Log53: The Confession

I just walked out of my first final class.

For the first forty minutes of class, we played a game called forty nouns.*  The students really enjoyed it, and we finished the game with ten minutes left.

Then came the confession.

I told them that I am leaving on Friday to go back to America.  They cried out boos and dour moans that needless to say flattered me.  Some gawked at the news, both stunned and dismayed.

I asked them who thought I could speak Korean.  Nonplussed faces and a scent of intrigue blossomed, as a few hands rose timorously.   Those who had stood witnessed raised their hands in testimony, quipping to others that they really had seen me speak Korean.  The number, however, was curiously small.

Students began testing the waters, shouting to me in Korean cajoling me to submit to that which I had forsaken.  Before me were some of my favorite second grade students, those with whom I had begun, and those with whom, poetically, I would end.  Their eyes implored something to hold on to, anything to wrap their eager minds around.  Anticipation electrified the room, energizing every nook and cranny and desk mark and shirts and windows as if these things would all unite in a blinding explosion.  My heart had begun revving up last night, and had now come to a fever pitch as it pounded mercilessly, savagely.  I had been waiting, imagining this moment for months, and now that it had come, and an ineluctable silence stared at me.  In a room suffused with propane littered with active C4s, I lit the match.

"나도--" (I, too--)

"Bat Shi* Insane" might be apt.

I had spoken only two syllables, but they smelled it immediately.  I had unleashed a predator into a den of puerile monkeys.  They pounded on desks, cried out like crazed chimps, shouted the lord's name in vain, jolted out of their seats, ripped paper (I'm not exaggerating) , climbed over and on top of each other and hit their heads on their desks.  Some simply sat there stunned and stupefied, frozen as if someone had injected liquid nitrogen into their veins.  Some looked back in consternation, a latent odium toward the man who had ostensibly deceived them for an entire year.  They simply could not believe that this foreigner, this man from strange lands with alien customs and wayward ideals, had begun speaking their native language, the words of their mother tongue.  And for what it's worth, he spoke it reasonably well too!  I collapsed under the podium in embarrassment and laughter.  

The pandemonium vanished as quickly as it had spawned, quickly overcome by another quiescence.  A pin drop could have torn asunder the fragile silence that held the cosmos together.

I finished my sentence:

"나도 답답햇어~" (I, too, had been waiting.)

Again, a blinding explosion of joy, dismay, surprise, shock, relief, stupefaction.

I began speaking to them in Korean, first addressing this truth I had been keeping from them.  I told them the reasons, then proceeded to share with them my impressions and what I had derived from my time with them.  I thanked them and asked them to try to stay in touch and welcome the new conversational English teacher with respect.

I had not realized how readily I had subsumed my teacher's persona, but I did not tear up as much as I imagined I would.  I had been fearing how difficult this week might be, but I think the professionalism I had adopted in the classroom--not to mention the unique teacher-student dynamic consecrated in this society--occluded my emotions from overwhelming me.

Then again, maybe it's also because I have to do this for nineteen more classes.

That said, I was a nervous wreck.  A heat burned within and my face felt hot, as if a spotlight had been turned on too brightly and for too long. 

Then to not only see the alacrity beaming from my students' eyes, but also hear them speak to me in Korean, with joy, with elation, all tinged in a chroma of bittersweet, only bolstered my love for them and reassured me that my time with them might have been worth something to them after all.

As I spoke though, I noticed one of my favorite students hold back tears.  His lips postured wry and his nose reddened.  A different student pointed this out, and a few others chuckled at this, not out of malice clearly, but maybe instead from discomfort, or even, sympathy.

I looked at him, and smiled the warmest smile I could.

He alone could have shown me that my efforts this year had not been in vain.  What fortune, though, that he was in fact not alone, but with seven hundred others who graced me with their smiles and love.

I told them they made me a better teacher and a better human being, and that I cannot thank them enough.

To close, I shared with them a quotation a friend of mine shared with me that morning:
"Do not cry because it is over.  Smile because it happened." -Dr. Seuss

As I opened the door, a din of goodbyes and "I love you"s trailed in my wake.  I walked out that classroom for the last time with a warmth I had never known.

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.

Log44: Unspeakable

http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2011/03/13/world/asia/satellite-photos-japan-before-and-after-tsunami.html


The February 14, 2011 issue of Time magazine has on its cover, "Revolution, And what it means for the Middle East."  The picture is a worn Egyptian flag silhouetted under a glowing sun and upheld by the nameless apostates.  Their righteous hands carry the taut flag with a violent fervor, as if the flag were Liberty herself.


The news could not be sated by the wildly infectious revolutions occurring all over the middle east and north Africa.


Three days ago, the collision of four separate tectonic plates beneath Japan's eastern front registered an 8.9 magnitude earthquake on the Richter scale and caused a tsunami taller than ten meters to decimate Japan.


A village of 17,000 estimates a death of 10,000 from its town alone.


Over the past couple of days, few seem solicitous of the Arab world's cause.


Tragedies like the earthquake and tsunami in Japan militate against the vanity and futility of my prose.


The speed with which the world has turned to Japan--as well as the exigency and alacrity--speaks I think to a deep humanity in all of us.  International social, political, economic quarrels seem trifling when a blink from the world can change the future of humanity on such inconceivable levels.


Listen, watch, and read the news; grieving has not yet begun.  The glib reports might to the uninformed reader demonstrate an unforgiving and inhuman portrait of the landscape.  The nonchalance with which the news broadcasters, reporters, I, or anybody else I've spoken to, has approached this enormity is illustrative, not of our dissolute or immoral nature.


No, it rather speaks to the unspeakable tragedy of this spectacle; the utterly dumbfounding, stupefying, and tragically awesome power of nature; the inexplicable anguish.

Log43: The New Semester

The new year has begun, and I have already begun teaching.

Let me simply say that the inner serenity which was once a distant dream has thus far been both a haven and a vanguard during this new beginning.  

Last year when I was frightened and unsettled, I groped around for a suitable teaching persona which I could potentially grow into.  Knowing nothing about grassroots education (aka teaching) I wove a garish chimera whose design included persecutor, vaudeville, and a trying mentor.  Time and failure proved to be the best teachers as I tried to preen the outfit, and by the time winter vacation rolled around, my arms and feet began sliding into the sleeves and shoes of pedagogy a bit more comfortably.  

While the design is of course constantly in the works, perhaps it is this familiarity with an old costume I wore that has vouchsafed my easy transition.  I had at least some template of expectations and standards to which I could refer this time.  I knew the classroom, I knew the environment, and I knew how to walk in my unique ensemble.  I didn't know the students nor their comportment, but I knew myself much more.  I knew how to carry myself, and how to effectively communicate my ideas to my students.

This year I teach all first and second grade students, totaling to more than seven hundred.  Though the second grade students all learned from me last semester, they are in new classrooms with new classmates and still have voids in unanswered classroom dynamics and friends.  As for the first grade students, few, if any, know each other at all.

I have seen the consequences of giving a poor first impression on the first day versus a great impression on the first day.  In the former, your students see your hesitations and doubts because they are written all over your face.  In the latter, your doubts and locked away in a safe and forgotten for the time and your decision and word is final and unquestionable [not as a matter of myopia or wisdom, but simply confidence].  In a rather unforgiving environment where student motivation is as varied as snowflakes and only a few in each class care to learn the subject, much less actually comprehend it, the effects of those first fifty minutes last well into the semester and, perhaps if you do it right, into the livelihoods of students many years down the road.

I have yet thrown out anyone in my first grade students' classes.  I can't tell if this is a good or bad thing yet. :) Though I may have been astringent, I can tell that I have grabbed the attention of many of the students.  Simply put, I feel good about where I am with teaching right now; at least, with the first week.

Furthermore, with teaching much more grounded in my mind, my heart, and hence my life, I feel a vigor within me that I did not feel last semester.  I was always too exhausted last semester, too tired to do anything else.  

This year I feel very different.  There is a life and a jubilation within me, an excitement and positivity that goads me to strive on and experience all I can.  Perhaps closely tied to my resolutions to think more positively and strive on diligently, I look forward to a semester of unforgettable experiences, both in and outside the classroom.

Thanks for reading!  I hope you're all well!

Log40

"The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.  That is real freedom."

-David Foster Wallace (commencement speech to Kenyon College Graduating Class of 2005: Part I; Part II)

Log38: Kathmandu, Arrived!

I've been here for one hour, and it has already been an unbelievable, inconceivably amazing experience; an hour!!!

The airport was a sight (or rather, lack thereof because it was so small?), the airport exit had a ton of people, I found my people and the car ride turned out to be something straight out of the movies--no street lights, bumpy dirt roads, driving practices impractical/unimaginable in a Western world, and buildings and homes like I'd never seen before.  And it's pitch black now, so imagine what it must be like in a few hours.

I lucked out with my place though; you can immediately tell just how poor this country really is, relative, at least, to the worlds I come from (no moral valuations being placed, mind you; poor in the strictest, fiscal sense, let's not get too philosophical about this).

Also, fortuitously my camera has begun to die.

Awesome.

Here's to an adventure...

Hope you're all well!

Log37: A Trip

I am at Incheon International Airport.  It seems like just yesterday when I sat here writing just before departing to the states.  Here I am now more than a month later, about to board a plane to go to Kathmandu, Nepal.

I plan to write a lot while I am there; free-hand.  I am not brining my computer and will likely have limited internet access.

If you are wondering why I chose Nepal of all places, I will tell you that it was always a destination of great interest to me.  I aimed on studying abroad either there or Africa somewhere, but opted to spend another semester in southern California.  Since being in Korea, what seemed once like a long-lost opportunity had fortuitously come back, and I decided to take it up this time.

It will be an entirely new world, and I am anxious to see what I will learn from and about not only the country and culture, but also myself.

I am excited for this trip, and look forward to an immensely rewarding and rejuvenating experience.

I hope you are all well.  Thanks for reading.

Stay in touch.

Log36: Welcome Back!

Here I am, Friday evening (by choice; really, it's not as sad as some of you young folk may think it sounds) back in the homestay, relaxing, reflecting and cleaning my room after having just completed my school's winter English camp this afternoon.

Before I tell you about my winter English camp, let me say a few words about being back in Korea.

Many colleagues told me that as much of the United States--in all of its individuality diversity liberty and brimming glory--as we might enjoy, there would come a time when we would return to Korea and arrive with a curious sense of...home.  There would be a sigh of relief, a smile of warmth, a gravity that settles us in the most relaxing way possible.

Sure, it varies and depends on the person.  Sure, it matters what kind of traveling and travel experiences you have before you arrive back in the land of the morning calm.  Sure all those other potential causes and explanations matter to some degree.

But I was willing to give credence where it was due.  And I have been happy to say that my arrival in Korea--nay, more specifically, Jeonju--did feel like a certain home to me.  I felt an ownership of the city, I felt I had come back to a community, I felt as if I had created a bond with the city itself; like I had been a dandelion seed that flew across the Pacific, landed in a more rural region of Korea, and began growing my nascent roots (or what might be barely conceived as roots).

This is not to say this is my new home, because home, to me, has always been where the family is.  And my family, right now, is in California.  That has been, is, and always will be, home; where the family is.*

*1) For this reason, I cannot recall a time in college when I called my dorm room my "home."  I would always go back to my "room," but it was a "home" in as much as any other space I occupied temporarily would have been a home; in as much as the dining hall, the basketball gym, the classrooms, the campus grill, would have been a home.  I became attached to the entire campus certainly, but shied from calling a single room my particular space, or home.  
2) Now my own home which I will come to occupy and own will have a different tincture to the title of home. The title will be imbued with a different color, respect, and meaning.  But the kind of home that I now refer to, where you know that even at your worst the home will remain imperturbable, adamant in its position to be your touchstone and guide, is a home that never yields to give you a sense of ease and comfort and confidence.


Now, one could argue that anything after a twelve-hour flight in a three-seater would look and feel like a home.  Trust me, I could not agree more.

Yet, I guess I have become familiar with the city to some capacity.  I have met different kinds of people in a variety of lifestyles here: I found my barbershop (beauty shop, really) where the Korean middle-aged women come to shoot the breeze about their children and nephews and husbands and they see me and urge me to eat one of the pastries they brought in; I work at a school whose teachers I spend time with daily and whose students I run into often and engage with smiles laughs and all; I attend orchestra rehearsals whose members come from all over the province and span jobs ranging from pediatrician to elementary school teacher; I frequent a coffee shop whose owners and workers I have become friends with; I often take taxi rides simply because 90% of the taxi drivers in this city are disproportionately kind, interesting, and engaging people who seem to actually care whether you have a nice day or not; I live in an apartment placed smack in the middle of all these different parts of the city, with a family who both abide by and repudiate the many stereotypes of a modern Korean family.

I have come to love this quaint city for all its peculiarities and idiosyncracies, a place visibly teetering between modernization and the old guard, between wanting to develop and holding on to its title as the immovable and eternal bastion of traditional, historic Korea.

This is what happens.  Dammit.

I'm too tired now to say something about English camp.

Next time...

Much love; thanks for reading.

Log33: A Year in Review

One of the nice things about being home is the opportunity to watch sports.*


*Two points potentially battle against my sentiments:
1) I have been in Korea for six months.  One could say, for as long as six months, or one could say, for only six months.  Grow up, it has only been six months.  Yet in doing so one potentially deprives the fullness of a moment, of a day, of a week and a month.  In any case however, this is point number one; I recognize this and accept it as a point of disagreement.  Six months can be eternal, or fleeting.  I understand that in the "broader scheme of things," six months really can fly by.  And they admittedly have; it's hard to believe that the new year has already arrived.   I recognize that to some, my bemoaning and protesting of the past six months illustrates an immaturity within me, a failure to disabuse myself from naive ennui. 
2) Sports, as a literal concept, of course exists in Korea.  Of course people know what basketball is, sure there is soccer, of course skiing and swimming are common.  Yet sports in Korea still has a distant vigor to it, a kind of veracity and immediacy with which children under ten approach going out and playing in the grass, a kind of strange remoteness that can be obfuscated in the commercialism of sports.  So much of American culture is significantly constituted by sports as a product.  Of course the major sports networks are foregone conclusions, but so also must be the ways we consider even the players--LBJ, Kobe, Favre, Strasburg-- basic human beings who too happen to have stories, worries, queries and concerns just as each of us does; they are products we consume, and love to live by as a source of comfort and reward.  I too, take them for granted, and have realized just how much I...frankly...missed it all.  In any case, the second point of disagreement is how I may not have given the sports culture in Korea enough credence.

As some of you may know, sports coverage love top 10 lists. 

So how else could I properly welcome the new year other than with an appropriate reflection of the top 10 moments of 2010 (NOTE: I deliberately stretch the meaning of the word "moment," extending it to a collection of moments that can amount to an entire day or two).

TOP 10 Moments of 2010 

(from My Little Snow Globe World, 

not the actual Real World that Matters, 

and ranked in a manner that is arbitrary and with meaning

only to the extent that they are memorable, 

but not to the extent that one is somehow significantly better than the other):

10. Snow (June & December)
I had not seen snow in fifteen years prior.  I saw it once in Colorado, and again in Korea.  Both experiences recalled my carefree and restless joys from childhood.  And its smiles.

9. Meeting the ETAs (July)

Six weeks in a marble-clad, Orwellian surveillance-wired, communistic/dictatorial university set in the boonies of Korea spending time with...highly intellectual, immensely diverse, incredibly interesting recent college-graduates from all over the United States?  Yeah.  It has been nothing short of great.


8. Seoul (December)
We went.  Had a great dinner, had great views, had a fabulous time.  Splendid.

7. Dancing in SF (June)

A night in the summer.  We went to San Francisco. Mesmerizing.


6. First day at school in Korea (August)

Send a kid to the disciplinarian, scream at a student, teach my first day lessons, get a written apology, have a butt-naked student in the back of the classroom.
How does this NOT make the top-ten list? Of the decade?


5. Student admitted to APU (October)

I help this kid prepare for an interview with Asia Pacific University (international university in Japan) for a week.  I'm scared because I'm not sure how much I can help him as he begins as a nervous wreck.  He seems much more confident the day before the interview.
I get a call from him Saturday afternoon.  The kid can barely breathe, but he's wavering between crying and laughing.  He tells me he got in.


Wonderful.


4. San Francisco Airport (June/July)
Many memories have been made here.  Much traveling has been made here, and many goodbyes had here.  One in particular; my older brother dropping me off at the airport...he was the last person I would see before my six months departure to Korea, and though I knew I would see my parents in Korea, I knew it would be a long time before I would see him again.  Seeing him get back in the car and drive away kinda sucked.  But it was a moment.  And an important one.  He's my rock.


3. Senior recital (April)
What a journey this was...from the hours I spent deciding what pieces I would play, to asking help from the various professors, to practicing into the wee hours of the night...to the moments I took my bows after each piece...to the moment I walked off the stage. Scrumptious.

2. Graduation (May)
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Not in the tone of Academy Awards (arrogant), not in the tone of the Queen of England (presumptuous), not in the tone of Kanye West who thinks he is the most deserving man in the world (condescending)...No, in the tone of a son, a brother, a friend who cannot seem to garner the right amount of words--nor the proper ones--to articulate just the sheer weight of gratitude and appreciation he has to the innumerable people who helped him get to such a point and without whom he would not be who he is today, this moment.

1. Fulbright (April)
This gets top spot because it was, unlike many of the others, an actual moment: a true instant in time when my life changed.  Greatly.  And it was one of those moments which so strongly remains with you that if you could, you could recreate every little molecule that you came in contact with and that you witnessed that very moment.

Story.  As a senior interviewer then working for the admissions office, I had been asked to have a nice lunch with parents of newly accepted students who were on a special visit with their achieving sons and daughters to learn about Pomona.  I sat down and had a great conversation with the parents with whom I had sat, telling them about the wonderful experiences I had at Pomona.  They inevitably asked me what I will be do following graduation, which I could not answer definitively.  I left, to go check my mail.
I saw that I had a large brown envelope.  It being lunch time, many students were in the mailroom.  I had been waiting for news for several months, and as soon as I saw that mailing address was from Korea, the nervousness overflowed from my mouth senselessly.  I began speaking gibberish as estranged and fearful eyes turned to watch me carefully.  I ripped open the envelope, saw "Congratulations," threw my hands up in front of strangers, explained to them to assuage their fears--"Sorry, I got Fulbright."--heard their congratulations, and set my phone ablaze with my furious fingers calling nearly everyone I knew.
I went back to the table from which I had departed not three minutes ago, and told them, "Okay, you know that question about what I'll be doing after graduation?  Well I have an answer for you.  I'll be on the Fulbright."  I hugged the fellow admissions officers who were there, called my parents, hugged my friends, and was in ecstasy for the next...week?

Honorable Mentions:

*USA: The fullness of unchilled Zinfadel from Napa Valley; the warmth of home; the juiciness of an organic apple in the middle of winter; the crunchiness of fresh lettuce; the unbending crispness of nachos; the thick, moist 2/3lb burger; the freedom of driving; the color green of grass and trees; English; ESPN; these are a few of my favorite things from the land of the free and the home of the brave.

*Grad Night: 
The last hurrah for departing seniors. Some friends were trashed, some friends were buzzed; some took glory in their success, some in their survival; some smiled with glee, some bawled in despair.  What a stir of emotions that evening proved to be.  What delight I did feel, and yet what fear, what gratitude...and what comfort in the arms of a friend.

*Final Mood Swing Party:
Ah, a cappella.  Ah, Mood Swing.  How I miss both oh so much.  And the partying shenanigans; how wonderful!  They were lovely times of a not-so-distant past.  

The above of course was by no means a comprehensive list.

This is about what I can do, for now, as I try to forge ahead in the new year...the year of the rabbit. :)

May Fortune smile upon all of us this year.

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.


***

Log30: Yay

California, California, California...

You have never quite looked so close...and yet so far...

Miss you.

I have some thoughts about being a teacher and my students right now...but currently...I'm at school...and I have to take care of logistics...

Also, I'm going to Nepal from February 2-9.  Katmandu and Pokhara, probably.  I have no travel buddies yet, but I think this will be a great experience for me, even if only to travel on my own. 

Very excited.

Log29: One week

Okay, so I realize I should be revitalized after a half-day on Tuesday and no school on Wednesday. 

But I'm not.

I think I'm ready for the states.

Log28: Revisions to the Drafts of Life

" 'Learning how to think' really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience.  Because if you cannot or will not exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed.

...

It's the automatic, unconscious way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I'm operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the center of the world and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world's priorities.

...

If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is and who and what is really important--if you want to operate on your default setting--then you, like me, probably will not consider possibilities that aren't pointless and annoying.

But if you've really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options.  It will actually within your power to experienced a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars--compassion, love, the subsurface unity of all things.

The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.

That is real freedom."

-excerpts from speech given by David Foster Wallace at Kenyon College in 2006.*

*These excerpts by no means do the speech justice.  If you have not read it yet, please do so here.  It seems long, but goes by quickly and is well-worth your time.

The great freedom is that we can choose what we think about each day, we can entertain more than one way to interpret a situation, we can escape our subjective snow-globe kingdoms and become part of the world, and be in it.  If we have little choice over anything else, that which exists within us is that which we can control.

Of course, like DFW says, it's so hard.  And it takes incredible effort.

I have realized that I have taken for granted my default setting, and have been on cruise control becoming so absorbed by the lone reality that has been mine.  This is of course the universe in which I leave, and without myself I would have no such universe.  But to assume it to the extent that I have in some ways been denying myself the chance to make and find the beautiful connections that can be made here is unfortunate.

So I can change.  And it begins with thought.  It begins with what I choose to think about.  And how I choose to think.

If I have agency over nothing else, that I do have.

Log27: Let's Talk.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have been giving speaking "tests" in all my classes.  While I could have administered it in a variety of ways, I decided to really make it what it was: a test of conversational English skills.  So, we talked.  


Having a conversation with each of my 500 students in a private one-on-one setting has been, though potentially stressful to some of the students, possibly the best part of being here so far.   Each of the 500 names and numbers come alive with concerns, interests, and dreams.  So far, concerns have included fights with girlfriends, breaking up with girlfriends, stressing about tests, stressing about parents.  Interests have ranged from soccer and Starcraft to design and music composition.  Dreams have included becoming a diplomat, a president, a CEO of a big company, and a doctor, among other professions.


But they have also included something less practical, and more moving.


"Tell me, XOXO, what is your dream?"


"Teacher, my dream is to be a good father."


I sometimes wonder who is the real student.  


In addition, during a couple of these interviews, students actually just thanked me for being a great teacher.  They told me that my classes are a lot of fun and that their favorite class is English because of what I have done so far.


That many of these students have felt comfortable enough to not only share with me their personal matters like girlfriend problems or familial issues, but also tell me that they enjoy my teaching, has made me feel just wonderful, and awfully grateful.  It truly has been a gift.  I get to see the facts, stories, and the human that constitute each of my students, and they in turn have a chance to get to know me a bit more, to see the human behind the teacher.

And we begin to bond.  And love.

I am starting to really care about these students.  I think I'm really beginning to love these students, both individually and collectively.  It's almost like I embrace them like they were my own children.


Who would have thought?  Haha.

Log 26: A Quick Overview

Alright, as my father who was in Seoul a couple of weeks ago on a business trip advised me to do when I visited him, I will do my best to keep people informed with shorter snapshots of my life and goings-on, for your sake, and mine, because sometimes the pressure to complete whatever "magnum opus" I have begun becomes unwieldy and overbearing.  

So.  In a strictly unchronological order.


Thanksgiving weekend: An afternoon Thanksgiving "dinner" at Ambassador Kathleen Stephens' home in Seoul.  As I wrote to a dear friend, America had not tasted so delightful in quite some time.  I decided to perform some music for the event with my fellow ETAs.  The performances included piano, horn, flute (me), violin, voice, and a poem.  My performance went better than I had expected, especially in light of my uninhibited enjoyment of the Riesling they provided.  Sadly, I refrained from enjoying more once I realized that performances would commence after the meal.


Because I'm unreasonably light-weight when it comes to drinking.

A Gratifying Experience (mid-October) : I helped a high school senior named Min-Ho practice his interviewing skills as he prepared for an interview with Asia Pacific University in Japan: his dream school.  I felt confident in my role, as I had not only worked in college admissions but also received training as an interviewer.  We ran three mock-interviews in the week prior to his interview with APU.  He improved with each interview, and seemed to gain more confidence.


On November 5th, Min-Ho called me searching for both words and air.  He managed to get out what mattered; he was accepted to APU.  He will be a freshman beginning April 2011.

Would-You-Rather (mid November lesson):  
"Would you rather verbA A or verbB B?" 
EX: Would you rather swim with snakes or swim with crocodiles? 
EX2: Would you rather play basketball like Michael Jordan or dance like Michael Jackson?

"I would rather verbA A because reason"
EX: I would rather swim with snakes because crocodiles can eat me.
EX2: I would rather play basketball like Michael Jordan because I like basketball.


My question #2:
Would you rather meet Rain [male Korean pop star] or meet Lady Gaga?

Student answer (verbatim):
I would rather meet Lady Gaga because I sex her.

I allowed the students to form their own questions and ask me.
Here are a few, all verbatim:

1) Teacher, would you rather cute girl or sexy girl? [notice the lack of verbs]
2) Would you rather live USA or Korea? [caught me in a bind since they know I'm Korean and they don't like unpatriotic folk]
3) Would you rather marry American girl or Korean girl? [another patriotism thing]
4, and the worst one) Would you rather A-cup girl or C-cup girl? [again, no verb]

These boys need to get out more.

Log25: The Uninvited, Part II

There have also been days when I am not the unexpected guest, but instead a stranger  who would brighten my day through the most peculiar things.

The Taxi Driver

After a long and exhausting day at school, I walk to the university area to catch a cab.  The lessons had been going well, but repeating this particular lesson during which students ran around screaming at each other (as part of the lesson) has been extremely draining.

The gorgeous October sun and autumn leaves help my mood, but do little to alleviate the apathy that has settled within.  I open the cab door and tell the taxi driver where I have to go, and just slump down lazily, happy to have something catch me as I resign to gravity without hope.  I ready both my mind and body to just ooze into the seat as silently as if it would become one with the cab.  I start to open my bag to put on my headphones and get back to the billboard topper Love the Way by Eminem ft. Rihanna when curiosity catches my ear.

I begin to hear a familiar voice seep into me.  As the piano chords, riding cymbal and funky bassline come into form, the image of the voice swaying his head aimlessly in front of the mic, with his moustache and sunglasses meandering to the harmonies he creates jump instantly to my mind.

So boogie on reggae woman, what is wrong with you...

Is this really happening?  I'm in a taxi near the southern exit of Jeonju University, one of three universities in what is known as the bastion of traditional Korean culture, listening to Stevie Wonder's 1974 single 'Boogie On Reggae Woman'?!  Are you serious?!

Granted, Stevie Wonder is very popular in Korea anyway.  But for some reason, it all took me back a bit.  I have this biased view of Korean taxi drivers listening only to very traditional Korean music, or the Korean equivalent of the '60s and '70s classics (which, for those of you who don't know, require an acquired taste...at least for me). 

I felt more comfortable in my surprise when the next song began with a bass drum, high hat, off to a fast marching beat in that classic '70s rock style...the electric coming in four bars later with three pairs of notes, twanging...then a harsh, inspired voice in a pitched yell, "Some folks are born to wave the flag, ooh, they're red white and blue..."


'Fortunate Son' by CCR?  Are you kidding me?

I talked to the taxi driver, and he had downloaded these songs onto his MP3 which was plugged into the car radio.  

Impressive.


Among the countless memories I have already made here in Korea, this remains one of the most unforgettable.  I'm not completely sure why, but here is my guess.

First, the sheer shock value.  
Second, the subversion of expectations.
Third, the comfort I found in the music of old, especially during that time of stress and fatigue.

It was a pleasant surprise, to say the least.  

Sometimes you're not the uninvited.  In any singular moment, your mood and your situation inform the expectations you have about the world.  They form a kind of guest list of things and events you assume will happen in the coming moments, hours, days.  Some of those guests make appearances as expected, and some of them don't but you don't cry over their absence.

And sometimes you have the uninvited, who admittedly can sometimes be the unwelcome inebriated vice, but can also be a delightful and most welcome surprise.

Log24: The Uninvited, Part I

Well, it's been a while since I last wrote anything at all, so please excuse the inevitable incoherence and disorganization that will follow.

First, I know the title seems really pretentious, and maybe to some, it already so obviously is.  For what it's worth, I ask that you please humor me and read on as I try to explain why I think the title is appropriate and, perhaps, try to remove the veil of pretension and illuminate a sort of truth lying beneath.

Over the past couple of weeks, I have had the privilege of witnessing a great range of moments, all of which seem to have entailed some entity or being positioned as a kind of outsider.  More often than not, I myself have occupied that place as one who is from without, a foreigner, in more ways than simply my nationality.  In other cases, I have witnessed another distinct foreign entity collide with the reality before and come to shed new light on my life.  The following experiences I share are prominent examples that not only try to live up to the different meanings embedded in the notion of "the uninvited," but also more practically illustrate the life I have been leading, and living, here in Korea.

I. In the House of God

Two Wednesdays ago, the school minister (I teach at a Christian high school) asked me to join students from the Christian club to perform some music at a church located within an army camp.  Always seeking performance opportunities, I agreed.  On the following Monday and Tuesday, I stayed at school until 8PM to rehearse with the students: three cellists, two violinists, and a clarinetist, all of who were, needless to say, cute.  Growing up in Korea where a student's life is not about which extracurricular activities he or she pursues, but if the activities are pursued at all, these students have admirably contuinued their trades -- albeit only to a more modest degree relative to their American counterparts (no more than two or three years) --, and I was very happy to see them enjoying themselves.*

*Those who do commit themselves to an (usually one) extracurricular activity (i.e. soccer) dedicate themselves as professional athletes would in the states, dropping hopes for a life outside of that particular activity (i.e. only soccer).  There is not enough time for a Korean "student" to be both a student and an experienced/formal/club soccer player, say (there really aren't any outside "clubs" or "youth" organizations for extracurricular activities here, so it's no wonder school athletes are not required to attend class).**

**I'm sure I'm generalizing, as I speak from the small window of reality that is I am seeing, so this is not necessarily capital-T THE reality.

On the following day, the students and I packed up after school to go lead the evening service at the church for soldiers, located an hour north of Jeonju (I forget the name of the town).   The bus ride proved an enjoyable but exhausting test of linguistic trial-and-error, as the students bombarded me with their recapitulations of English idioms, colloquialisms, and "proper" usage.  Still though, butchered English words, the stories told incoherently todl through broken English, and jokes reinterpreted and recycled from grade school rejuvenated me in both spirit and purpose.  These students began to seem less like "students" and more like humans; almost like younger brothers.

It was a cute little church that could seat maybe...70 people?


The minister, directing preparations.
 

The students preparing for the service. 
I would soon find out what an entertainment extravaganza the service would really be: singing, dancing, speeches, plays, and music.


Choral practice.


There was cross-dressing involved. For the sake of the soldiers...or so they said.  Harhar. :)

Now for those of you who may not know yet, I am not religious.  I did not grow up going to a church or abiding by a major religion's doctrine or creed.  Though I would name Buddhism if I had to choose a major religion with which my family and I seem to at least have a familial association, sacred spaces or houses of worship were not a large part of my family, much less my childhood and youth.

And yet, from the absence of religion grew an ironic fascination with it.  Ever since I came to have some semblance of awareness about myself and the world, I have always found religion fascinating both intellectually and personally.  I have always yearned to learn more about it, from it, maybe because of its absence.  To be sure, this intellectual intrigue has had to combat a serious visceral and strangely unexplainable disinclination toward what few interactions I have had with religious worship (mainly Christianity), and sadly I have no doubt that this immature self still lies deep within somewhere whining and kicking every time somebody comes to proselytize or convert me when I am not ready or willing.  Still, I have realized in the past couple of years that one of the best ways to learn from those things that estrange you most is to engage it directly and commensurately, to confront and delve into it deeply, but perhaps more importantly, openly. 

This trip was another opportunity for me to do just that; to try to open my mind by becoming steeped in religion, and to do it within the house of god.

*     *     *

   Man those kids know how to dance!  Imagine the preparations, the time they put into this performance!  Imagine all the things they wanted to do but had to cut out because of time constraints, imagine the number of hours these students had to put in on top of their already unreasonable workload, and imagine the courage it took for them to do this, all in the name of God and their fellow brethren!  And look at just how much they are enjoying themselves!  They are so passionate, so lost in the moment, so inexplicably happy to share with others the glory of God, and do so through holy song and dance!



     Who am I to say what religion is good or bad, or even deem what constitutes a "good" or a "bad"?  Look at them, heads tilted up toward the stagelights as if they were the sun God himself is shining down; look at the smiles and the unfettered happiness they derive from this service!  Is this religion?  Is this what it means to be a believer, a follower of a faith?  Is this what it's like to be so completely and absolutely free of your world and struggles and know of a haven beyond?  Why then are there degrees of religiosity?  What does being religious really amount to then?  Does this mean any religion is okay?  Am I willing to resign myself to religious or cultural or subjective relativity?  Is that what I am doing, or is my reluctance to do so already a demonstration of some greater "humanist," "objective" creed by which we all abide?  Am I arrogant in saying that?  Is their reality better than mine?

     Wow, maybe the way these students feel about religion is the way I feel about music.   Is this their sanctuary, as music is mine?  Does that mean music is a religion?  Am I religious then?  But is that even a fair comparison at all?  What the hell is religion anyway?

*     *     *

For what it's worth, these students are talented.  Their dances were well-rehearsed, their songs worthy of great praise, and their enthusiasm and devotion to not only the service and the audience, but also their savior, were inspiring.*  The chance to see these students working under a different element in a vastly different context helped me connect with them on a new level.

 

*With particular note to dance, the frontman was the smallest, but the best; that man was killing it, dancing with a Michael Jacksonian conviction. 

NOTE: Most--if not all--of the students who were involved in this service are all very good students in my classroom.  I teach all but a couple of them, and they are all very attentive and hard-working.  What appropriate conclusions one wants to draw from this, I do not aim to explore right now...

I was certainly an outsider; at least it felt like it, at least in my religiosity (or rather, lack thereof).  In some ways, one cannot deny that I was not; what is a "heathen" doing in such a sacred space?  Perhaps I have come to be saved, or more ideally to learn and embrace that which so many millions around the world have already done, for God is great and loves all of mankind, believers and non-believers.  To his house I have come, invited by his disciples (followers) to perhaps begin a renewal, a rebirth. 

So am I a born-again Christian?

No, not quite.

But perhaps what I gained was of greater value: a chance to certainly chip away at the ignorance that has kept me from seeing religion both theoretically and empathetically, but also widen my heart as human being; that is to say, help me become a wiser, more understanding, more compassionate, and more engaged human being; that is to say, a better person.  The service helped clarify that distant and muddled form that always was religion into a more concrete figure.  Witnessing the evening as that outsider unfamiliar with this particular denomination and culture of Christianity, I gained a clearer picture of what religion might mean and to what it may amount.  I have begun seeing religion as something crucial both personally and communally, and was humbled by the fervent devotion and unfettered love that the faithful had for each other, and for what lay beyond.