Log31: Moved

*An aside: somebody told me I write my blogs in a very Faulknerian, stream-of-consciousness fashion.  Well, so let it be.  Haha.  This is, afterall, one manifestation of those things which occur in my head.  A kind of written puking of my thoughts, if you will. 

Moved. In more ways than one.

1]

Currently in Incheon International Airport, 3 hours prior to departure into SFO.

I have been in transit for many hours now, and will continue to be to arrive at my destination for a month.  I am excited and thrilled to be moving.  To be moved.

2]

Unlike the academic schedule in America, the academic calendar in Korea actually coincides with the solar calendar by which we all abide (i.e. students graduate in December).  This means that yesterday was the last day of 2010 I would teach my current classes of students.  Certainly I will see them again next year. 

That is not to say yesterday was unmoving.  For it was. Quite.

Although only a year separates the two graduating classes, there is an unmistakeable difference between the maturity of my first grade students and that of my second grade students.  That is to say, as energetic and lively as the first grade students have been, I have been able to connect much more strongly with my second grade students who, for all their irrepressible immaturity, still seemed to exhibit a greater semblance of self-awareness, a kind of adulthood.  My ascription of these characteristics may simply be due to the simple fact that they are bigger, but I doubt that such would be wholly justifiable.

To put it another way, it never quite felt like teaching with them.  I forgot that I was a teacher, and that they  students.  In retrospect, class with the second grade students felt more like  fifty minutes of fun, chaos, and a little bit of learning with about forty younger brothers: not the kind of brothers you let sit on your shoulders or play tag with on the playground, but the kind of brothers with whom you can laugh, joke, and share stories.

And maybe I felt that way because there was some level of reciprocation going on.

One would hope, anyway.

It seemed seredipitous, then, that my last day of classes would be on a Wednesday, a day when I teach three second grade classes: my "goofball" class, my "hell" class, and my "heaven" class.

For each of my "final" classes, I simply played games with all my students.  They complete finals, winter break was around the corner, and they were tired of studying.  They wanted to have fun, I wanted to have fun, I wanted them to have fun, so we played games: some mixture of Simon Says, Captain's Coming, Hangman, and 20 Questions.

After about 45-48 minutes of laughter and chaos, I sit them down, wait for silence, then tell them I would leave to America and that such was the final class.  I thank them, tell them honestly that I have learned a lot from them, and that it has been a privilege teaching them. 

It may seem like a negligible event, but to hear the collective "Awww~" or "Oh no~, teacher~," or even, "No teacher, I love you!" when I tell my students that I would be leaving is really touching.  I guess if one is wondering what love enfolded with respect and gratitude may feel like, teaching isn't a bad place to start.  I don't think I ever felt that kind of love before.  It's an immensely gratifying kind of love, loaded with respect, interest, care, and a weird sort of gratitude you often don't get between basic human relationships.  Of course there is the cultural Confuscian hierarchy curveball thrown into this dynamic somewhere, confounding this basic sentiment, but I'm willing to bet that this kind of powerful, moving impression can be generally shared by teachers all around the world.

The way they clap when I thank them, the way they look at me with attention and a kind of sad but grateful longing as I walk out the door, the kind of final "goodbye"s and "Peace!"s that I hear, the way certain favorite students of mine run out after class and chase after me to say a personal final goodbye to me, and thank me...these will last in my memories forever, and will forever be things I will be grateful for.  And it won't be because I enjoyed the attention.  Well, at least, not only because of it. 

It will also be because I really love these students.

I know, who would have thought, right?  Haha.

"July next year is going to be tough," I thought.  Give me another six months with these kids, and...I hope I will keep myself busy enough to not become too sentimental.

I will leave you with a couple of anecdotes:

***


1)


I walk out of my first "final" class of Wednesday (2-5) with the final "goodbye"s still echoing in the hallways.  I begin walking downstairs when one of the smart kids, Yoseb, comes chasing after me.  Trying to catch his breath, he says hurriedly, "Teacher! You go to America today?"


Yes, yes I do.


"No more class?"


No, I'm afraid not.  We continue to walk down the steps as students begin to flood the stairwell for their breaks.  A silence proceeds, and I look at Yoseb.  His face has that inward introspection with a hint of confusion, like a child in the depths of deciding whether a candy he just ate tastes good or bad, like a baby who just fell but is not sure if it warrants crying.  Yoseb is trying to process this.  I look down to make sure I keep my steps, and bow my head to the science teacher walking by.


"Teacher, why, why, why, why?  Why you leave?" 


None of it hit me at first: the pain, the sadness, the genuine disappointment in his voice.  My mind was too busy getting ready to pay off my phone bill, run to the bank, and give gifts to my teachers.  Then like a freight train that came two minutes late, the reality of the moment hit me mercilessly. 


Amidst the flurry of bodies flying past me, amidst the murumurs, shouts, and steps of students echoing in the frigid hallway, I stopped like I found a diamond on the ground.  I stopped, likea man who just saw in his mind's eye the wedding ring on the desk he forgot to bring to his own wedding.  I stopped, as I heard for the first time Yoseb's questions.  I stopped, to think about the reality before me.


I turned, slowly, to the Yoseb next to me who, on any given day would be the nerd who was really smart and would always try really hard.  I looked up at Yoseb, as his words began to register in my cranium after bouncing around in the hallways, then my ear canals, and then through the Eustacian tube.  I looked at Yoseb, and saw the blood rushing to his face, and light twinkle in the glimmer behind his glasses.  His face was torn with confusion, but rigid with all the cultural taboos of not crying instilled in him since he was a child.


My heart warmed, and I smiled.  I hope that manifested itself and helped to comfort Yoseb a bit, but he was still fighting a battle.  I told him the truth, that I would still see him next year.  I asked him to please come by the teachers' room and say hello.  I won't teach third graders, but I will still be able to spend time with them.


He tried to form words, tried to articulate, tried to describe that battle that was within, tried to make me understand something which he couldn't describe.  I saw it, in the head that nodded wordless, but in reluctant acceptance, the quick look down the hallways to see if others saw him in his moment of vulnerability, the quick look back at me for reassurance. 


And all I could do for him was smile.


I remember walking away moved, but not knowing what exactly that was.  When something like that happens, I guess you can't really put into words what happened.  Maybe that's why those moments are so moving, precisely because they transcend words and descriptive languages.


***


2)


I walk out of my last class -- my "heaven" class--trying not to wallow in the strange confluence of gratitude and sorrow of hosting that class for the last time, but instead transition into my travel mode of mind. 


Five steps into the hallway, as I begin to see the students pop out of the classroom doors like hamsters released from their cages, I hear a soft but confident "teacher," from behind me.  Two seconds later, another, but closer, "teacher."


I turn around to see Jinhwan, the smartest student I know.  He has that swagger too, and the confidence to go with it.  Overall a great student, a student you know can change something in this world for the better, and know he is capable of it.  I wish I had been able to take him out to lunch this year.


He takes a couple of steps to slow down from his hurried jog, looks me straight in the eyes--with strenght--, lends out his right hand without hesitation, and says, "I just want to say, thank you. It's been my pleasure."


I smile, still, thinking about that.  As I walk away after shaking hands, I steal a glance, and see him standing there, turned into his own world.  In that moment, he was thinking, reflecting.  In that moment, he was left wanting more.  And as he turned to go back to the classroom, and as I saw the nose and the eyes disappear from my sight overcome by the blackness of the back of his head, I saw his left cheek rise up, and the corner of his lips curl.  Upward.


I turned around to meet the stairs, and smiled.  Broadly.


Gratefully.


***