely been shutting ourselves up in our apartment, out of a combination of introverted nature and a desire to remain healthy. We have, however, ventured out into the world three times this weekend so far, and each time has been an enjoyable experience.

The first was last night, where we went to our favourite local chocolatier for hot chocolate, dessert, and great conversation. It was more wonderful than we’d expected. We ended up spending the majority of our time there with the permanently-cheery owner of the store and get boyfriend, taking turns playing songs on ukuleles. There were pop hits, old classics, Korean favourites, and constant smiles from all involved. And then after we’d left, we still had amazing chocolate to devour. Most worthy time spent outside of our small apartment.

The other two times were both today, and involved spending time with our coworkers, something we have done far too seldom for the quality of their company. First, Kris and I spent over an hour throwing a frisbee with some of them. I was surprised by how well they could throw! And as always, it fascinates me how much a small, flat piece of plastic can entertain for extended periods of time. Once again, frisbee united people in the experience of simply throwing to each other.

Finally, I spent most of my evening tonight with another coworker and his girlfriend, nerding out over Hearthstone. A more subdued time than our other two, but a heartening couple of hours. I have played more of the game than them, but I saw the same glimmer of love for the game in their eyes as I get on my good days. It’s a pity we can’t play against each other, as our accounts are on different servers, but sharing our war stories made me feel that warm fuzzy feeling one gets when you share your views about something you love.

While the majority of the country is in tizz about a disease that is remarkably hard to catch, us teachers are hoping that the hysteria carries on just long enough to get another week or two off. In the meantime, we will keep our balance of introversion and seeing the outside world, and make the most of our surprise holiday break.

MERS: Panic and Days Off

Normally by this time on a Wednesday evening, Kris and I will be deciding what we want to do with our last remaining moments of time together before heading to bed for the night. Tonight is different. Tonight we have no school tomorrow. We had no school today even. Why? Middle East Respiratory Syndrome, or MERS for short. While the number of people infected with the disease may be very low, Korea has been caught in a wave of panic about it, leading to more people wearing face masks, general unwillingness to go out into crowded public spaces, and, most pertinently to us, the closing of schools.

MERS is apparently a very new disease, only discovered in 2012. It is relatively difficult to contract because it does not live for long outside of the cozy bacterial wonderland that is the human body. However, if a person does manage to catch it, there is estimated to be a 40% fatality rate. Yes, a person can go from perfectly healthy to dead within a period of no longer than 12 days. That is a rather frightening thought – one can’t help but contemplate one’s mortality if it’s possible that in 12 days you could no longer be on this planet simply because someone coughed on you for an extended period of time.

We first got wind of the disease’s presence in Korea on Monday, when it was a prominent newspaper headline. It was a curiosity – a peculiar disease had made its way into the country where we were. That afternoon, a case was reported in Dongtan. It was in our city. On Tuesday, the man in Dongtan who had the disease died. It was killing in our city. That afternoon, we were told that school would be cancelled for the rest of the week, as a precautionary measure to prevent the disease infecting our students. As with many things in Korea, MERS went from nothing to ever-present in little over a day.

Hearteningly, the number of current cases is still miniscule – only 30, at time of writing. Even so, with Korea’s population density as ridiculously high as it is, it is possible for the disease to explode at any point. In order to prevent this from happening, the government has quarantined over 1300 people that could possibly have come into contact with the infected. It is almost surreal how a few dozen people have the entirety of the Korean medical profession watching them, waiting to see if they have spread the disease to the unsullied masses. More people will probably be killed on Korean roads each day than die from MERS, but the lightning-riddled cloud of mass hysteria has formed itself, and the storm doesn’t seem to be passing any time soon.

Until it does, I am perfectly content to sit here, in our apartment, with Kris’ sweet voice and ukulele keeping the frenzy of the outside world at bay, making the most (or least) of our extra few days off. We will undoubtedly return to school soon. But we will do so rejuvenated from a 4-and-a-half day weekend (we still had to go in this morning for reasons unknown). Unless we catch MERS. Just kidding!

The Beginning of the End?

On Friday, it was payday. Normally, this is a pretty glorious day for us – we get to see how much money we will have for the next month, when we see how much or little we will have to sacrifice in the coming month in order to save what we need to. This payday, however, we got a little more – an apparent bad omen for the future of our school.

Kris and I didn’t think much of it at first. During our lunch break, our boss came in to give us or paychecks as usual. She handed out the envelopes in her normal sheepishly friendly manner, then sat down to talk to all of us. She kindly asked if any of us felt like we didn’t need our pension or health insurance. We asked around, and were told by our coworkers that South Africans won’t get anything from pension at the end of the year, so we decided that we didn’t need to pay the pension each month. However, we were the only ones to take our boss up on her offer, as our coworkers all would benefit from having pensions. She thanked us and then left quickly.

At this point, a number of our coworkers seemed to sit more on edge. Apparently, our boss asking us this may be a sign that the school is having cash flow issues, and are looking to cut costs wherever they can. Our coworkers said they had seen this for in their previous hagwans that had gone under soon after they had left them. There was an air of general gloom and doom in the teacher’s room that generally isn’t there on a Friday, let alone a payday Friday.

However, once work was over, the mood was lighter. We were reassured that it was most certainly not a sure death sentence for our school. It was simply a sign that we should watch out for in the future. Apparently hagwans will go under without warning, simply telling teachers to leave because the school didn’t exist anymore, and this is why one must be careful of signs such as that from payday, just to brace yourself for it before it happens.

Nevertheless, I remain relatively optimistic. There is nothing that we can do if it does go under, so there is no point in stressing about it. What will happen will happen. And when it does, Kris and I will face it the only way we know how – together.

Test-Retest (Un)reliability

After the relatively moderate amount of drama that occurred during the first sitting of the Big Test with my two elementary classes, I sat down to mark the children’s responses to my relatively fair test. I knew that some children excel to a greater extent than others – those that paid attention in class would, I thought, do better than those who didn’t. I was not expecting some of the results that came out, nor the response of the school to these results.

As expected, the marks were linked to how much the students paid attention in class. The student who paid the most attention in SPK1 (my first elementary class each day) achieved the highest mark. From there, the results were not to my expectations. I had expected my most distracted student to do the least well, but he did not. Instead, a student that I thought would do better managed to fail miserably, while my most distracted student just passed. The marks were slightly lower than what I had expected, and I was disappointed. From my Review class (the one with just Jason and Chris), the marks were, overall, slightly better. They didn’t excel, but they didn’t fail either. With a slightly puzzled feeling, I went to my Korean supervisor, Liz, to inform her of the results and seek her advice as to what to do. Apart from the marks, one student had yet to write the test at all. I awaited her wise response. I was not entirely prepared for it.

She too was disappointed with the results from SPK1, and gave me one simple task – make everyone from SPK1 (except for the student who achieved the highest mark) write the test again. This would give the student that hadn’t written the test the chance to do so, and would give the two students who had done poorly an opportunity to improve their scores, apparently. I was bemused at this. This had happened before with my Review class when they did poorly on a small in-class test, so I was not entirely caught off-guard. I had thought that the Big Test would be different though. I thought it was named accurately – that it was to be the most accurate assessment of the children’s abilities, and that the results would be near-sacred and untouchable. I guess not.

I did not even have time to go through the test results or the test itself with the children. The next lesson I saw them, they simply had to repeat the Big Test. The exact same one. No changes, no new questions to assess their skills. Simply rewind, retake, re-do. Or, in the case of the student who hadn’t taken the test before that point, do for the first time while the other students were griping about having to re-do it.

So, when they arrived for class yesterday after their (hopefully) enjoyable long weekend, they were met with Liz and I. Liz gave them what sounded like a stern talking to in Korean. She then instructed me to hand out the tests once more, and I did so. The children were in varying states of despair. The student that had yet to write the test and the one that didn’t have to write it were relatively chipper and upbeat. The two students who did poorly looked like they were sizing up who would take the first turn in trying to squeeze themselves out of the tiny window in my classroom and fall eight floors into the abyss. Nevertheless, they all completed the test, with varying degrees of effort and concern put into their answers. The student who had previously done the worst seemed beyond caring. He asked for my assistance with a few questions, but did not seem overly interested in my help. The student who only barely passed the last test put in slightly more effort, asking for me to read numerous questions to make sure he understood what they were asking. And the student that had yet to write the test was clearly the most studious, working independently unless they were stumped and did not know what the question was asking.

And, once again, the marks reflected this. The student who didn’t put the effort into the test bombed again, only achieving one half-mark more than the previous attempt. The student who just passed the first time round managed to improve their mark slightly. And the student who had yet to write the test achieved the highest mark in the entire class.

It makes little sense to me why the students had to re-take the test. I would understand if they were all in emotional states entirely unconducive to testing, but none of them were. There was the normal childhood unwillingness to be tested, but nothing equal to the table-flipping antics of Jason. So the students achieved what I thought they would – there may have been small improvements because they got a stern talking-to by Liz which caused them to focus slightly more for the first part of the test. There would have been far more improvement if I could have gone through the test and the mistakes made in it, and give the children a new, similar test. This was not the way of doing things, though. So, we tried to make the best of an imperfect approach.

There were small improvements, but nothing to be overjoyed about. There were lessons to be learned, and I for one will try to learn those that I need to. As for the kids? Here’s hoping that they don’t have to write every single test they are given multiple times. When they are in our school for such little time as it is, to spend two full days on tests will take away from things that they could be learning. And, ultimately, learning should be the goal, not simply bumping up test marks so that the parents will be less grim.

Big Test, Big Drama

This week was one of the more bipolar weeks, in terms of the difference between kindergarten and elementary classes. In terms of kindergarten, it was a relatively uneventful week. Sure, the children got on my nerves and were brats but were also good and cute at times, but that’s pretty much the norm. The surprises this week lay in my elementary classes. The reason for this – Big Test.

At our school, Big Test is a 50-question test created for each class by their teacher, assessing the entirety of the work covered in each class for the last 3 months. Writing these tests was both a pain (due to the time-consuming nature of doing so) and an interesting test of my own ability to pitch a test at the correct level for the students of each class. I drew some of my questions from the textbooks and websites that go along with them, but I also devised a host of my own questions. I was interested to see how they would do, and also how I had done.

The first class took their test on Wednesday, and this proved to be one of the most surprising and bemusing moments of teaching I’ve had up to this point. I sat two boys in the class down, explained the basic rules of a test (no talking, raise your hand if you need clarification on a question, that sort of thing), and let them begin. One of the boys, Chris, was noticeably struggling from the beginning, mumbling under his breath about how hard the test was, and progressing slowly through the questions. The other boy, Jason, had a smile on his face, and confidently answered the first few sections with relative calm. This was soon to change.

Jason reached one question where he was unsure of his answer, and put up his hand to ask for me to explain the question. I did, and he then asked if his answer was right. I dutifully informed him that this was a test, and that I could not do that. He looked at me with mild frustration, and then simply stared at his test. I thought that he was just going back to his answering routine, and I walked away. However, for the next couple of minutes, Jason simply stared at his page. Then, suddenly, he let out a wordless cry of rage, threw over his table, and sat in his chair with his arms crossed.

Inside, I was seething. What right did this little boy have to throw the desks around like that? I walked calmly up to him, and in an authoritative but fair tone, I told him that he is not five years old anymore, and that kind of behaviour is unacceptable. I picked up the table, the test, and his pencil case, and told him to get on with it. He didn’t. At twenty minutes into the test, he simply shut down. His arms remained crossed, and he just stared into blank space. After about ten minutes of him sitting in sulky silence, I called my Korean teaching assistant to come in and talk to him. He uttered not a word. Ten minutes later, our supervisor came in and talked to him. Still, not a sound came out of his mouth, other than the occasional mumble of Korean or exasperated sigh.

I was beyond floored. I wondered what had happened outside of the classroom to put him in this kind of emotional state. There was clearly something else going on in his life at that point in time, and my class was his chosen outlet of that emotion. I felt angry. I felt used. But I also felt sorry for this boy, who clearly was under immense pressure and emotional strain. So there he sat. The test time passed. I took in his paper, and Chris’. They left. I was left wondering what had just happened.

Jason returned on Friday (he only comes in three times per week), looking a lot more chipper and bouncy – his usual self, particularly on Friday. Chris goes to soccer practice on Fridays, so our class is just a one-on-one session between him and I, and I know that he prefers it this way. I asked him what happened on Wednesday, and he simply shrugged and smiled. I guess that there was no closure to be had there. Our supervisor said that I could give him his test to finish, because he clearly was not in the correct mental space for testing on Wednesday. So, I did. Tentatively, I asked him if he was ready to finish his test. He beamed, and was very eager to do so. And within half an hour, he completed the test. If only he had done that the first time. Although, I suppose if he had, I wouldn’t have this story to tell.

Luckily, giving the test to my other elementary class went much more smoothly. There wasn’t an emotional breakdown in sight. There were some ‘But teacher, this is too hard!’, ‘Teacher, please tell me the answer!’, and ‘Teacher, I can’t do this!’. With that class, however, I was used to melodrama, so I rolled my eyes, reassured them that they could do it, and encouraged them to do their best. Some of them did. Some of them drew doodles on their paper. The three children that took the test from that class (one was absent) all placed along the spectrum of effort, with one lying firmly at ‘couldn’t give a damn, so won’t give a damn.’, one perched at ‘I was lazy in class, but I will try my best in the test’, and one at ‘I listened in class, I studied, and I will try my best in the test as well’. The marks reflected this, with the lazy one failing miserably, the one who tried hard only in the test scoring exactly fifty percent, and the one who worked hard all round getting a solid seventy-odd percent. While the scores were a little lower than I expected, both they and I felt that it wasn’t an unfair test, and I was happy with that.

So, from one student having a breakdown mid-test, to failure, to success, Big Test was rather eventful. With it behind me, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy a long weekend in celebration of Buddha’s birthday on Monday. I may not believe in him, but I will certainly thank him for giving me an extra day of peace, quiet, and relaxation, free from table-flipping children.

Back from Busan; Back to Reality

As predicted, the rest of our stay in Busan flew by in a blur. Some of it was a blur of revelry, some was a blur of frustration in public transport, but it was all a blur nonetheless. This blurriness soon faded for the harsh edginess of the week back at work, and it has been a slow two days to contrast the rapidity of our joyous weekend.

The morning of our Sunday in Busan was soothing and enjoyable. We started with a visit to another local temple known as the Water Temple. After a number of flashbacks to an assortment of Water Temples in the Legend of Zelda video game series, I was left mildly disappointed that I didn’t have to dodge spike traps or watch for a rise in the water level. The only dangers that reared their heads were the army of selfie-stick bearers, around whom you had to be careful to avoid getting winded by the contraptions. The temple itself was nice enough, but we were a little jaded from the magical experience of our temple visit on Saturday evening. While the lanterns the previous night had given off a magical quality, they only served as an annoyance in the more cramped and daylight-filled setting of the Water Temple.

After leaving the Water Temple behind us, we ventured to the famed Haeundae beach. It is famed for being frequented by Korean celebrities and the well-to-do, and it is relatively easy to understand why. It is located in the middle of Busan, a very popular travel venue. The beach sand is very fine, and the beach itself is gloriously clean. However, the Korean beach culture (at Haeundae at least) is bizarre. In South Africa, we go to the beach to wear our bikinis and swimming costumes, get a tan, and enjoy the sun. In Korea, apparently, you go to the beach to wear all of your good clothes, take photographs, and…just…be on the beach? It was puzzling to us, as we stood and threw an Ultimate disc around.

There was no option to swim, however, as the water is apparently entirely out-of-bounds at certain times of the year. To enforce this rule, there were floating barricades a little way out to sea, and a lifeguard on a jetski who grumbled angrily at anyone who waded in further than their ankles. We simply made the most of the beach, and left for Busan Station to catch our train with plenty of time to spare. Or so we thought.

The bus ride to the station was supposed to take 40 minutes all told. We gave ourselves an hour and 40 minutes to get there. There were no transfers, and the station was within walking distance of the beach, so it was not as if we could get lost. What we did not factor in, however, was that the first two correct buses simply raced past our stop without halting, with people almost bursting out the windows due to the fullness of the buses. Once we boarded the third bus, we sat in traffic for what felt like an eternity. The time ticked by, and our buffer began to melt away.

We eventually reached the station with 10 minutes to spare. However, we still had to confirm our reservation, collect our tickets, and get to the platform. Kris and I agonized over what to do. After standing in the line for 5 minutes, I raced as fast as I could to the platform, to try stall for time. I walked up to the first person in the correct uniform that I could find, and begged them to halt the train for even 2 minutes. She simply smiled an apologetic smile, and told me in surprisingly good English that there was nothing that could be done. When the time came, the bus doors began to close. I desperately tried to stop them, putting my arm in between them, trying to keep them from closing. I was not stronger than the machine, than the system.

Dejected, frantic, I ran in a panic back to the line. I indicated roughly in gestures that the train was gone, before crumpling down into a chair to cry pathetically. I punched the metal pillar near me in frustration. We did nothing wrong, and yet we were simply spat out by the public transport system. While I was enjoying a moderate-temperature wallow in self-pity, Kris was getting things done. After I told her that the train had left, she got to the front of the line and booked standing tickets on the next train. In South Africa, a missed train would mean you would have to pay for an entirely new ticket. In Korea, however, this is not the case. Your ticket is automatically cancelled, and you are actually refunded most of the value of the ticket, depending on how soon after your missed train you apply for it. In our case, we only paid 15% of the original ticket, and the full price for the new ticket. All in all, we paid only about R80 more than our original ticket. While standing on a train for 3 hours was uncomfortable and there was more than one child in the same cabin letting the air out of their lungs, it was not a horrible experience, and I was just happy to be on our way home without paying double price.

The last couple of days at work have been nothing out of the ordinary, but it has been slightly more difficult to get into the working mentality. We are still physically drained from our weekend of running around, and emotionally in another place – the beach, or the temples, or an imaginary amalgamation of the two. We shall soldier on, looking to the next major event and our happiness horcruxes to give us the drive to get through each day. And we will get through. And maybe even enjoy work a little.

Tourism of Varying Momentum

In a break from our regular weekend plans of sitting in our apartment in our pajamas for most of the weekend, Kristen and I have escaped from Dongtan for a brief stay in Busan. Busan is a breathtaking coastal city, and we spent most of today taking in as much of it as we possibly could. We started to day at ligtning speed, but as the day raced by, we found ourselves stopping more often. While we may not have seen as much as we could have, the extra pauses were certainly worthwhile.

We left our wonderful B&B early(ish) in the morning, to begin one of two bus tours that we would end up doing during the day. This first tour allowed us glimpses of a host of places, including a world-famous fish market (which we skipped), a scenic seaside overlook (which we skipped) and a pebble beach (which we stopped at only long enough to take numerous photos and probe once again how bad I am at skipping pebbles on water).

The first attraction at which we spent a significant portion of time was a place called BIFF square. To my dismay, it was not named after the infamous antagonist from the Back to the Future series. It is so named because it is the venue of the Busan International Film Festival. In my heart, however, it was still named after the most prominent member of the Tannen family. BIFF square is a sprawling mass of street market, vending everything from snacks to fashion to CCTV cameras. We spent a number of hours alternating between browsing the stalls calmly and walking in a brisk panic trying to regain our bearings. The time raced by, and soon we had to bid BIFF adieu, or risk not having enough time to complete the second tour for the day.

Despite our attempt to be timeous, we did not have time to complete the second tour, managing to stop only to walk around a UN Memorial for soldiers who died in the Korean War, which was humbling and beautiful. Following this, we decided to simply stop at the nearby sand beach. We were meeting some friends (who happened to choose this weekend to visit Busan as well) nearby, so it made sense. And it was also a good excuse to lie on the beach and do nothing but listen to music and forget about the rest of the world.

Once we had soaked in the last of the afternoon sun, we met our friends at the nearby train station. We enjoyed a meal at a superb vegan restaurant, then headed out to our main activit for the evening – the lantern festival at Samgwongsa temple. The festival honours Buddha’s birthday, which is just over a week from today. And what a festival it was.

The temple grounds were a wash of various pastel colours, lit by several thousand lanterns. The majority were simple lanterns, but there were a surprising number of large lanterns, depicting warriors, the Chinese zodiac, and an elephant,  amongst other things. We were all struck by how much care and effort had gone into transforming the temple grounds from a solemn place of worship into a space of celebration worthy of the occasion.

It was a magical evening for the most part. However, time once again slipped through the hourglass at an unbelievable rate, and it was soon time to leave the wonder of the temple behind, to return to our remarkably sweet host at the B&B, who had to wait up for us to let us in.

Today was a blur of activity. From gazing at spectacles on the bus tour to experiencing them deeply at the temple, we absorbed as much of Busan as we could possibly handle. Tomorrow may be a more relaxed day, with only a temple visit and lazing on the beach on the schedule, but it will hopefully be filled with as much wonder and affecting experience as today was.

Horcruxes of Happiness

To say that I was a little glum when I wrote my last post would probably be an understatement. Kris and I were both feeling very despondent from the work environment, and had been messed around by the public transportation system to top it off. So, that got me thinking about my happiness horcruxes. For those unfamiliar to the Harry Potter universe, a horcrux is an object used by the big baddie to keep a part of himself alive, even if he would otherwise be dead. So, in essence, a happiness horcrux provides happiness simply by existing in the space where I spend my time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first resides in the bedroom of our apartment. It may look like nothing more than a balloon with a cat face inked onto it. It may have seen better days – it is rather deflated now, and I was afraid to even touch it out of fear of it deflating more. But it is the memory behind this small piece of inflated plastic that provides the magic. After we taught our last class of our first week at our school, all of the foreign teachers gathered in the teachers’ room. Every day, we are required to stay 30 minutes after our last class, to ‘prep for the next day’s lessons’. A lot of the time since then, we have, but not on that day. On that first Friday, we spent that entire time in a circle of chairs, simply bopping this very balloon up, and down, and up, and down. Few words were spoken, because we were concentrating, entranced by the slow rise and fall of the balloon. Nevertheless, we were all smiling almost the entire time. It was a wonderful bonding moment for us. We all felt like our particular group of teachers was something special. And we have been since. That simple memory of unadulterated joy and wonder at a small object bouncing around a room never ceases to put a smile on my face.

My second major happiness horcrux spends its life on my desk at work. Sadly, I did not remember to photograph it for purposes of this post. Like the balloon, it is simple in nature. It is a small flower cut from red paper, with the words ‘I love you’ written on it. Of course, it is from my darling Kristen. It was a leftover from a science experiment that she did with her class one morning, and I found it on my desk soon after. I have kept it in sight there ever since, and it gives me a little boost every time I sit down at my desk and look at it.

The third major pocket of happiness in my day is my current desktop background on my laptop.

This is the Ultimate Disc team that Kristen and I play in every weekend – Bune. The picture was taken on our first weekend as a team. It was absolutely belting with rain for most of the day, but we played with everything we had, and had tremendous fun in the process, as we always do with Ultimate. There was definitely something special about that day. We may not have played like international all-stars, but we all did whatever we could and drew as much enjoyment from every moment as we could. That is what will remain in my mind whenever I look at the (slightly pixelated) version on my laptop screen. That is what I draw that second or third or fourth wind from when I am feeling as deflated as the cat balloon during a hard day at work.

The fourth happiness horcrux is one that I use far too rarely: contact with family and friends. A kind word from my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins or whoever is willing to take time out of their busy lives to check up on us means more than we can ever express. Be it a Skype call, an email, or something as simple as a Facebook message or comment, they all help Kristen and I keep in touch with the emotional world we left behind. And every one gives us unprecedented joy. I know that my friends and family form a large part of the readership of this blog at this point. So, I just wanted to say thank you. And never stop keeping in touch!

My most important happiness horcrux, I have left for last. This one has remained with me for several years, despite my best efforts. I treasure this more than I do my own life or happiness. My final happiness horcrux is:

My girlfriend Kristen. There is nothing or no-one else in the world from which I draw more happiness, joy, strength, love, or any other positive feeling I could possibly list. She is my rock. Despite the moderately crazy look on her face, she keeps me grounded. She distracts or encourages me when things aren’t going my way. And, for reasons unknown to me, she loves me. Without her, I most certainly would not be in Korea. She did all of the administrative work, for which I will forever be grateful. Without her, I would not be the man I am today. I have never felt more able to be me, and not some false version of myself that I feel is necessary to navigate life. I love her with everything that I am, and I hope that we never part.

From seemingly insignificant objects to the love of my life, I draw happiness from many things. While there are most certainly other occurrences and happenings that give me joy, the ones above are those that I draw the most from, on the most regular basis. They keep me sane, happy, and on track. And while some may deflate, get thrown out, or replaced, others will remain, to guard against sadness and (more socially hindering levels of) insanity. For all of these happiness horcruxes, I am grateful. I hope you all find the things in your life that keep you happy, and hold on to them. You may not need them every day, but when you do, they will save you.

Despondency and Wasted Time

This week was supposed to be a short week, and it was – with a public holiday on Tuesday and a mini field trip on Thursday, we had far less classroom time than we would normally have. And yet, this week left both Kristen and myself feeling profoundly despondent with our time in Korea. While Kristen was limited to simply questioning the age and institution that she was teaching in, I once more questioned whether teaching as a career path is for me. All in all, we both left this week with doubts clawing at our brains like starved harpies, and this weekend did little to quell them, particularly with an unrelatedly frustrating experience at the train station today.

One thing that we can both agree on is that the hagwon model of teaching is largely broken, and in need of drastic reworking. Our school is not by any means a bad company – we are taken care of and the conditions are great – but it feels like it is simply that – a company. This is particularly evident in the elementary aspect of our teaching – children are faced with books that are often completely mismatched to them. The content and/or vocabulary is rarely perfectly matched for their level. It ranges from being profoundly too easy to frustratingly difficult for the children. As a result, they often find themselves bored by the easy work, or too frustrated to concentrate by the hard work. One gets the sense that children provide bums on seats, money in tills. The school tries its best to provide a nurturing environment for the children, but it is crippled by the misguided hagwon system. Children should be given time to be children, not sent to school for more than half of their waking life when they are 8 years old.

Kristen is also questioning whether kindergarten is an appropriate age group for her to teach. While she often enjoys fulfilling sessions with her older elementary school students, she feels like little more than a babysitter for most of her morning. She often is left with only two students by the end of the day, as mothers come to pick up their children before their education is finished. It is also not because of acclimatization to school – in the first few weeks, the children remained until the end of the day every day, no matter how many tantrums they threw. It seems like the parents want their children out of their hair for the morning, but come to pick them up when it is convenient for them. I have not had as much of this, but I find it puzzling – if a parent wants to send their child to school to learn English, they need to accept that it is a process, and if one removes a child from the environment where they are learning during the process, it is likely to be less effective. While I still believe that children should be children and be allowed to run around and play, if parents choose to try to educate them at such a young age, they need to stick with the program, however broken the hagwon system may be.

While Kristen may be questioning the hagwon system and the age that she would like to teach, my introspections run deeper. I have never been entirely sure what I would like to do with my life, as I have said in previous posts, and this year is yet to be any different. This week seems to be particularly bad. Even though it was an easier week, I found myself questioning my methods and worthiness as a teacher a great deal in the past few days. I debated whether a tape recording playing in the room while the children simply went about their business would provide a better English education than my fumbling attempts at helping my children acquire another language. If the year keeps up like this, I am not certain whether I will be trying for the same profession this time next year. But I am still keeping an open mind. No matter how wasted I feel my qualifications (however meagre they are in reality) may be, I do still find glimmers of hope when my students learn a phrase, or I prepare a lesson that they clearly enjoy. Maybe that will be enough.

All of this gloomy attitude was not helped today, when we attempted to pick up a 3-day pass for the train system for our coming weekend away to Busan (the beach town where we initially desired to be placed). We traveled an hour by bus to Suwon station, the location of the closest major rail station. We stood in a brisk line, and then stood hopefully before a well-meaning Korean teller, who asked us for our reference number. We had booked the pass online, but we had not received a reference number via email. Slightly frazzled, we attempted to re-book our pass. We filled out the online form, and were granted a reference number on the website, which we kept open. As an added measure, we wrote the number down, just in case our phone died. We stood in line once again. We came before another equally well-meaning teller, who took a look at the number. She winced slightly. She tried to speak to us in Korean, but it washed over us like strawberry-scented ink – it sounded lovely, but still completely stained our hopes of getting the pass today. Just in case it was not clear, she placed her arms in a big X and spoke some more apologetic Korean. Defeated, we walked slowly back to the bus stop for another hour of wasted travel.

Nevertheless, we will trudge through work tomorrow. We will do so because we are contractually-obligated to do so. We will do so because it’s only five days until Kristen’s birthday and our weekend holiday. We will do so because sometimes we actually feel like we are making a difference. Mostly, however, we will do it because regardless of how broken the system is, how wasted we may feel, or how much we don’t want to, we will do so because somewhere, there is a little home with our name on it, and each day we push through gets us one day closer to it.