Log51: Upload

Thanks to Dianna for recording and posting this (Youtube).

Final Dinner Performance: "An ETA Mash-up"

Sunday June 26, 2011, Dragon Hill Lodge, U.S. Army Base

Transcript:

[Well, I have the pleasure of not seeing any of you face-to-face, which will make this task much easier presumably but...

I don't really know who signed me up for this act but, 

I think he's foolish (I was referring to myself)...

But while I'm out here, 

I'd like you take you on a personal retrospective if you will 

on my previous grant year.

I seek your patience and forgiveness where it may be required.

Now, prizes for anyone who can name the song and title (I meant "artist") of each song I'll be covering today.]

to the tune of "Desperado" by The Eagles

Goesangun

Why don't you come to your senses

I've been out riding buses, for so long now

It may be rainin', but I just can't see past those mountains

You better let somebody find you (let somebody find you)

You better let somebody find you

Before I leave to get some tacos

interlude/narration to the tune of "Everday" by Carly Commando

[Mr. Kim Sung Kee is an English teacher at my school.  He is a very kind man, married, fifty years.  One day he comes up to me and says, "Hello."  Ah, Mr. Kim! How are you?  Oh very good, very good.  Great!

Silence.

I notice his necktie and try to make it a point of conversation.  So I tell him it's a very nice. Oh thank you, with a big grin on his face.

But then I see that he's thinking, he's thinking about something and I realize, oh well he was just complimented by a native English speaker, so of course he wants to return a compliment.  

So I wait.  And I wait.  Finally he says: 

"You have beautiful eyes."]

to the tune of "Easy" by the Commodores

[Of course, I'll miss all my goofy teachers,

But I'll also miss my students. Inevitably]

Know it sounds funny but I just can't change the word

It's silver, not "shil-buh"

Seems to me boys you know I've done all I can

Played games with candy and prizes

Now you're sleeping

Sleeping like it's Sunday morning

Now you're sleeping

Sleeping like it's Sunday morning

to the tune of "Goodbye My Lover" by James Blunt

[Of course I'll miss my students and teachers, 

but I think sometimes I'll miss the little things in Korea.]

Did I disappoint you, or let you down

Should I be feeling guilty, or let the judges frown

'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,

Yes I saw you were blinded and I knew I had won.

And as you move on, remember me,

Remember us and all we used to be.

You touched my heart you touched my soul.

You changed my life and all my goals.

[I messed up badly.]

I know you well, I know your smell.

I've been addicted to you.

Goodbye, Samgyupsal.

Goodbye my friend.

You have been the one.

You have been the one for me.

Goodbye, Bibimbap.

Goodbye, Kimchi.

You have been the ones

You have been the ones for me.

I'm so hollow baby, I'm so hollow.

I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow.

to the tune of "Friends, Lovers or Nothing" by John Mayer

[And as we move into the final stretch of our journey,

we have to look at the big picture.]

Now that I am over as the Fulbright kind

I'll be dreamin' ways to keep the good alive

Only when I want is not a compromise

I'll be pourin' tears into your dryin' eyes.

Mail, Facebook or Twitter

There will always be more than one

Mail, Facebook or Twitter

It'll never be oh quite the same 

But stay in touch.

[I've made many memories and many experiences in Korea,

But what I've valued the most 

is that which I have derived and learned from the most,

and truth be told that's

all of you.

It has been my utmost privilege--and I say this frankly--

to have been part of this wonderful community and family.

Thank you so much.]

Anything other than send is no

Anything other than a Tweet is no

Anything less than a wall-post is cheating

Anything other than send is no

Anything other than a Tweet is no

Anything less than a wall-post is cheating

Mail, Facebook or Twitter

There will always be more than one

Mail, Facebook or Twitter

It'll never be oh quite the same 

But stay in touch.

Thank you.

Log50: A Few Moments

Today I concluded my three-and-a-half week long journey of speaking tests, an endeavor that required a 2-3 minute conversational interview with each of my 750 students.  

My penultimate interview occurred not thirty minutes ago upstairs with one of my second grade students.

His English is not very good, and his dream is to become a physical education teacher.  As co-captain of the second grade basketball club on campus, he is reputedly one of the most talented ballers on campus.  I have played with/against him, and he is as they say: quite good.  

He has always been a good student, but one who also exudes a humble, bucolic naivete.  His innocence recalls his pastoral roots: his parents are farmers and his elder brothers are planning on going to back to the farm as well.

Most interviews close with a handshake after I express my gratitude and wish the student good luck.  The student searches for an affirmation of this conclusion in my smile, then loosens the grip on the hand, stands up and walks back into the classroom.  Then the next student leaves.

This particular student described to me his family and his brothers' current circumstances.  He tells me he wants to be a physical education teacher because he is "good at physical."  I smile, and he imitates.  There is indubitable warmth between us, a true feeling of brotherhood.  

I wish him luck and shake his two bear-like hands with my right.  As he stands, curiosity goads him to ask me a simple question: Teacher, when you go America?  I tell him July.  In summer vacation.

Oh my Gahd, no teacher, he says, with a broad, idyllic smile on his face.  But it's a warm smile that is genuine and bittersweet.  It is steadfast in the wake of potentially unpleasant news. The smile oozes aplomb and sagacity beyond his years, and accepts the inevitable with a courage perhaps only seen in the young and the restless.

Call me, Teacher, he says with a softer smile.

I reassure him by asking him to call me if and when he comes to the United States.  He asks if I will come back to Korea, and I say yes but I don't know when.

Just yesterday a different class broke my heart because they were so unruly and disrespectful to the rules and atmosphere of the class (fortunately these less charitable ascriptions of this class is not unique; other teachers have felt the same way about this particular group).  

Today, this student transformed my spirits in just a few moments.

Gratitude is an awfully nice word.

Log49: Why Speaking Tests Are My Favorite Part of the Year

Hello, my name is Yoon-Chan Kim, and these are the students I teach:


Hello, my name is ___ and my dream is to be a neurosurgeon.

Hello, my name is ___ and my mother became an angel when I was two years old.

Hello, my name is ___ and I do not know my father.
Hello, my name is ___ and I am so scared because my father saw me smoking and has not talked to me since.
Hello, my name is ___ and I love Britney Spears.
Hello, my name is ___ and my father lives in Indonesia.
Hello, my name is ___ and I want to be a hacker for the government because I love my country.
Hello, my name is ___ and my parents do not have jobs.
Hello, my name is ___ and I am sorry to my family for my bad test scores.
Hello, my name is ___ and my dream is to be a novelist.
Hello, my name is ___ and I have not seen my mother for fifteen years, and I do not miss her.
Hello, my name is ___ and my dream is to be a fund manager because I grew up poor.
Hello, my name is ___ and I want to be happy.
Hello, my name is ___ and I do not know my parents.
Hello, my name is ___ and I am so tired of never feeling good enough because every time I try my hardest my grades are never good enough.

Hello, my name is ___ and my dream is to be a farmer.

Hello, my name is ___ and my dream is to be a barista.
Hello, my name is ___ and I am nervous.
Hello, my name is ___ and I want a beautiful life.

Hello, my name is Yoon-Chan Kim, and these are the students I love.

Log48: Quick Update

Slightly overdue, yes?


Yes.


I have about four weeks of teaching left.


I declined a job offer...despite the dismal economy, despite the adage "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," despite it being a really pretty awesome damn job.


I am currently searching for others.


I recently joined a flute ensemble which will be performing in a couple of weeks.  I have been practicing the flute daily but have not been exercising daily.


I am currently hungry.


And tired.


It's hard to believe I'll be out of here so soon.


I hope all of you are well!!!  More to come.

Log47: A Piece

"47" represents my alma mater, Pomona College.  I consider the following as a small tribute to my profound college experience.  I would love to hear what you think.

Long Live 47.

*           *           *

When it comes to religion, I am a frank dilettante.  I grew up without attending church or abiding by a canon. What little familiarity I do have with formal religion is a compendium of childhood memories including Buddhist paraphernalia from my grandmother’s home, family friends who were temple regulars, and the incoherent chanting of Buddhist monks.  My naïveté with other religions is also plain: my relationship with the Bible recalls an independent study course in college, and my conversance with the Koran refers to speeches by Malcolm X.[1]

And yet, from the absence of religion grew an ironic fascination with it.  Throughout my life, religion—in all its variegated forms—has never ceased to goad my curiosity.  I have tried to delve into religious discourse, plunging past the pages of Plato[2] and into those of Calvin and Augustine.  I have tried to understand religion in its physical realm, visiting houses of worship, rituals, and votaries: monks, ministers, and priests alike.  I have tried to live by the Millian dictum to confront the unfamiliar with inquiry not hubris, veracity not pretense.[3]  Fortunately, each experience has illuminated a part of the world in ways I could have never imagined.

Korea has proven no exception.

A little more than two weeks after arriving in Korea, fellow Fulbright ETAs and I journeyed to Haeinsa, a famed Buddhist temple hidden in the hills of central Korea. I did not know what to expect, but this haven proved to be more than just a quiet respite from language classes.  Our walk to the temple—enveloped by the mountain mist and lush forest leaves—could alone have been a meditative journey, but I knew I would learn something new when I arrived at the temple gates.

The austerity of the temple soothed my soul.  The scents and sounds of the scene summoned a youngster within me who once only knew the simple life: to just stand in awe of the golden figure’s filigrees; to observe and absorb, while eschewing obfuscation from concepts like morality or sin; to just live, unadulterated by worry or doubt.  Supplanting this childish giddiness with a quieter mirth, I walked past the courtyards and found the chamber housing the central Buddha.

I entered, infringing on the quiescence.  I waded through the laity, posturing myself among others and preparing to bow.  After a deep breath, I began just as I had done many years ago.  While prone, I let a few moments pass, then uncurled myself to standing again, taking a deep breath before repeating.  I bowed maybe twenty times, less to appease a deity and more to conjure the life I had before.

But as I bowed and whispered to myself the two prayers I knew from childhood, I wondered what my ritual really amounted to.  I wondered what exactly everyone there—from the monks to the laymen—was bowing for; the rather grandiose gesture seemed to violate the more introspective dimensions of Buddhist thought.  I always believed that Buddhism lay a vast distance away from many other world religions in its espoused asceticism and simplicity[4], but seeing everyone bow so heavily to these figures hundreds of times a day made me question my assumptions.  Nevertheless, I continued to bow, trusting that my continuous furling and unfurling would produce some infrangible good.

Three months later in Korea in early November, my high school minister invited me to help the Christian club run an evening service at an army reserve camp.  I agreed to play a solo and three hymns with some of my students, looking forward to the chance to not only bond with them, but also further assay the value and meaning of religion.  I viewed this opportunity as a chance to broaden my horizons and disabuse myself of old prejudices.  Yet little did I know that the service would regale the audience with an extravaganza rivaling a royal reception.

            The talents of these students stupefied me.  The vitality abounding on stage enraptured me, and I sat there, stunned.  The dance crew performed three choreographed routines to electric perfection a la the boy bands of the nineties[5]; the harmonies of the choir resonated within the hall and hearts of the audience; skits sparked unfettered laughter, and testimonials moved with poignancy.  The entire service exceeded two hours, but, as with any unforgettable performance, felt much too short.  As students beleaguered me with broken colloquialisms and cultural queries on the bus ride back home, I half feigned exhaustion and reflected on the long evening. 

What proved most striking was the austerity of faith these students evinced.  The rites seemed to entrance everyone, as if the Holy Spirit had already subsumed them into His kingdom.  The tenacity of the student performers pushed me to think about not just the cultivation of such fervor, but also the reward of such service: what did each student derive from investing so much into the production?  What blessings motivated such unabashed devotion and celebration?  To what end did they tout the probity of the Bible, the dereliction of sin, and the unconditional trust in a being beyond?  Questions collided with questions, confounding a mind already dazed from sleep deprivation.  I clamored to recall some of these questions on my ride to school the next morning.

Admittedly, Korea is one of the most religious countries in Asia.[6]  Hence, my trips to the temple and the church service were by no means my only encounters with religion here: I received numerous invitations to many churches; I befriended Buddhist monks on my travels; I met teachers here whose religiosity continues to humble me. I mention these two particular experiences only because of their revelatory scale.

Standing there in front of the Buddha, I tried to put aside burgeoning questions about faith and told myself to focus on the bowing.  I did not fight the meandering thoughts of home, grandfathers, friends or even the first two weeks of orientation, but I also did not grapple with them.  I acknowledged them as extant, but told myself to concentrate: to hone in on the inner peace that my bowing exacted. 

Slowly but surely, I began to feel a serenity and calm wash over me like an ablution.  At first I could not articulate how, but as I continued to pay my respects to the ethereal, the answer began to reveal itself.  I began to realize that the source of my growing inner peace stemmed not from the aftermath of my bowing, but instead in the very act of it.  It was the continuous furling and unfurling and whispering-to-self-old-chants-I-knew-from-childhood from which I derived a sense of renewal and clarity. My ritual was no means to an end; it was in fact, the end itself.

The epiphany proved no different under the cross.  Watching their heads tilt up toward the stage lights as if they were seeing heaven’s light, I saw joy beam from the smiles of my students.  They performed while embracing a haven beyond, seemingly untouched by the gravity that bound them to this earth.  Yet as I witnessed their lucidity and passion, a familiar set of questions began to inflame me.

With each choreographed step, harmonic shift, and enunciation, I began to see something very fundamental to these exhibitions.  I began to see these rites for what they really were: practice.  In spite of the highfalutin concepts, these dances to Christian music, holy hymns and canticles, and personal testimonies were all forms of religious practice.  They were not a means to inspire; they were themselves the end, the inspiration.[7]

The connection had been present all along.  The value of the bows is not simply what comes as a consequence of it, but also the thought and peace of mind that it demands.  The significance of dance, song, and speech in celebration of the holy trinity is not simply what they produce, but also the acumen such performances require.  These religious practices are themselves the objective, much more than strategic tools to attain some reward outside the method.[8]  The processes themselves—the very acts of doing and thinking—are what provide the space for reflection and introspection and, paradoxically, apprehension of profane humanity.  Perhaps what religious practice does, then, is militate against the erosion of basic thoughtfulness and awareness that actually constitute human compassion, empathy, and warmth.  In providing a regimented practice, religion provides an arena for introspection and humanism hard to find in the zeitgeist of modernization and technology.

Beneath the principles of religion that have always confounded me lay an impetus that compels us to reflect, act, and improve each and every day: practice.  Though my discoveries came under a religious light, the essence seems ubiquitous; whether it is religious or profane, artistic or athletic, practice provides us not only mental acuity to strive on diligently, but also the discipline to persevere.  Practice forges a fraternity from the fires of united struggle, allowing each of us to transcend our snow-globes of subjectivity and cultivate both greater self-awareness as well as greater compassion.  Practice empowers us to face doubt with aplomb, misfortune with perseverance, and tragedy with faith, in, if nothing else, people.

---

[1] X embraced brotherhood as articulated in the Koran and exhorted unity to realize economic and political self-reliance for African Americans in much the same way Frederick Douglass campaigned throughout nineteenth century America.

[2] Plato’s Allegory of the Cave seems exemplary, though his topics range far and wide.

[3] John Stuart Mill wrote in his 1869 magnum opus On Liberty that if “the opinion [or proposition] is right, [we] are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, [we] lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error.”

[4] Though they vary by school, the Ten Precepts Buddhist monks and nuns adhere to are emblematic of Buddhist asceticism.

[5] In fact, the front man of the five-person dance troupe made a particularly lasting impression for his unrivaled precision and Michael Jacksonian conviction.

[6] Nearly two-thirds of the population explicitly accepts either the Buddha or Christ.

[7] To treat religious practice not only as a means but also an end itself recalls the German philosopher Immanuel Kant’s Categorical Imperative regarding humanity: “Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of any other, never merely as a means to an end, but always at the same time as an end.” (Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals)

[8] That is, when looking at the inner workings of an individual; we all know that religious practice can be a powerful political tool, or even a weapon.

Log46: Students

I must write an entry regarding how political theory -- especially via Machiavelli (don't be scared, I love my students too) -- is so unquestionably manifest in the Korean classroom (at least within my educational doctrine, haha).

But such is for a later time, I believe.

My first grade students seem to both respect me and like me.  Because I began this semester--and their classes with me--with at least a greater guise of confidence and a more veracious grasp on teaching, their first impression of me has made greater impact (compared to last semester).  In light of this, teaching them has been fun and somewhat easier.

The most vociferous among them is my 1-6 class whose energy and enthusiasm -- and their near adoration of me -- seem to know no bounds.

I walk into class today, and all rush to their seats as if Stalin had walked in.  Many start clapping for my entrance.  I hear shouts of "Oh my god you're so handsome" and "Teacher good looking."  On the board is written "You are very handsome, English teacher." I read it and ask if that's about me; they uniformly say yes.

Flattered?  Absolutely.

Confused because they--despite their apparent love for me--are still some of my loudest and most talkative students to the point of disruption and annoyance?

Absolutely.

I guess better this than a reticent bunch, right?

:)

Log45: New Students

No cigars for these students...

ME: What would you say if you wanted to borrow a pencil from your friend?
STUDENT: Give me pencil.

ME: What would you say if you needed to go to the bathroom?
STUDENT: "May I borrow your toilet, please?"

STUDENT: "May I borrow your pencil, please?"
ME: "Yes you may."
STUDENT: "You're welcome."