1-02-03
Another old friend from back home stopped in Korea for holiday. He‘s
on his third year as a high school English teacher in Japan. We all have our silly
fantasies about living in Japan, and my friend confirmed most of them. But as
a black man in Japan he‘s found personal intimacy close to impossible. Japanese
girls, he says, want one thing from him. They don‘t need his name for this.
I took him out Saturday night. In the bars, college girls practiced English,
asking questions about Japan, America, Korea and his opinions on each culture.
He seemed relieved that none asked him to a hotel.
Honesty, personal intimacy
and real friendship are not difficult to find in Korea. Getting into a Korean
girl‘s pants, without the promise of love, usually is. Japan and Korea sometimes
seem distant, not even in the same hemisphere. But in both countries foreign men
find room for dissatisfaction.
Earlier, on our way to the bar, we passed
a demonstration for the two dead middle school girls. I told my buddy about it
and he hurried past. I lingered, waving hello and smiling at the high school kids.
The result was typically Korean. “Hello foreigner! What‘s your name?
Where are you from?” I told them, “Miguk nome imnida” They laughed
and said in English “No. This is not about you. You are welcome. Welcome
to Korea!”
1-4-03
Warm January afternoon. Neighbors open
windows and set things out to air. Ajummas move back to the gardens for thawing
veggies. The local tofu shop sets out crates of delicious steaming tofu cakes.
The soft sour odor reaches my nose. A shit-dog trots up, sniffs the tofu, looks
warily over each shoulder and lifts his leg.
Mia brews a fresh
pot of Kona Coffee, just received via care package. The brew smells of lilac and
strawberry, tastes pleasantly sweet, but the fragrance holds more flavor than
the coffee itself. My teeth feel slippery and clean after a second cup. I open
the coffeemaker's lid. Inside are three melting balls of care package bath soap
gel: strawberry and lilac. Where's Alex? Three cycles of vinegar later, the coffeemaker
smells like pickled strawberries.
1-16-03
Sitting on a new
bus with new, broken reclining seats. Bus starts forward and seat reclines more.
We speed up and it reclines with the acceleration. If the bus stops the seat comes
up. I move to the next (broken) seat.
My classroom is cold and I turn on
the electric heater. Five minutes later it shuts off. Turn on again. Shuts off
again, etc. Classroom chairs collapse when someone sits on them. A student sits
in a desk and the legs splay out and collapse. The three printers break in weekly
intervals.
I put 400 won in a coffee machine with no coffee. Broke, and
I‘m out 400 won! I put my fist through it and wait for the bus. It passes
so I holler fuck this country until the next bus stops.
1-18-03
Alex
sits in front of me crying. "Appah, mi-an! Mi-an! Mi-an!" His little
body shakes and rocks. My temper has me in a fit.
It‘s difficult to
record this. I have to stop and breathe, force myself to write. My temper does
not cause physical abuse, nor does it cause neglect. I don't know what to call
it -- sporadic, marginally controlled rage.
What happened was this: Alex
climbed onto a table to get his Sesame Street videos. He's hidden them somewhere.
Maybe he‘s broken them again, twenty dollars apiece. Any kid his age would
do the same. Most parents would explain to their kid, punish him lightly if he
disobeyed again. Most kids would sneak back and disobey.
In a way I am proud
of his willingness to disobey. It shows he‘s got character, balls, his own
agenda.
So this is my issue, not his. I've told him once, then told him
again. Maybe told him three or four or five times yet he willfully disobeys, then
I set into rage. I want to make an impression, but don't know how to approach
it effectively. Impulsively, to avoid spanking, I yell at him. I punch a wall
and yell some more. Then I stick him in his room while I rage on outside the door.
Then I go back and yell at him more, maybe spank him, yell at him for disobeying.
He's apologizing, crying, rocking, chewing on his finger and trying to be quiet.
The
whole time I feel rotten. My mind is in a funk. I hate myself. I regret every
word, every action. Shame makes me angrier. He isn't physically bruised. Nothing
broken. He‘s just shocked, fearing his father.
There is an overwhelming
temptation to make excuses. People tell me to ask him nicely, ask him why did
you disobey, Alex? But he cannot explain yet, in Korean or English. Asking a two-year-old
“Why?” seems expecting too much. At best he gives me an animated skit
involving dance, water and a boat (he refers to these constantly).
What
are my alternatives? A long walk; appah needs time out.