Happy New Year!
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Volleyball Hurts
Heart-pounding fear, battle cries of the merciless, stinging slaps, screams of terror, tears, and the sounds of attacking orcs; these are all commonplace on Volleyball Wednesday. At 2:30, the teachers at my school meet on the volleyball court, dressed in gym clothes, and ready to win some games. The very first day, I laced up my shoes, trudged to the gym and positioned myself on the sidelines, ready to cheer like nobody's business. That lasted about two seconds. A kind teacher took me by the elbow and led me to the net, placing me in the middle with instructions to spike the ball over the net.
"I'm not very good at this," I protested. "Are you sure you want me to play?"
"You tall!" I was told. "You striker!"
Guess, what? I'm not a striker. My height has nothing to do with it. They quickly figured this out and moved me over one position. Now, my usual spot is in the front right corner. My duties are to 1) try to smack any ball coming my way, 2) failing that, to get out of the way so a more able teacher can hit the ball, and 3) serve the ball with my awesome, U.S.A.-born right arm.
Today was the last Volleyball Wednesday of the semester. I didn't bother changing into gym clothes because I was busy working on lesson planning. When I finally meandered over to the gym, I loitered outside for a few minutes, exchanging meaningful English phrases with a sixth grade boy.
"Hello!" the boy shouted from several feet away.
I stopped and replied, "Hello! What are you doing?"
He swung a baseball bat and pointed to the other boys around him holding various baseball accessories. "Baseball! What are you doing?"
"Volleyball!"
"Okay! Goodbye!"
Pleased with this fairly legitimate exchange, I turned to go in. "Have a good day!"
And then the boy said, "I don't think so!"
I stopped, turned around, and couldn't resist asking, "You don't think?"
"I don't think so!" he shouted.
"You don't think?" I yelled back.
"I don't think so!" he shouted again.
"You don't think?" I asked again, laughing at my own little joke.
"I don't think so!" he replied.
Endlessly amused, I kept at it, marveling at the little quirks of the English language that allows our exchange to convey the message that the little boy doesn't think he thinks.
This went on for a few moments until Head Teacher (to be known as HT) poked his head out of the gym to find out what all the noise was about. He scowled and beckoned me inside. I shuffled over to the side of the gym and slouched down in one of the chairs. The ladies' game was just ending. I cheered for the winning team, slightly smug with the knowledge that I came too late to play.
Then it was time for the men to play. They strutted onto the court with much arm-stretching and took their positions.
Either because it was the end of the semester or because a few teachers just didn't want to play, the men were short players. So guess who got dragged onto court? Yup. Me.
They put me in the back right corner - just a body to fill available space. I hugged the corner of the court, confident that I wouldn't be allowed to touch the ball until it was my turn to serve.
Wrong.
"Hayna!"
I heard the shout too late and watched the ball bounce on the floor right next to me. I looked up and saw HT scowling at me. Through the intonation in his voice and body language he displayed, I understood his extreme disappointment in my volleyball skills. I attempted to convey with facial expressions and bowing that I was extremely sorry that I wasn't up to snuff, but that he knew that already, so why make me play?
The game resumed and I stepped back to allow the men around me to hit the ball. Then the ball came toward me again. I ran for it, Mr. 3-3 ran for it, and we both stepped back, just in time to see the ball hit the ground between us. I looked up at Mr. 3-3, he looked up at me, and we both turned to face HT's wrath. He yelled a bit and I silently translated: "Why didn't you hit the ball? You know Hayna can't play! You know she doesn't yell 'Mine!', like all good volleyball players are supposed to! YOU should yell 'Mine!' every time the ball is on our side of the net so Hayna doesn't make the mistake of thinking she can hit it! You are in charge of hitting the ball from now on! Don't fail me, good sir!"
I missed the ball once more. There was no yelling that time. HT just glared (he has a glare that can make you feel like the crumbs stuck to a cockroach's belly) at me and then at Mr. 3-3, who was failing at Hayna-duty. I made a promise to myself that if the ball came towards me, and if Mr. 3-3 didn't go for it, and if the stars were aligned in the shape of a pony, I would hit that ball with all of my might.
The stars must have been in pony position because I finally hit the ball . . . with my face.
I heard my name, lifted my head, and saw the red, white, and yellow volleyball coming right at me. I raised my arms too late, but managed to guide the ball right into my face. I closed my eyes just in time. I heard an audible thud! and felt the ball hit my right cheek. The pressure of the ball disappeared, leaving behind a numb-like sting. I opened my eyes to see HT jump and spike the ball over the net.
It was game point and our team won. HT himself came over to thank me for my good work.
"You hit ball," he said.
I nodded, one hand held to my stinging face.
"With this!" he said, pointing at my head.
I nodded again.
"Good!" he said. He grabbed my hand and held it out. "Next time, with this!" he commanded.
I wholeheartedly agreed.
"I'm not very good at this," I protested. "Are you sure you want me to play?"
"You tall!" I was told. "You striker!"
Guess, what? I'm not a striker. My height has nothing to do with it. They quickly figured this out and moved me over one position. Now, my usual spot is in the front right corner. My duties are to 1) try to smack any ball coming my way, 2) failing that, to get out of the way so a more able teacher can hit the ball, and 3) serve the ball with my awesome, U.S.A.-born right arm.
Today was the last Volleyball Wednesday of the semester. I didn't bother changing into gym clothes because I was busy working on lesson planning. When I finally meandered over to the gym, I loitered outside for a few minutes, exchanging meaningful English phrases with a sixth grade boy.
"Hello!" the boy shouted from several feet away.
I stopped and replied, "Hello! What are you doing?"
He swung a baseball bat and pointed to the other boys around him holding various baseball accessories. "Baseball! What are you doing?"
"Volleyball!"
"Okay! Goodbye!"
Pleased with this fairly legitimate exchange, I turned to go in. "Have a good day!"
And then the boy said, "I don't think so!"
I stopped, turned around, and couldn't resist asking, "You don't think?"
"I don't think so!" he shouted.
"You don't think?" I yelled back.
"I don't think so!" he shouted again.
"You don't think?" I asked again, laughing at my own little joke.
"I don't think so!" he replied.
Endlessly amused, I kept at it, marveling at the little quirks of the English language that allows our exchange to convey the message that the little boy doesn't think he thinks.
This went on for a few moments until Head Teacher (to be known as HT) poked his head out of the gym to find out what all the noise was about. He scowled and beckoned me inside. I shuffled over to the side of the gym and slouched down in one of the chairs. The ladies' game was just ending. I cheered for the winning team, slightly smug with the knowledge that I came too late to play.
Then it was time for the men to play. They strutted onto the court with much arm-stretching and took their positions.
Either because it was the end of the semester or because a few teachers just didn't want to play, the men were short players. So guess who got dragged onto court? Yup. Me.
They put me in the back right corner - just a body to fill available space. I hugged the corner of the court, confident that I wouldn't be allowed to touch the ball until it was my turn to serve.
Wrong.
"Hayna!"
I heard the shout too late and watched the ball bounce on the floor right next to me. I looked up and saw HT scowling at me. Through the intonation in his voice and body language he displayed, I understood his extreme disappointment in my volleyball skills. I attempted to convey with facial expressions and bowing that I was extremely sorry that I wasn't up to snuff, but that he knew that already, so why make me play?
The game resumed and I stepped back to allow the men around me to hit the ball. Then the ball came toward me again. I ran for it, Mr. 3-3 ran for it, and we both stepped back, just in time to see the ball hit the ground between us. I looked up at Mr. 3-3, he looked up at me, and we both turned to face HT's wrath. He yelled a bit and I silently translated: "Why didn't you hit the ball? You know Hayna can't play! You know she doesn't yell 'Mine!', like all good volleyball players are supposed to! YOU should yell 'Mine!' every time the ball is on our side of the net so Hayna doesn't make the mistake of thinking she can hit it! You are in charge of hitting the ball from now on! Don't fail me, good sir!"
I missed the ball once more. There was no yelling that time. HT just glared (he has a glare that can make you feel like the crumbs stuck to a cockroach's belly) at me and then at Mr. 3-3, who was failing at Hayna-duty. I made a promise to myself that if the ball came towards me, and if Mr. 3-3 didn't go for it, and if the stars were aligned in the shape of a pony, I would hit that ball with all of my might.
The stars must have been in pony position because I finally hit the ball . . . with my face.
I heard my name, lifted my head, and saw the red, white, and yellow volleyball coming right at me. I raised my arms too late, but managed to guide the ball right into my face. I closed my eyes just in time. I heard an audible thud! and felt the ball hit my right cheek. The pressure of the ball disappeared, leaving behind a numb-like sting. I opened my eyes to see HT jump and spike the ball over the net.
It was game point and our team won. HT himself came over to thank me for my good work.
"You hit ball," he said.
I nodded, one hand held to my stinging face.
"With this!" he said, pointing at my head.
I nodded again.
"Good!" he said. He grabbed my hand and held it out. "Next time, with this!" he commanded.
I wholeheartedly agreed.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Spitting Lessons
I spit in the street today.
I'm so ashamed of myself.
Spitting is apparently culturally acceptable. There is nothing wrong with discussing the day with your friend and hocking a loogie in the middle of your sentence. ("And, so I told MinJi that if she didn't call me the next day - Snooort! Pitew! - I would be very upset. By the way, seaweed is on sale today.") I've seen people spit here more than anywhere else in my life. I've stepped in more spit here than anywhere else in my life. So, for that reason, I promised myself that I would never - ever, ever, ever - spit in the street.
And then I broke that promise.
It was 7:00 am on a Sunday. I stepped outside, coughing up a lung as I walked to the bus station. I hacked and hacked until - oh, the horror! - I felt a big ball of mucus fill my mouth. I froze with one foot in the air and looked around to assess the situation.
Here are the facts: 1) It is early morning so no one should be out and about. 2) I am on a little-used side street. 3) I am surrounded by churches and bath houses. Conclusion: If I spit, no one should see me.
I stepped to the side of the road and leaned over some tall weeds. And I spit.
I'm not a spitter. I've never learned how to spit properly. The ball of mucus landed with an audible splat and a long string of spit connecting it to my mouth. I spit again. Now I had two strings of spit connecting me to the ground. I sucked in, coughed, and finally broke the string. Satisfied with myself, I wiped my mouth and straightened.
And saw an elderly Korean man standing on the steps of the bath house staring at me.
"Uh . . . anyeonghaseyo," I said, bowing and surreptitiously wiping my chin.
Palm down, the man beckoned me over to him. Cautiously, I approached.
"You spit like a little girl," he said in perfect English.
Well, I didn't know what to say to that.
"I'm sorry?" I apologized.
"Watch," he instructed and proceeded to snort a loogie.
He spat it onto the road while I looked on with ill-disguised disgust.
"Try," he commanded.
"I've gotta catch my bus," I said, backing away slowly.
He spat again. "Try, first," he said.
I half-heartedly spit into the bushes.
"Good," he said. "Practice and you will be okay. Maybe."
"Um, thank you," I said, backing away and bowing. "Kamsahamnida."
He nodded and waved me away.
So, now I have a new goal: I need to learn how to spit properly. Anyone up for giving lessons?
I'm so ashamed of myself.
Spitting is apparently culturally acceptable. There is nothing wrong with discussing the day with your friend and hocking a loogie in the middle of your sentence. ("And, so I told MinJi that if she didn't call me the next day - Snooort! Pitew! - I would be very upset. By the way, seaweed is on sale today.") I've seen people spit here more than anywhere else in my life. I've stepped in more spit here than anywhere else in my life. So, for that reason, I promised myself that I would never - ever, ever, ever - spit in the street.
And then I broke that promise.
It was 7:00 am on a Sunday. I stepped outside, coughing up a lung as I walked to the bus station. I hacked and hacked until - oh, the horror! - I felt a big ball of mucus fill my mouth. I froze with one foot in the air and looked around to assess the situation.
Here are the facts: 1) It is early morning so no one should be out and about. 2) I am on a little-used side street. 3) I am surrounded by churches and bath houses. Conclusion: If I spit, no one should see me.
I stepped to the side of the road and leaned over some tall weeds. And I spit.
I'm not a spitter. I've never learned how to spit properly. The ball of mucus landed with an audible splat and a long string of spit connecting it to my mouth. I spit again. Now I had two strings of spit connecting me to the ground. I sucked in, coughed, and finally broke the string. Satisfied with myself, I wiped my mouth and straightened.
And saw an elderly Korean man standing on the steps of the bath house staring at me.
"Uh . . . anyeonghaseyo," I said, bowing and surreptitiously wiping my chin.
Palm down, the man beckoned me over to him. Cautiously, I approached.
"You spit like a little girl," he said in perfect English.
Well, I didn't know what to say to that.
"I'm sorry?" I apologized.
"Watch," he instructed and proceeded to snort a loogie.
He spat it onto the road while I looked on with ill-disguised disgust.
"Try," he commanded.
"I've gotta catch my bus," I said, backing away slowly.
He spat again. "Try, first," he said.
I half-heartedly spit into the bushes.
"Good," he said. "Practice and you will be okay. Maybe."
"Um, thank you," I said, backing away and bowing. "Kamsahamnida."
He nodded and waved me away.
So, now I have a new goal: I need to learn how to spit properly. Anyone up for giving lessons?
Friday, December 17, 2010
The Traditional Art of Bug Arranging
My trip to Jeju in November included a stop at the Bug Museum. I have no idea what its proper title is (I was told it was a Butterfly Garden, a Theme Park, and a Pet Restaurant), so I'm calling it the Bug Museum. We stepped off the tour bus and walked inside to see a roomful of what I would call Classical Nude paintings. Mostly depending on their gender, my accompanying teachers either sidled forward for a closer look, or squealed and bolted for the bug room. I nonchalantly strolled past the paintings, glancing over the heads of the males to see painted red curtains and the faces of the 15th Century ideal Italian woman. My Co-Teacher - henceforth known as CT - grabbed my arm and hustled me after the other female teachers.
"We don't have this in Korea," she explained, "so they are surprised. And the men are shocked."
I slid a glance over my shoulder. "Shocked, huh? I'll bet they are so shocked they can't move."
My sarcasm flew over her head. "Yes. Exactly."
The first thing we saw in the bug room was a large mosaic of dead butterflies pinned to the wall. I stopped to marvel at the colors arrangement and CT pulled a face.
"Oh, this is awful," she said. "They killed all these butterflies for this?"
I paused for some split-second internal dialogue: I see a beautiful display and she sees a wall full of death. This is either a very complex commentary on East Asian vs. American culture, or nothing more than two clashing point of views. Wait. SHOULD I see a wall of death? Now that she mentions it, it is kind of gross. But they are so pretty. And you can never see butterflies so artfully arranged in the wild.
"Look at this!" CT called, pulling me to the next display.
I stared. I took a step closer. I took a step back. I cocked my head.
"Why are there bugs dressed up as school children?" I asked.
CT shook her head. "I don't know. But isn't it cute?"
"Uhhhh . . ."
Okay, so THIS is a commentary on East Asian vs. American culture, I thought, or just another example of our clashing views.
We moved to the next display. It featured beetles in a restaurant setting. Some wore aprons and carried trays of what I can only assume were tiny bowls of japchae and others sat at the tables, bug menus in hand.
"Ha ha!" CT laughed. "How funny!"
"Funny haha or funny weird?" I asked.
Call me crazy, but playing dress up with beetles and praying mantises (mantis? manties?) is slightly more creepy than pinning a bunch of butterflies on the wall. But, hey, whatever floats your boat, right?
And so we moved through the displays. I goggled at a bug astronaut, a bug king, a bug hospital complete with nurses and doctors, a bug dungeon with a scorpion holding a tiny club filled with spikes, bug soccer players, and Bug Land - a miniature theme park literally crawling with bug tourists.
"Look at these beetles!" CT called, beckoning me over to another display. "Do you know the Korean traditional card game?"
I snapped a picture of the bugs. "Nope."
CT looked crestfallen. "Oh. Well . . . it's a traditional Korean card game . . . a gambling game."
"Like poker?" I asked.
CT shook her head. "No. Yes. Maybe. I don't really know how to play," she confessed, her voice deep with the shame of being Korean and NOT understanding how to play their traditional card game.
"That's okay," I said. "I don't really know how to play poker."
She smiled and we both stood there staring at the bugs.
"They're so pretty," CT commented after a moment.
"The bugs or the cards?" I asked.
"The cards."
Another moment of silence and then CT said, "That's they're real size."
"The bugs or the cards?" I repeated.
"The cards. And the bugs. They are all of them their real size." She turned to look at the next display (a bunch of Egyptian beetles whipping small cockroaches into building a pyramid for them). "Maybe we can do that someday," she said.
"The card game?"
She shook her head. "No, I shouldn't gamble. I mean the bugs."
I almost dropped my camera. "You mean, we should kill a bunch of bugs and dress them up as teachers and doctors and stuff?"
She made a face. "Well, not real bugs."
"Right. Of course. Fake bugs."
"Exactly." She nodded in agreement and moved on.
"Or we could do flower arranging," I suggested, hurrying to catch up.
CT circled around to the butterfly mosaic again. "Maybe," she said, shuddering as her eyes caught sight of the butterflies again. "Yuck. Isn't it sad?"
I threw my glance back at the bug gladiator display. "Yes it is. So very sad."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Don't Take Candy From Strangers
We were kicked out of our bus seats by two ahjummas today. They were very nice about it - they didn't slap me (like the lady we saw in Seoul) nor did they smack me with an umbrella (like the lady at the Suncheon bus station). They simply marched to the back of the bus and motioned us over.
We were on the bus to Suncheon. I had Christmas shopping to do and everyone else just wanted to get out and have some fun. We sat in the very back of the bus, Little D against one window, me against the other, and V sitting in the middle. There was a seat between us, giving us ample room to keep our bags and snacks within easy reach. We had just settled into our respective seats when the ahjummas struck. They got on the bus one stop after ours and marched past rows and rows of empty seats to commandeer the seats usually reserved for teenage delinquents and the like. (I would like to take this moment to mention that our choice to sit in those same seats says nothing about our ages and/or our delinquency or lack thereof.) With great big smiles and much hand-waving, they sat in my seat and the one immediately beside it. I moved to sit right next to Little D while V moved to the seat just in front of ours.
We then proceeded to studiously ignore each other.
About halfway to our destination, I felt a touch on my arm.
"Yepuda," Ahjumma number 1 said.
I glanced down at my jeans and T-shirt, wondering why she was calling me pretty. "Kamsahamnida," I replied.
Then she pushed two pieces of candy into my hand.
"Kamsahamnida," I said again, handing one to Little D.
She then tapped V on the shoulder and deposited a wrapped candy into her hand as well. Without bothering to stop and read the label, I unwrapped the candy and popped it in my mouth.
And almost gagged.
My first instinct was to spit it out into my hand, but a quick glance to my right revealed Ahjumma number 1 smiling at me and sucking on her own piece of hard candy. I tried to smile back. It must have been successful, because she turned back to her own companion. I grabbed the gold and red wrapper and stared. "Red Ginseng Candy" it read in English just above the Korean writing.
"What kind did you get?" I asked Little D.
One look at his face was enough. "It tastes like grass," he muttered.
I fumbled with my purse. "I have tissue if you need to blow your nose," I said.
Little D stared. "What?"
I tried to surreptitiously motion to the ahjummas. "Tissue. To blow your nose." I stuck out my tongue with the piece of Red Ginseng nightmare on it.
"Ah," he said. "Yes, please."
I handed him a tissue and he pretended to blow his nose. I dug into my bag for another tissue for myself and froze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turned and saw Ahjumma number 1 motioning at me while talking to her companion. I smiled, nodded, and moved the candy to the other cheek. Inch by inch, keeping one eye on the two ahjummas, I pulled a tissue out of my bag. Then, as they both turned to look at something out the window, I put the tissue to my face and pretended to blow my nose. Except I really did blow my nose.
"Yuck," I said and quickly folded the tissue and spit the candy out.
The ahjummas looked over at me and I faked a cough and blew my nose again.
When we got to Suncheon, I waited until the ahjummas got off the bus so they wouldn't see me throw away the tissue-wrapped candy.
Next time, I won't take candy from a stranger . . . or I'll at least read the wrapper before I put it in my mouth.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Welcome to Nokdong
I am currently living in the town of Nokdong. It is on the southern tip of South Korea, in the county of Goheung. I live on the 6th floor of our 10 floor building. We are surrounded by the ocean (so we eat a lot of fish). Out my back window, I can see the ocean as well as farm plots. Rice fields are everywhere. The rice will be harvested soon.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Dear Veterans, Thank you.
There are some things that just come out of left field and takes my breath away.
I bought a pillow last Thursday. I was tired of sleeping with my head at a right angle, so I stopped in the open air market on the way back from Geumsan island. I picked out a pretty green pillow and paid 6,000 Won. As the store owner put it in a bag, I saw the other shop-keepers around him shouting and pointing across the street. I decided not to look. People are shouting all the time in a language I can't understand, so it probably would be of no interest to me. I snagged the bag and turned my bike around.
"Chogi!" the pillow-seller said, tapping my shoulder and pointing across the street.
I glanced across the street and saw more shops and more adjumas. "Okay, uh, thanks," I said and put one foot on the pedal.
The pillow man jerked my arm and pointed again. "Chogi!"
Then I saw him - an old man, squatting on the ground, a hat on his bald head and green sleeves on his arms, waving me over. Hesitantly, I walked my bicycle across the street and he stood up, smiling.
"Annyeonghashimnika," I said, bowing over my handlebars.
He grabbed my shoulders in a surprisingly strong grip and pushed me upright. He caught my free hand with both of his and pumped it up and down. He spoke at length in Korean, keeping my hand the whole time. I tried to focus on the words, hoping for some clue as to what he was talking about. I caught the word "migook" and I nodded, confirming that I came from America. He got sort of teary-eyed and repeated two words over and over.
"Army. Kamsahamnida. Army. Kamsahamnida."
It was as if a bolt of lightening hit my spine. He was thanking me for the U.S. sending soldiers over during the Korean War. I wasn't even alive at the time, and he was thanking me. I looked around at the now-formed crowd around us. They were all older people, probably in their late forties or early fifties. Each person beamed a smile at me and nodded as I met their eyes. I felt incredibly humbled. I honestly didn't know what to say.
With so much bad press about the U.S. military, it came as quite a shock to hear that someone was actually grateful for our help.
I left the open-air market in a daze, reviewing the whole scene in my head. By the time I had pedaled to my apartment, I had decided that this gentleman was quite an anomaly. That will be the first and only time someone shows gratitude to the United States, I thought.
Two days later, I was proved wrong.
I was at the Goheung bus terminal with two Canadian teachers and a teacher from Colorado. We stood between two crowded benches, hoping the rain would stop so we could enjoy our destination - a ferry ride to Yoseu. One foreigner in the Korean countryside garners a lot of attention and four foreigners are considered a circus. Old ladies stared and whispered, old men glared, teenagers giggled at our attempts at conversation, and small children looked at us in wide-eyed wonder.
I was damp, hot and irritable. My good mood had evaporated and I just wanted to leave. I was sick of being gawked and laughed at, so when I heard someone say "Migook?" I wasn't exactly pleased.
I sighed and turned around.
Four very small, very old ladies stood there, each of them beaming a huge smile. I backed up a step.
"Odi?" the lady right in front of me asked.
G pointed to herself. "Canada." Then she pointed to me. "Migook."
"Ahhhh, Migook!" the four ladies exclaimed.
One grabbed my hand and kissed it. Another one hugged me around the waist. The other two crowded around me and patted my arm. They all spoke over each other. The only words I could catch were "army," "Migook," and "Kamsahamnida." Once again, people were thanking me for the U.S. soldiers.
Each of the four ladies gave me one last hug and then retreated to the air-conditioned waiting room. V and G, the Canadian teachers, looked at me.
"Wow," V said. "They're thanking you for helping out in the Korean War."
Tears pricked my eyes, but I pretended my eyeballs were sweating. "Yeah," I said.
So, I wanted to deliver this Thank You to all the veterans. If it weren't for you, this country might be something different and - perhaps - something frightening. For your sacrifices, South Korea says Thank you.
So do I.
I bought a pillow last Thursday. I was tired of sleeping with my head at a right angle, so I stopped in the open air market on the way back from Geumsan island. I picked out a pretty green pillow and paid 6,000 Won. As the store owner put it in a bag, I saw the other shop-keepers around him shouting and pointing across the street. I decided not to look. People are shouting all the time in a language I can't understand, so it probably would be of no interest to me. I snagged the bag and turned my bike around.
"Chogi!" the pillow-seller said, tapping my shoulder and pointing across the street.
I glanced across the street and saw more shops and more adjumas. "Okay, uh, thanks," I said and put one foot on the pedal.
The pillow man jerked my arm and pointed again. "Chogi!"
Then I saw him - an old man, squatting on the ground, a hat on his bald head and green sleeves on his arms, waving me over. Hesitantly, I walked my bicycle across the street and he stood up, smiling.
"Annyeonghashimnika," I said, bowing over my handlebars.
He grabbed my shoulders in a surprisingly strong grip and pushed me upright. He caught my free hand with both of his and pumped it up and down. He spoke at length in Korean, keeping my hand the whole time. I tried to focus on the words, hoping for some clue as to what he was talking about. I caught the word "migook" and I nodded, confirming that I came from America. He got sort of teary-eyed and repeated two words over and over.
"Army. Kamsahamnida. Army. Kamsahamnida."
It was as if a bolt of lightening hit my spine. He was thanking me for the U.S. sending soldiers over during the Korean War. I wasn't even alive at the time, and he was thanking me. I looked around at the now-formed crowd around us. They were all older people, probably in their late forties or early fifties. Each person beamed a smile at me and nodded as I met their eyes. I felt incredibly humbled. I honestly didn't know what to say.
With so much bad press about the U.S. military, it came as quite a shock to hear that someone was actually grateful for our help.
I left the open-air market in a daze, reviewing the whole scene in my head. By the time I had pedaled to my apartment, I had decided that this gentleman was quite an anomaly. That will be the first and only time someone shows gratitude to the United States, I thought.
Two days later, I was proved wrong.
I was at the Goheung bus terminal with two Canadian teachers and a teacher from Colorado. We stood between two crowded benches, hoping the rain would stop so we could enjoy our destination - a ferry ride to Yoseu. One foreigner in the Korean countryside garners a lot of attention and four foreigners are considered a circus. Old ladies stared and whispered, old men glared, teenagers giggled at our attempts at conversation, and small children looked at us in wide-eyed wonder.
I was damp, hot and irritable. My good mood had evaporated and I just wanted to leave. I was sick of being gawked and laughed at, so when I heard someone say "Migook?" I wasn't exactly pleased.
I sighed and turned around.
Four very small, very old ladies stood there, each of them beaming a huge smile. I backed up a step.
"Odi?" the lady right in front of me asked.
G pointed to herself. "Canada." Then she pointed to me. "Migook."
"Ahhhh, Migook!" the four ladies exclaimed.
One grabbed my hand and kissed it. Another one hugged me around the waist. The other two crowded around me and patted my arm. They all spoke over each other. The only words I could catch were "army," "Migook," and "Kamsahamnida." Once again, people were thanking me for the U.S. soldiers.
Each of the four ladies gave me one last hug and then retreated to the air-conditioned waiting room. V and G, the Canadian teachers, looked at me.
"Wow," V said. "They're thanking you for helping out in the Korean War."
Tears pricked my eyes, but I pretended my eyeballs were sweating. "Yeah," I said.
So, I wanted to deliver this Thank You to all the veterans. If it weren't for you, this country might be something different and - perhaps - something frightening. For your sacrifices, South Korea says Thank you.
So do I.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Dangers of Asian Medicine
Yesterday, I went on a 1 hour bicycle ride at 1:00 in the afternoon with no hat and no sunblock. Don't ask why, just accept it as fact and move on. My face and chest turned bright red and was hot to the touch. I wanted some aloe vera gel, but it is apparently quite difficult to find in Korean stores. Aloe vera juice, sure; aloe vera gel, no.
I travelled to Goheung that night to have dinner in town with the rest of the Goheung-gun teachers and asked if anyone knew where I could get some aloe vera gel.
"Just go in that pharmacy," one teacher said, pointing, "and say 'aloe vera.' They'll know what you mean."
So, I walked up the steps, and one of the pharmacists who had been standing outside, opened the door and beckoned me inside.
I patted my face and smoothed my fingers over my forehead and cheeks. "I need some aloe vera," I said. "Aloe vera?"
The man nodded and mimicked me. "Aloe vera," he repeated, nodding. He said something to the man behind the counter and pointed at my face.
The man (I assume he was another pharmacist), got something from the back counter, pulled a small bottle (maybe 6 ounces) of liquid from the fridge, and beckoned with his hand. I held out my hand and he dumped about twenty brown, round pellets into my hand. They looked an awful lot like mini Co-Co Puffs.
I stared at them for a moment. Had he not understood? Could he not see my completely red face?
"Okaaaay," I said. "What is this? Aloe vera?"
He tipped his hand to his mouth, miming Co-Co Puffs consumption.
I looked down at my hand. "Aloe vera?" I tried again, as if repetition was the key. "For my face?"
The pharmacist smiled and pointed at my hand.
"Just eat it, huh?" I shrugged and tipped them into my mouth.
The man unscrewed the lid to the bottle and passed it to me. I would have said "thank you," but my mouth was full of mystery pills. I tipped the bottle back, letting the liquid wash over my tongue and carry the pills down my throat. It wasn't until after I had swallowed the liquid that I actually tasted it - it was aloe vera juice.
I coughed and gagged. The man on my side of the counter slapped me on the back in a helpful, don't-die sort of way. Bad business if a customer chokes and dies on the pill the pharmacist provided.
I put the bottle on the counter. "Got it. Heal from the inside out, right?"
The pharmacist grinned and nodded. I don't know if he understood what I had said or he was just being friendly. Then he held out two fingers which I took to mean my treatment came to 2,000 Won. I snagged two bills out of my wallet and passed them over.
"Thanks!" I said, backing out of the pharmacy. "Kamsahamnida!"
I stood on the steps of the pharmacy for a moment, re-playing the last couple of minutes.
"Did you get what you wanted?" someone asked.
"Um . . ." I said, not quite sure how to answer. I did ask for aloe vera, so, technically, I did get what I wanted. "It was liquid. I drank it."
"Ah," teacher 1 said. "I forgot that they drink it here."
We moved down the street, heading for pizza.
"If I have any weird side-effects, it's because of that pharmacy," I announced and relayed what had happened inside.
"You just ate it? Without knowing what it was?" teacher 2 said.
Well, when you put it that way, it does sound sort of reckless. However, I eat food everyday without knowing what it is, so how is that different?
"You should ask for a translater, next time," she advised.
"Yeah," I agreed, but I don't plan on having a next time.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Michael Jackson Feet, Things that Hide in Soup, and more Fun
Okay, so my theory was that since I have to wear slippers inside of the school anyway, who would care what kind of socks I wore? I slipped into my black pants, pulled on some white cotton socks, and stepped into my black shoes. It wasn't until halfway to school that I noticed my pants were hiking up, exposing my white socks. I tried to shimmy the pants down a little bit, but gave it up as a lost cause. Give me a white glove and I could have Michael Jackson'd it all the way to school and back. It didn't help to see that everyone at school wore socks to match their pants. However, since I am the only foreigner at that school, I decided to ignore it. After all, I don't know all of their social customs yet, and many of them don't know U.S.A. fashion sense (i.e. black pants, white socks, and black shoes).
The fifth grade teachers took me and my co-teachers out to lunch at an eel-soup restaraunt. Go ahead and read that last sentence twice if you need to. Eel soup. There were two tanks full of eels in front of the shop. When a customer orders, the cook reaches out the window, grabs an eel, and gets to work. It was very interesting. There were four men and four women, including me. The men all sat together at one end of the table with women on the other. We sat on the floor. In the big cities like Seoul and Mokpo, it is considered a special treat to go to a traditional style restaraunt complete with low tables and all the floor space you could want. However, out here in Nok-dong, you're schmoozing it up if you're at a restaraunt with chairs.
So, the cook brought out the little dish of rice, four side-dishes, and a giant bowl of eel soup for each person. I stirred the soup with my chopsticks.
I like eel. I do. I eat it all the time in sushi, in small, bite-sized pieces.
This soup had chunks. It looked like the cook chopped up a whole eel into three-inch long pieces and tossed it into the soup. The skin, fins, bones, and innards were still there. I ate very carefully, ready to scream if I saw a head.
It actually didn't taste too bad. It was spicy, of course, but quite delicious. I dodged the larger chunks of eel and ate kimchi instead.
After lunch, the male teacher wearing a purple shirt took me, my co-teacher, and another female teacher out to Sorok-do, a small island that houses a leper colony. Non-residents are only allowed on the island between 6am and 6pm. Purple Shirt explained that this was so the lepers could come out at night without people gawking at them. Yikes. The island was also where the Japanese tortured Koreans during the 1930's. I'm not sure exactly why, as the language barrier seems to rise and fall at odd times, but Purple Shirt made it very clear that the Japanese are not welcome. So, we walked around the sonamu (pine tree) garden, I in my Michael Jackson feet and button-up shirt. Purple Shirt kindly gave me an umbrella and a fan with four white girls wearing T-shirts and panties. No one else found this odd, so I didn't comment.
I didn't bring my camera, or I would have taken photos. The trees are amazing. They are tended by the lepers themselves. There is a pine tree that has grown all crooked and gnarled, due to lack of proper nutrients, Purple Shirt said. He explained that if the tree had the proper nutrients, it would have grown straight up. But, because of the poor soil, it grew into a beautiful, strange tree. The garden also contained a statue of Christ on the cross, a statue of an angel ("the leprosy go away angel," I was told) and a few monuments to people I don't know and couldn't read anyway.
Then, we went back to the school and I read over some lesson plans.
Walking home, I ignored my Michael Jackson feet and imagined eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
It's funny how much I took for granted until eel soup stared me in the face.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
I'm a Stranger in a Strange Land
And I get stranger every day. I cheerfully call out Korean greetings to perfect strangers. I eat tiny little crabs, shell and all, like they were M&M's. I play impromptu games of charades and pictionary to describe things like "bathroom" (called "toilet" here), "light bulb", and "peanut butter." When standing on the sidewalk, I've taken to resting my weight on the balls of me feet to avoid the motorcycle that inevitably decides to use the sidewalk to get around traffic. I turn a blind eye to the old man relieving himself in someone's vegetable patch (to be fair, it might have been his own vegetable patch). I eat from the same plate as perfect strangers and barely wonder what kind of sicknesses I could be catching. I don't even blink at the buckets of sweat dripping off me and gratefully take a "tiss" (tissue) to wipe it off my face.
Saturday, with no internet, I couldn't look online to see where my ward would be. Thankfully, my friend teaching in Incheon manged to get ahold of the sister missionaries and skyped me information.
So, Sunday morning, I woke up bright and early at 6:00 am, got dressed, ate some breakfast, and trudged the twenty five minute walk to the bus terminal in the rain. (Thanks for the boots, Lil' Sis.) After a quick game of "Guess where I want to go?", I got a ticket to Suncheon and boarded the bus. It took 1 1/2 hours to get to Suncheon. I kept falling asleep then jerking awake at each stop, certain that I had missed Suncheon and was now somewhere in North Korea. Let me tell you, living in Utah has really spoiled me for the rest of the world. I am much too accustomed to an LDS wardhouse on every corner. It will take a lot of determination to spend 3 hours total going to and from church, instead of the 2 minutes I am used to. The sister missionariees met me at the bus station and walked me to church.
Oh my goodness, it was small. I should have expected it to be tiny, as Korea is low on available building space, but I was still shocked. The church building was three (maybe four?) stories high with perhaps 5 or 6 small rooms on each floor. The chapel was located on the top floor. The room was about 1/4 the size of the average chapel in the U.S. That was okay, though, because there were only about 25 people there. They were extremely excited to see me, as I make person number 26.
Sister Kelly, the missionary from LA, sat next to me and translated. Apparently, they are looking to get 100 people coming to church, as that would turn their branch into a ward. From what I understand, the LDS people are considered a cult here, because we do not pay people to go out and find new members. So, volunteering = cult. It seemed odd to me, too.
Boy, do they love to sing. In our orientation class, we had been told several times that Koreans love to sing. And they do. The twenty five people belted out their Korean Hymns like it was a contest - the loudest singer gets a free snow cone and a puppy. On top of that, most of them sang on pitch. I sort of just hummed along and will continue to do so until I can read Hanguel.
I went back to the bus terminal by myself. Sister Kelly gave me directions and I sort of wandered around until a kind Korean man and wife took pity on me. I stopped at the crosswalk, looking rather pathetic as I wondered how to find bus 77 to take me back to the bus station.
"You Christian?"
I turned. The man, dressed in one of those popular shiney, silver suits, pointed to my scriptures.
"Yes, I am," I said. "I'm just coming from church."
"Ah, me too. Her too." He pointed to his wife, smiling behind him. "Which church?"
"Ah, me too. Her too." He pointed to his wife, smiling behind him. "Which church?"
"The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints," I said automatically. He looked blank, so I added, "The Mormon church."
He shook his head. "Sorry, my English not so good. Which church?"
I held up my scriptures and pointed to the words "Book of Mormon."
"Ah, yes!" he said, sort of pumping his fist. "I meet Paul and he tell me all about it."
Now it was my turn to look blank. "Paul?"
"Paul Elder."
Lightbulb. "Oh, a missionary?"
He nodded. "Very nice man, very nice."
The conversation sort of halted, so I held up my written directions from Sister Kelly. "Can you tell me how to get to bus 77?"
He lit up like a Christmas tree. "Bus 77? Follow me."
He stepped out onto the crosswalk, oblivious to the traffic. I paused, watching with a sort of horrified awe as his wife followed and the cars actually stopped! They never stop for me! I hurried after him and he and his wife walked me to the bus stop.
"What is your phone number?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I don't have a phone yet."
Every Korean person who discovers I don't have a cell phone seems to think it is the end of the world. They always get this consoling look on their face, as if they don't know if they should buy a sympathy card and flowers for me or just not mention it.
"I have to get my ARC first, then I can get a hand phone," I said.
"I have to get my ARC first, then I can get a hand phone," I said.
His wife patted his arm and I assume she understood enough English to know what had just happened.
"Then how can I contact you?" the old man asked mournfully.
That threw me for a loop. I usually don't have people clamoring for my phone number. "Uh, well, if you are here next week at around the same time, I should be here, too."
He grinned and bowed. "Nice to meet you," he said.
"Kamsahamnida," I replied, bowing back.
Then they walked away and I got on the bus.
Then they walked away and I got on the bus.
During the ride back to my apartment, I kept thinking about those 25 people singing their lungs out in the chapel. What faith it must take to be a Christian in Korea, and an LDS Christian at that. Their strength of character and solid determination is very inspiring. I hope I don't disappoint them.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Arrival
The Boeing 777 airplane was filled to the brim with Koreans. I sat by the window with the head of a Korean teenager bouncing on and off my shoulder as he fell asleep and woke up, apologizing every few seconds. Any attempt to explain that the headrest will actually bend to keep this from happening was misunderstood, so I just stopped trying. As the plane began its descent to the Seoul Incheon Airport, I slid open the shade to the round window and looked down. White boats dotted the ocean. The shadow of the teal plane swam over the waves like a great whale swimming for shore. Dark green islands mounded out of the water, each surrounded by a ring of beaches.
The plane landed with the usual bumps and thumps, inciting the girl in the seat directly in front of me to begin puking up her lunch and dinner. Despite the Sea-bands on my wrists, I felt my stomach clench. She filled up her bag, her father's bag, and I hastily handed her my bag, which she also managed to fill. I hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, so I stood in a daze, gathered my two bags, and stumbled off the plane.
Wet heat settled on my head, shoulders, back, legs, and arms. Breathing was a struggle. My lungs were not accustomed to separating the oxygen from the water in the air. The loudspeakers in the airport kindly directed the passengers in Korean, Japanese, Chinese, and English. I followed the crowd down the hallway, eschewing the walking sidewalk, glancing at the "Korea Sparkling" posters on the wall, and trying to remain steady on my feet. What felt like three miles later, I saw the glass-cubed walls of the customs desks.
I stood in the line for foreigners and readied my passport and declaration card. The line was long and slow-moving. I heard people speaking French, German, Japanese, and English, although the majority around us spoke Korean. I looked over the heads of the (relatively) short people ahead of me and watched as the man checking passports sent people to the back of the line or to another line. Sweat dripped down my neck and face, plastering my T-shirt to my back and pulling my jeans low on my hips. My shoulder bag pulled on my right shoulder and the book bag couldn't manage to release its strain. I kept glancing at my watch, wondering if I would be in line so long I would miss my flight from Gimpo to Gwangju. But, no, finally it was my turn.
"Annyeongseyo," I said, trying out one of the two Korean words I know as I handed him my passport and declaration card.
He scowled at me and flipped open my passport. Immediately, I felt stupid. Had I said it wrong? Had I just insulted him? Was he going to kick me out of Korea because he knew I couldn't speak Korean?
He flipped to the Visa page. "You are here to teach English?" he barked.
Startled, I nodded and treated his question as a request. "Yes, please."
He scanned my passport number and then peered at the picture. "Hat off."
I reached up and took off my hat. I'm sure it looked as though I had a hot, wet washrag on my head. I could feel the hair sticking to my forehead, temples and neck. My hair dripped.
"Hmm," he looked at the passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport.
I smiled. He frowned and shook his head. I stopped smiling. My had crept into my shoulder bag, searching frantically for the contract in case he didn't believe my very believable Visa.
He flipped my passport onto the counter and jerked his head. "Goodbye."
"Ah, yes," I scooped it up and bowed slightly. "Kamsahamida."
I took the stairs to the lower level and snagged a cart for my luggage. After loading the two fifty-pound suitcases onto the small wheeled cart, I exchanged money at the money counter and made an attempt to find the bus to Gimpo Airport. I held the instructions from Canadian Connections in one hand and the envelope of money in the other as I pushed my cart, looking for gate B4.
"You take a taxi?"
Startled, I jerked to a stop. "Um, no. A bus."
The Korean man looked up at me and shook his head. "Taxi better. Get you there faster."
"Yeah, I'll just take the bus," I said. "Do you know where gate B4 is?"
"Taxi cheaper. Taxi better."
"That's okay," I said and wheeled away.
"You take a taxi?"
"What?" I snapped, certain he followed me.
"You take a taxi?"
It was a different guy. He gestured to my luggage and pointed outside. "Taxi cheap."
I was hot, tired, and looking for gate B4. I frowned at him, straightened my shoulders, and loomed.
"I'm. Taking. The. Bus." I pointed outside as a bus zoomed by. "The. Bus. Not a taxi."
He actually backed up a step or two. "Buses outside," he said, helpfully, and scurried away.
I managed to catch the bus, make it to Gimpo Airport, and arrive in Gwangju safely. Once we checked into the hotel room, I showered, fell onto the firm bed, and passed out.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Departure
Mr. Million and Chi came over on Monday to help pack. I sat in the living room with all of my clothing and accoutrements strewn all over and watched as Lil' Sis, Chi, Mr. Million and Mom packed everything in my two suitcases. I felt stretched and brittle, tears threatening to blind me as we debated which shirts to leave home and which to take.
Wednesday, I said goodbye to Mom, trying not to cry, because if I started I knew I wouldn't go. Poochie seemed bewildered. She stayed under the table, her tail thumping hesitantly as I scratched her ears and told her I'd be back."Open this over the Pacific Ocean," Mom said, pressing an envelope in my hand.
I took it and shoved it in my bag, nodding. "I will." Then I left, ripping off a Goodbye like a sticky band-aid. I waved to Mom as she stood in the car headlights. I don't know if she could see it or not.
We picked up Mr. Million and drove to the airport. After baggage check, we sat behind the stairs as I fiddled with the sea-bands rumored to stave off motion-sickness. (Note: They really work. I didn't throw up once.)Then upstairs to the security check. Lil' Sis and Mr. Million couldn't go through security as they did not have a boarding pass. We hugged goodbye, tears pricking my eyes red. Another fast Goodbye and I moved to the line.
"We'll wait until you get through security," Lil' Sis said.I craned over the heads of people behind me, trying to see them. I caught a glimpse of Mr. Million's hat, the sleeve of Lil' Sis' shirt. I blinked and the crowd parted for a moment. The last image was Lil' Sis smiling at something Mr. Million had said. Then the gap closed and I moved forward.
I sat in my window seat and looked out the window. The plane took off and I stared through blurry eyes at the familiar roads. Flickering like a firefly was the thought that if I had sat on the other side, I could see the roof of my house. There's Bangerter Highway, there's 4100 South, there;s I-215, there's the Jordan River. And there's Utah Lake, reflecting the sky like a broken mirror, clouds rippling across the silver-blue surface. Then the plane lifted higher until I could see nothing but white. So I closed the window and shut my eyes.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Lil' Sis' Amazing Talking Hands
Lil' Sis talks with her hands. I don't mean a gesture here and there to make a point, but a full-blown, hand-waving symphony for her own voice, conducted by her own hands. To be fair, she doesn't do it all the time. I notice it at work, where I sit next to her in our little gray cubicles, tethered to a computer by a headset designed by someone with no concept of "head" or "set" and how they should fit together. Lil' Sis perches on the edge of her chair, elbows on the desk, hands moving back and forth like a Tai Chi master. It is as if she moves the air in front of her, it will somehow push her words into the microphone and find that small, reasonable part of the caller's brain that everyone (supposedly) has. The more difficult the caller, the more hand-speech is involved. At times, when her mouth isn't moving, Lil' Sis' hands will alight on the keyboard to type in information. Occasionally, her right hand will click the mouse while her left hand independently churns the air.
I have long since believed that if she had no hands, she would lose half of her vocabulary.
Her hands have quite a way to get the point across.
Take today for instance; While driving home, I saw a yellow Volkswagon Bug. In compliance with all car games, I immediately pinched Lil' Sis twice with a "Tweet! Tweet!" to signify that I saw the yellow car first, and then repeatedly hit her on the knee while chirping, "Buggy car! Guess what color?"
Without hesitation or any warning, she whipped around and slugged me in the arm.
"Yellow!" she shouted.
I immediately stopped hitting her knee. It wasn't very hard, as my arm went numb from the shoulder down. It was a perfect knuckle shot to the shoulder - I could practically hear my muscle scream in protest.
"Ow! Ouch! Owie!" I shouted.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Lil' Sis exclaimed, immediately contrite. "You can hit me back if you want!"
Tempting as it was, I declined the offer. "No, thanks. There's no sense in both of us being in pain," I gritted out.
That's what I said, but what I meant was, "No, thanks. I don't think there is any possible way for me to hit you quite as hard as you have hit me."
Maybe next time, I should let my hands do the talking.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Left-Handedness
I've been writing with my left hand again. With a pen. It's an awkward setup and causes my fingers to cramp as they curl around the pen's smooth surface and force it across the paper, leaving wounded letters in its wake.
This proclivity to write with either hand began at a young age, shortly after learning that Mom used to be left-handed before being forced to write solely with her write hand. I remember fisting my hand around a crayon and pushing it across the paper - then straining to recognize the misshapen letters. I learned the word 'ambidextrous' and fought with it, twisting and poking at it in an attempt to wrap it like a brace around my subordinate hand. I wrote my name with my right hand and compared it to the scrawls my left hand abandoned on the paper, irrespective of lines or margins. Eventually, I gave up, dismayed at my utter lack of ability, and focused on forming right-handed letters only.
However, like a chronic disease, this left-handed inclination flares up, exhibiting itself in grocery lists, notes written in meetings, and my name spelled over and over. It has gone so far as to infect Lil' Sis, and now, she and I will write notes back and forth with our left hands. The letters are never perfect, but are now recognizable.
I struggle with subjects to write with my left hand. Any creativity I possess seems to reside in my write hand, leaving my other hand the more mundane tasks of copying lists, names, and short dialogues. At some point in the last month, I applied creative writing to my ambidexterity and began re-writing the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. I realize that this is - at best - nothing more than fairy tale cannibalism, but it is a start.
Someday, I hope to use both hands interchangeably. Until then, I will ride this left-handed propensity until it ebbs and wait for the next round.
And if you receive a note that appears to be written by a five-year-old, yet has my name on the bottom, just assume that I am practicing again and write back - preferably with your left hand.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Sunday Talk
Last Sunday, our bishop caught me in the hall and asked me to prepare a talk for today about overcoming challenges. This is what I came up with. Enjoy!
When I was in the first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Nelson, brought an incubator into class. Inside, she placed six chicken eggs, telling us children that in a few weeks, we would be able to watch the chicks hatch. Every morning, we crowded around the incubator, jostling elbows and treading toes in our excitement. We stared at the silent eggs under the heat lamps and speculated on arrival dates, gender, and - most importantly - the names of the chicks, while willing time to fly faster. Finally, in the middle of learning that four plus four did, in fact, equal eight, a startled shriek of "It's hatching! It's hatching!" interrupted the lesson. Chairs squealed as twenty four children pushed away from their desks and mobbed the incubator. A ragged hole marred the smooth surface of the egg, a small beak barely visible.
"It's done," a classmate said. "Let's get it out."
Amid a chorus of assent, small helpful hands reached for the egg, but Mrs. Nelson quickly intervened.
"The chick must do it by himself," she said. Then, anticipating the next question, added, "If the chicken can overcome this first challenge, then he will be strong enough to survive."
"What if it CAN'T?!"
Mrs. Nelson shrugged with previously unseen callousness. "Then he will die."
Gasps of horror filled the room as we contemplated the death of our baby chick, perhaps in a fiery explosion of feathers and eggshell. Eventually, Mrs. Nelson convinced us that it would be best for us to only observe and hope VERY hard that the chick could break out of its shell. After twenty minutes of whispered encouragement, the chick flopped out, wet and exhausted, but very much alive.
The class erupted in cheers, each of us inordinately proud of the baby chick's first triumph and secure in the knowledge that the chick would be fine.
After returning to our seats, Mrs. Nelson again impressed upon us the importance of allowing the chicks to hatch unaided.
"Remember, strength comes from adversity," she said, before turning back to simple addition.
Goliath was a large man. Being a champion of the Philistines, he cowed King Saul and his Israelite army, towering over normal men by three and a half feet. With is head-to-toe armor, super-sized spear, and personal shield carrier, he presented enough of a challenge to keep the Israelites hiding behind rocks, trees, scrub-brush, and whatever other cover they could find.
In First Samuel 17:8-9, Goliath shouted to the Israelites, "Choose you a man for you, and let him come down unto me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve use."
Instead of emboldening King Saul and his army, they were dismayed and greatly afraid.
How does one bring down the biggest challenge in the immediate area, knowing that it must be a one-on-one fight and that if you lose, you will lose your life and your family and friends will lose their freedom?
As it turns out, all you need is a sling, a couple of smooth stones, and a boy to wield it - a boy named David who knew without a shadow of a doubt that Heavenly Father not only supported him, but would lend him the strength to overcome the mighty Goliath.
In First Samuel 17: 45 & 47, "Then said David to [Goliath] the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou has defied . . . And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with the sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands."
And then David accomplished with only a sling, one stone, and a powerful faith in God what no man in the Israelite Army with their shields and swords could overcome; He slew Goliath and won victory for King Saul.
Could David have defeated Goliath without the Lord's help? Unlikely. David was neither naive nor foolhardy enough to believe he could overcome this monstrous challenge on his own. He had faith that the Lord would not abandon him - that God would strengthen his arm and guide the stone to its target.
It may seem to some that the Lord allowed the Israelites to win the hard way. Why not have God take care of Goliath and the Philistine army himself? After all, it would be easy enough for the skies to darken, rain to fall, and a bolt of lightening to zero in on all of Goliath's metal accessories and light him up like the Fourth of July. God could then shout down from the heavens something along the lines of how all the Philistines need to leave right now and that, by the way, David would be Mr. Popular from now on.
However, just as God cannot make our choices for us, he cannot remove our challenges from us. Our challenges, whether they be physical or emotional, large or small, are placed in our way to help us grow. This does not necessarily mean that if you do not overcome the challenge, win the race, or pass the test that your growth stops. We learn from our challenges - both the ones we overcome and the ones to which we succumb. Confidence and skills increase with success while humility and wisdom increase with failure. It is important to know that the Lord will stand by us and support us despite the final outcome.
Challenges are wildly diverse and specific to each individual and situation. They may be as complex as an illness, poverty, a failed or unhappy marriage, wayward children, war, natural disasters, or persecution. They may be as simple as getting to work on time, speaking kindly to siblings, doing homework, avoiding inappropriate media, walking the dog, a broken fingernail, or giving a talk on Sunday. Through it all, the Lord is available and willing to lend his support. Our challenges, big or small, win or lose, are only as much as we can handle. As it says in Mosiah 4:2 ". . . it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength . . ." The Lord will never give us a challenge that we cannot endure and overcome with his help.
During the winter of 1777, outnumbered, under-supplied, and discouraged, General George Washington led his ragged Revolutionary army to Valley Forge. There, camped in the cold snow, enduring hunger and illness, they waited for the tide of war to either turn to their advantage, or completely destroy their revolutionary ideals. If the revolution proved to be successful, they would be hailed as heroes. If it failed, every Revolutionary would be hung as traitors to the crown. With this huge responsibility on his shoulders, General Washington knew that only Heavenly Father could help them wind independence from an unjust king.
Following is an account related to Reverend Snowden by a Mr. Potts: He [Mr. Potts] said, ". . . I never believed that America c'd proceed against Great Britain whose fleets and armies covered the land and ocean, but something very extraordinary converted me to the Good Faith!" "What was that?" I [Rev. Snowden] inquired. "Do you see that woods, and that plain. It was about a quarter of a mile off from the place we were riding, as it happened. There," said he [Mr. Potts], "laid the army of Washington. It was a most distressing time of ye war, and all were for giving up the Ship but that great and good man. In that woods pointing to a close in view, I heard a plaintive sound as, of a man at prayer. I tied my horse to a sapling and went quietly into the woods and to my astonishment I saw the great George Washington on his knees alone, with his sword on one side and his cocked hat on the other. He was at Prayer to the God of the Armies, beseeching to interpose with his Divine aid, as it was ye Crisis, and the cause of the country, of humanity and of the world.
"Such a prayer I never heard from the lips of man. I left him alone praying.
"I went home and told my wife. I saw a sight and heard today what I never saw or heard before, and just related to her what I had seen and heard and observed. We never thought a man c'd be a soldier and a Christian, but if there is one in the world, it is Washington. She was also astonished. We thought it was the cause of God, and America could prevail." (from www.revolutionary-war-and-beyond.com/prayer-at-valley-forge.html)
The Lord answered General Washington's prayer. The following spring brought the arrival of Baron von Steuben to train the troops and new allies from France, both of which helped the newly formed United States of America win freedom.
I would like to read the verses to hymn number 120, Lean on My Ample Arm:
1. Lean on my ample arm, O thou depressed!
And I will bid the storm Cease in thy breast.
Whate’er thy lot may be On life’s complaining sea,
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
2. Lift up thy tearful eyes, Sad heart, to me;
I am the sacrifice Offered for thee.
In me thy pain shall cease, In me is thy release,
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
Text: Theodore E. Curtis, 1872–1957
Music: Evan Stephens, 1854–1930
Our Heavenly Father is there, ready and willing to aid us with any and all challenges that we may come across. Though we may not personally experience challenges that will affect the fate of an entire nation, such as those faced by David and George Washington, we need to know that the Lord will love and support us so that, like the baby chick, we can break out of our shell - piece by piece - and emerge strong, faithful, and able to overcome new challenges. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
When I was in the first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Nelson, brought an incubator into class. Inside, she placed six chicken eggs, telling us children that in a few weeks, we would be able to watch the chicks hatch. Every morning, we crowded around the incubator, jostling elbows and treading toes in our excitement. We stared at the silent eggs under the heat lamps and speculated on arrival dates, gender, and - most importantly - the names of the chicks, while willing time to fly faster. Finally, in the middle of learning that four plus four did, in fact, equal eight, a startled shriek of "It's hatching! It's hatching!" interrupted the lesson. Chairs squealed as twenty four children pushed away from their desks and mobbed the incubator. A ragged hole marred the smooth surface of the egg, a small beak barely visible.
"It's done," a classmate said. "Let's get it out."
Amid a chorus of assent, small helpful hands reached for the egg, but Mrs. Nelson quickly intervened.
"The chick must do it by himself," she said. Then, anticipating the next question, added, "If the chicken can overcome this first challenge, then he will be strong enough to survive."
"What if it CAN'T?!"
Mrs. Nelson shrugged with previously unseen callousness. "Then he will die."
Gasps of horror filled the room as we contemplated the death of our baby chick, perhaps in a fiery explosion of feathers and eggshell. Eventually, Mrs. Nelson convinced us that it would be best for us to only observe and hope VERY hard that the chick could break out of its shell. After twenty minutes of whispered encouragement, the chick flopped out, wet and exhausted, but very much alive.
The class erupted in cheers, each of us inordinately proud of the baby chick's first triumph and secure in the knowledge that the chick would be fine.
After returning to our seats, Mrs. Nelson again impressed upon us the importance of allowing the chicks to hatch unaided.
"Remember, strength comes from adversity," she said, before turning back to simple addition.
Goliath was a large man. Being a champion of the Philistines, he cowed King Saul and his Israelite army, towering over normal men by three and a half feet. With is head-to-toe armor, super-sized spear, and personal shield carrier, he presented enough of a challenge to keep the Israelites hiding behind rocks, trees, scrub-brush, and whatever other cover they could find.
In First Samuel 17:8-9, Goliath shouted to the Israelites, "Choose you a man for you, and let him come down unto me. If he be able to fight with me, and to kill me, then will we be your servants: but if I kill him, then shall ye be our servants, and serve use."
Instead of emboldening King Saul and his army, they were dismayed and greatly afraid.
How does one bring down the biggest challenge in the immediate area, knowing that it must be a one-on-one fight and that if you lose, you will lose your life and your family and friends will lose their freedom?
As it turns out, all you need is a sling, a couple of smooth stones, and a boy to wield it - a boy named David who knew without a shadow of a doubt that Heavenly Father not only supported him, but would lend him the strength to overcome the mighty Goliath.
In First Samuel 17: 45 & 47, "Then said David to [Goliath] the Philistine, Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom thou has defied . . . And all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with the sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands."
And then David accomplished with only a sling, one stone, and a powerful faith in God what no man in the Israelite Army with their shields and swords could overcome; He slew Goliath and won victory for King Saul.
Could David have defeated Goliath without the Lord's help? Unlikely. David was neither naive nor foolhardy enough to believe he could overcome this monstrous challenge on his own. He had faith that the Lord would not abandon him - that God would strengthen his arm and guide the stone to its target.
It may seem to some that the Lord allowed the Israelites to win the hard way. Why not have God take care of Goliath and the Philistine army himself? After all, it would be easy enough for the skies to darken, rain to fall, and a bolt of lightening to zero in on all of Goliath's metal accessories and light him up like the Fourth of July. God could then shout down from the heavens something along the lines of how all the Philistines need to leave right now and that, by the way, David would be Mr. Popular from now on.
However, just as God cannot make our choices for us, he cannot remove our challenges from us. Our challenges, whether they be physical or emotional, large or small, are placed in our way to help us grow. This does not necessarily mean that if you do not overcome the challenge, win the race, or pass the test that your growth stops. We learn from our challenges - both the ones we overcome and the ones to which we succumb. Confidence and skills increase with success while humility and wisdom increase with failure. It is important to know that the Lord will stand by us and support us despite the final outcome.
Challenges are wildly diverse and specific to each individual and situation. They may be as complex as an illness, poverty, a failed or unhappy marriage, wayward children, war, natural disasters, or persecution. They may be as simple as getting to work on time, speaking kindly to siblings, doing homework, avoiding inappropriate media, walking the dog, a broken fingernail, or giving a talk on Sunday. Through it all, the Lord is available and willing to lend his support. Our challenges, big or small, win or lose, are only as much as we can handle. As it says in Mosiah 4:2 ". . . it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength . . ." The Lord will never give us a challenge that we cannot endure and overcome with his help.
During the winter of 1777, outnumbered, under-supplied, and discouraged, General George Washington led his ragged Revolutionary army to Valley Forge. There, camped in the cold snow, enduring hunger and illness, they waited for the tide of war to either turn to their advantage, or completely destroy their revolutionary ideals. If the revolution proved to be successful, they would be hailed as heroes. If it failed, every Revolutionary would be hung as traitors to the crown. With this huge responsibility on his shoulders, General Washington knew that only Heavenly Father could help them wind independence from an unjust king.
Following is an account related to Reverend Snowden by a Mr. Potts: He [Mr. Potts] said, ". . . I never believed that America c'd proceed against Great Britain whose fleets and armies covered the land and ocean, but something very extraordinary converted me to the Good Faith!" "What was that?" I [Rev. Snowden] inquired. "Do you see that woods, and that plain. It was about a quarter of a mile off from the place we were riding, as it happened. There," said he [Mr. Potts], "laid the army of Washington. It was a most distressing time of ye war, and all were for giving up the Ship but that great and good man. In that woods pointing to a close in view, I heard a plaintive sound as, of a man at prayer. I tied my horse to a sapling and went quietly into the woods and to my astonishment I saw the great George Washington on his knees alone, with his sword on one side and his cocked hat on the other. He was at Prayer to the God of the Armies, beseeching to interpose with his Divine aid, as it was ye Crisis, and the cause of the country, of humanity and of the world.
"Such a prayer I never heard from the lips of man. I left him alone praying.
"I went home and told my wife. I saw a sight and heard today what I never saw or heard before, and just related to her what I had seen and heard and observed. We never thought a man c'd be a soldier and a Christian, but if there is one in the world, it is Washington. She was also astonished. We thought it was the cause of God, and America could prevail." (from www.revolutionary-war-and-beyond.com/prayer-at-valley-forge.html)
The Lord answered General Washington's prayer. The following spring brought the arrival of Baron von Steuben to train the troops and new allies from France, both of which helped the newly formed United States of America win freedom.
I would like to read the verses to hymn number 120, Lean on My Ample Arm:
1. Lean on my ample arm, O thou depressed!
And I will bid the storm Cease in thy breast.
Whate’er thy lot may be On life’s complaining sea,
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
If thou wilt come to me, Thou shalt have rest.
2. Lift up thy tearful eyes, Sad heart, to me;
I am the sacrifice Offered for thee.
In me thy pain shall cease, In me is thy release,
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
In me thou shalt have peace Eternally.
Text: Theodore E. Curtis, 1872–1957
Music: Evan Stephens, 1854–1930
Our Heavenly Father is there, ready and willing to aid us with any and all challenges that we may come across. Though we may not personally experience challenges that will affect the fate of an entire nation, such as those faced by David and George Washington, we need to know that the Lord will love and support us so that, like the baby chick, we can break out of our shell - piece by piece - and emerge strong, faithful, and able to overcome new challenges. I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
A Very Hairy Story
Poochie got her hair cut yesterday. As always, it was a traumatic experience, but (in my opinion, and more importantly, in Mom's opinion) worth it. I take her to Paw City Grooming in the CAL Ranch store on 7800 south and they do a wonderful job. It also helps that they only charge $45 to bathe and shave a dog of Poochie's size.
When I mentioned to Person A that I took my dog in to get her hair cut, they asked in that morally-superior, penny-pinching tone, "Why don't you do it yourself? You'd save a lot of money that way."
To which I replied, "Have you ever tried to put a band-aid on a dog's butt?"
Needless to say, that stopped the conversation right there.
The fact is, I used to shave Poochie down myself. I would go to Walmart, buy a clipper set for $20, and spend the next four and a half hours on the back patio covered in dog fur. Most of the time, her fur came out different lengths, but always quite a bit shorter than she had started out with. Then I'd wait a couple months for the fur to grow out, then go to Walmart and buy another set.
Poochie's fur wrecks havoc on clippers. She has a thick, wiry top coat and a soft, downy-smooth under coat. The wiry fur dulls the blades faster than a saw on concrete and the soft fur works its way into the clipper and jams the motor, causing the clippers to overheat. This necessitated that I purchase a new clipper set every time.
The last time I shaved her myself, I caused so much mental anguish, I didn't think she'd ever recover.
I had her almost finished - nothing left but the backs of her hind legs and around the base of her tail. I had long ago divested the clippers of the guide comb and used the bare blade. NEVER use a bare blade. Never, ever, ever. She ended up with razor rash on the underside of her tail and the backs of her thighs (a.k.a. her bum). I didn't actually know she had the rash until about 1:00 a.m. that night when I woke up to the glurp-glurp sounds of her licking. She didn't just lick it once or twice, it was a constant slurping sound that Did Not Stop. It went on for hours. I finally got up around 5:00 a.m. and covered her in band-aids. Band-aids do not stick well on furry bums. So, I got a clean strip of cloth, slathered it in Neosporin, and sort of wrapped it around her tail and legs like a diaper.The next morning, it had fallen off and Poochie hid under the kitchen table, giving me wounded-eyed stares and tucking her tail firmly between her legs when she wasn't licking. She was impervious to my apologies, my bribes, and any comments along the lines of "But, you're much cooler now, right? Not so hot? Do you want an otter pop?"
So, yes, Poochie gets her hair cut professionally. She may balk a little bit, but I think it's all for show. After all, she remembers that razor rashes hurt and I remember that band-aids are not designed for the rear-ends of dogs.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Where There's Smoke, There's Fire
I went to the dentist today . . . I know, it made me cringe, too.
A couple months ago, I had my first root canal. My very first root canal and my very first anxiety attack. Other than a few cavities, my teeth are healthy. I didn't bother to get yearly checkups, reasoning that I'd go when I felt pain. Well, when I felt the first twinge of pain, I called Dr. C's office.
"Hmmm," he said, staring at the x-ray of my mouth. "It could be a large cavity or a root canal."
"What?" I said, and tried to twist my head off my shoulders so I could see the glowing illuminated x-ray conveniently placed behind me.
He jabbed at the x-ray. "This one, right here. Number 19. I won't know until I get in there and find out."
Yup, that was it. The tooth that had bothered me while snarfing down ice cream. Second molar from the back on my bottom left side. Please, oh, please let it be just a large cavity! I thought as my stomach tried to curl in on itself.
One week later, I lay in the dentist chair staring at the glowing eyeball of a lamp above me and trying not to panic. They started out pretending it was a cavity - two shots of anesthetic and a small drill. I winced and Dr. C stopped.
"You can feel that?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
More anesthetic. Two minutes later, I winced again.
"You felt that?"
I nodded.
He gave his assistant a look and sighed. "Looks like a root canal."
He ended up giving me two more shots of anesthetic - five total. By the time I remembered to tell him that I was strangely resistant to anesthetic (I remember waking up during my tonsil removal and punching and kicking the doctor and nurses, screaming for my mother; they had to give me three times as much anesthetic as a regular five-year-old. When I had my wisdom teeth removed, the doctor said that they had to keep turning up the gas for an hour until I finally went out.), my face was too numb for me to do anything but drool and mumble incoherently.
I remained relatively calm as they wedged my mouth open and jammed a blue rubber sheet around my tooth. The grind of the drill did nothing but make me want to grind my teeth. True panic set in as I saw smoke - actual smoke, ladies and gentlemen - rising from my mouth in a twisting, laughing dance. The scent of my own tooth burning filled my nose. I clenched the arm rests and grunted, trying to convey with my eyes that my mouth was on fire and they needed to put it out now!
At my pathetic attempts of communication, Dr. C paused for a moment and glanced down at me.
"Smells bad, doesn't it?" he said and then ignored my squawks.
After a moment, I calmed down, concluding that if the smoke was a problem, the doctor would fix it. However, I was a bit perturbed that there wasn't a liability waiver to sign, alerting potential patients that their teeth may catch fire during the procedure and that the Dentist Office would not be liable for any a) melted teeth, b) charred hair, or c) anything that the patient chooses to wear or bring that may be flammable.
So when I went in today to get my temporary crown put on, I was prepared for anything. Nothing could be worse than a melted tooth.
Except, perhaps, no tooth!
They pinned me down with that big, square bib, forced my mouth open, and proceeded to chip away at my tooth. No explanation, no conciliatory apologies, just total destruction of my tooth. Okay, it was pretty much dead, anyways, but I would have liked the chance to say goodbye, perhaps relive fond memories, and share one last piece of English Almond Toffee before they ground it down to a sad, sorry little stump.
When I was released, I jumped to my feet and faced Dr. C's assistant. "Okay, what's next?" I asked, wiping crumbs of who-knows-what off my cheek.
She gave me a look. "The permanent crown." The "Duh" was unspoken.
I sucked some spit before it passed my lips into drooling territory. "And what happens with the permanent? Needles? Fire? What?"
"We didn't give you the gas, right?" she asked, looking worried.
I shook my head. "The permanent crown?" I prompted, refusing to be distracted.
"We just pop off the old one and glue on the new one," she said. "It takes about 15 minutes."
"Good," I replied. "'Cause I'm never doing this again."
She laughed because she thought I was joking.
I'm not.
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