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."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)