Crash Like You Meant It

I've fallen off my bicycle three times in the last week. The first time, I was attempting to avert a collision with a car that appeared to be most comfortable when swerving all over the road. I jumped up on the narrow sidewalk, but my back wheel caught on the curb and I crashed. My audience of elderly Koreans stared with fascination as I untangled myself from my bicycle and stood up. Then they all smiled and nodded at each other, as if to say, "See? I knew she wasn't hurt. No need for assistance." The second time, I barreled off the edge of the road into some gravel. The truck that had run me off the road honked, loud and long, and sped by.
This last time, I fell simply because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going.
I pedaled to my apartment building after school, hot and tired. Three 2nd grade boys were playing cops and robbers (or the Korean equivalent) with toy guns. They saw me and started waving and yelling, "Hayna! Hayna!" I waved back and, with their expectations fulfilled, they began shooting at each other again. I smiled at their childish antics, promptly hit the curb, and fell off my bicycle.
I remained on the small patch of weeds I had (thankfully) fallen into, listening to the shouts of alarm around me. The three boys ran over to me, expressing various levels of concern. I stared at them for a moment, and then inspiration struck.
"I've been shot!" I clutched my side. "I've been shot!"
They looked at me in confusion so I pointed at their guns.
"Owwie!" I groaned. "Owwwwieee!"
One of the boys examined his neon-orange, plastic gun.
"Yes," I said, nodding. "The gun."
He furrowed his brow and pointed the gun at my face.
"No!" I said, suddenly panicked.  "Andae!"
I didn't know what kind of toy gun they had. Some of them have actual foam pellets or, worse, bullet-shaped plastic shells.
He pulled the trigger and a stream of water hit my forehead and ran down my nose.
"Sonsangnim?" he questioned.
"No, no, I'm fine," I sputtered. "Teacher is fine. Sonsangnim gwenchanayo."
He nodded, beckoned to his friends, and they took off.
I wiped my face on my sleeve and limped away, musing that I probably deserved what I got.

My Mother Loves Lilacs

It began with the scent of lilacs breezing through an open window. I turned, fully expecting to see a lilac bush in full bloom. Instead, I saw the parking lot, the rooftop of the butcher, the first four stories of an apartment building, and the radio-like spire of a church. I refocused on my hymnbook and struggled to sing the familiar tune with the unfamiliar words on the page. I paused to draw a box around "norae" and "Yesu", two words that I recognized as "song" and "Jesus", respectively. The wind carried the scent through the room, capturing my attention and drawing my gaze back to the window. I was vaguely aware of the song ending. I closed my hymnbook and placed it on my lap, my eyes still searching for lilacs in this concrete-laden city.
I miss my mother.
I can get through most days without falling to pieces. The grind of the workday, the distraction of the children, and dealing with all of the things that are Korea serve to distract me from any personal pain. But, once in a while, I will come across something small that pinches my heart and emotionally incapacitates me for the rest of the day. While out on the town with my friend V, the curious and perfectly understandable question of "Hayna Mother?" from the natives will slide like a needle under my skin. The casual reference by coworkers of their mother's upcoming birthday will cause my breath to hitch. The reminder to do something special for mothers on Mother's Day serves as nothing more than a reminder that I may not have done enough for my own mother while I had her here.
My usual reaction to these innocent comments is to smile, nod, and force myself to respond pleasantly.
But, the lilacs - oh, the lilacs! I had no defense against this completely unexpected assault. My eyes flooded and I blinked rapidly to prevent any tears from falling. Memories crept like bright shadows in my mind; Mom placing a lump of bread dough in my childish hands to knead and shape into my own mini-loaf; Mom pinning a seam of my hand-made baptismal dress; Mom handing me her own violin so I could join the seventh grade orchestra; Mom reminding me over and over again to count the beats as I practice the piano; Mom carefully selecting clothing from the sales rack at the store, teaching me that money is better saved than spent; Mom naming my new puppy; Mom listening to me list the pros and cons of going to London for six weeks; Mom at my university graduation, her proud, beaming smile like a beacon; Mom supporting my decision to come to Korea; Mom standing in the carport, the headlights of the car illuminating the myriad of motherly emotions crossing her face as she waved goodbye.
Somewhere, lilacs are blooming right now. This very minute, lilacs are blooming like jewels and releasing their intoxicating smell. And barely a year ago, my mother walked the perimeter of our back yard, pausing at each lilac bush to breathe in their scent. And just like every year, she called Lil' sis and me out to enjoy their beauty. Usually, Lil' Sis would clip a few bouquets and place them in the kitchen and their scent would fill the house.
Now, sitting thousands of miles away in a small church in Suncheon, South Korea, the sweet scent filtered through my skin, seeped into my veins, and knocked on the walls of my heart.
I managed to get through sacrament meeting without breaking down completely. On the way downstairs to the Gospel Doctrines class, I peered out windows, searching for the source. Nothing presented itself as a lilac bush or anything that could pretend to be one, so I hurried into the classroom.
Our topic that day was The Atonement of Jesus Christ. I halfheartedly listened to Elder S's translations as I skimmed the chapter. The teacher began asking our small class how we felt about the Atonement. When he asked me, I thought that I had gained control of myself, but apparently I hadn't.
"How do you feel about the atonement?" Elder S translated.
I swallowed a few times, struggling to find the words to describe the relief, profound gratitude, and the utter joy I felt with the knowledge that Christ has provided a way for me to see my mother again.
I spoke around the lump in my throat. "I'm very grateful for it."
If anyone was surprised at my emotion and relatively short answer, there was no indication. Class continued and I tried to surreptitiously wipe my newly freed tears and quiet my sniffles. When asked, I struggled to read Alma 40:23 aloud in a steady voice, while the thought that Mom will no longer suffer the pain that plagued her through all these years floated in the back of my mind. We ended class by singing I Need Thee Every Hour. I sang the English words quietly, partly because I didn't want to distract anyone, and partly because my eyes were too blurry to read the Korean.
All the while, the scent of lilacs hovered, a painful yet comforting reminder of my mother.
As I walked to the bus station an hour later, it lingered in my hair, in my clothes, and in my thoughts. I could almost see Mom lifting a sprig of lavender blossoms to her nose, inhaling their heavenly perfume, a smile spreading across her face.
"Hannah, come smell the lilacs," she called, turning towards me. "They only bloom for a little while. Come smell the lilacs."
Perhaps she is enjoying the lilacs right now.

It was the Rat

I stepped onto the Island ferry at 7:30 a.m. this morning and looked up to meet my principal's eyes. He had just backed his large, black sedan onto the ferry and was casually leaning against the seat, one hand resting on the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped impatiently. I paused mid-step and a couple of high-school kids immediately pushed by me. I rarely see my principal at the island school where I teach once a week which is why it came as somewhat of a shock to see him on the ferry. I considered averting my eyes and as though I was unaware of his presence, but I had already dipped into that shallow bow that has become second nature when greeting those of authority (any authority - cook, dog walker, policeman, principal, etc.). Smoothly transitioning to the tying-my-shoe posture wasn't going to be believable, as I wore rainboots. So when Island Principal (hereafter known as IP) lowered his window and beckoned me closer, I plastered a grin on my face and stepped up to the car.
"Anyeonghashimnika," I said, bowing beneath my rainbow umbrella.
He nodded his head slightly and smiled, his teeth gleaming white in the car's black interior. "Anyeong," he replied, then waved his hand in the motion that I took to mean I was dismissed.
I bowed again and scuttled across the deck and up the stairs to the passenger cabin.
I don't really know what to think of IP. Were I to meet him on the street, I would immediately assume he was either a lawyer or a high-level gangster. Unlike my principal in my home school, IP wears sober suits, often in colors of black and dark blue, with nary a sparkly tie to be seen. He has a no-nonsense demeanor and exudes a quiet confidence more commonly associated with royalty. Then he'll smile and he suddenly transforms into that man who tried to pressure you into buying that late 80's Chevrolet that "runs like a hibernating puma and don't worry about that banging noise - it's just the hamsters demanding their coffee break." He has his own office at school complete with several potted plants, a large desk, and a long, low-lying table surrounded by stiff-backed chairs. From what I understand, he just sits in his office all day, sipping tea and calling in teachers or the vice-principal for a chat. To all appearances, the school seems to run quite smoothly without his help, but I have a feeling that were he to suddenly disappear, panic and mayhem would ensue and the result (I'm picturing an all-out three-way war, children verses teachers verses lunchladies) would be shown on the evening news.
The ferry docked and I purposely disembarked on the other side of the deck so I wouldn't have to experience the small anxiety attack that invariably accompanies every IP encounter. I hurried to the blue bus and jostled for position with several ahjummas. I managed to get a seat while feeling only marginally guilty about the two middle-school students who gave up their seats to the older women. The bus rumbled along the new road for a few minutes before lurching to a stop in front of the middle school. I said goodbye to the bus driver and stepped into a puddle with that self-satisfied feeling that came with the foresight to wear rainboots. I popped open my umbrella and wandered across the street, following the metal grills covering the drainage ditch to the elementary school.
I must preface this next part with some back story. Last week, while waiting to get on the bus to go back to the mainland, I heard noise in the drain below my feet. When I peered into the drain, I saw the back end of a large bird, barely small enough to fit, with white feathers and black-tipped wings. It scuttled under the cement and when it came back for a second look, I realized it was a duck.
Today, I hoped to see the duck again because I need some sort of entertainment and that is they best I could find. I concentrated so hard that I didn't notice a large, black sedan pull alongside me. I also didn't notice the electric whine of a window going down. What I did notice, was movement in the drain. It was too small and dark for that duck and in the split second it took for me to bend for a closer look, I had convinced myself that it was a small cat trapped in the flowing water and begging for rescue.
Then my eyes adjusted to the dimness and I realized what it was.
A rat.
A swimming rat.
A swimming rat that was going to launch itself through the grate and attack my face.
I did what any self-respecting human being would do when faced with imminent rat attack: I straightened, leaped sideways, and screamed as loud as my somewhat surprised lungs would let me.
My scream trailed off as I met the steely-eyed glare of IP. He had been leaning out the window, presumably to see what in tarnation I was doing, and now slowly retreated back inside the vehicle.
"There was a rat," I explained, pointing to the drain.
He stared, saying nothing.
"In the drain. It was swimming. It was going to--" I cut myself off, realizing that actually vocalizing my fear of rat attack was somewhat lame. "I am so sorry," I said, bowing. "Mianimnida."
Still silent, he lowered his eyes.
I followed his gaze and saw my hand clutching the door of his car. I must have grabbed it when I was trying to escape the killer rat.
"Sorry," I said again and withdrew my hand.
He pushed the button on the door of his car and the window buzzed shut. The window tint was fairly dark, but I felt his glare anyway.
"Sorry. Honto gomennasai. Mianimnida. Lo siento. Sorry." I apologized in as many languages as I (sort of) knew.
It didn't help. He drove away and I didn't see him again the rest of the day.
I have a feeling he sat in his office translating his disgust into English.
Which probably means I need to learn how to say in Korean, "It was the rat."

Across the Cultures

With relatively little to do at night during the cold months, I've taken to re-visiting one of my favorite past-times; watching Korean dramas. These are self-contained television series, usually 14 to 24 episodes long. They range from fun romantic comedies to police actions to historical stories. Some of my favorites include My Name is Kim SamSoon, Full House, Couple or Trouble (which is based off of the movie Overboard, starring Kirk Russel and Goldie Hawn), Chuno, and Goong.
My current favorite is titled Iljimae, a Robin Hood-esque series featuring a few good guys, more bad guys, a couple somewhere-in-between guys, martial arts, swordplay, and a dash of romance. Lee JunKi is the lead (I don't know who he is, but I'm assuming he's an actor based on the fact that he is, y'know, acting), with Han HyoJoo, Lee YoungAh, Moon JiYoon, and Park ShiHoo in supporting roles. I have to admit I am completely addicted to this series.
Here's the basic rundown: A young nobleman's son sees his father murdered and his family torn apart. He escapes, loses his memory, and is raised as a peasant boy named YongEe. YongEe eventually regains his memory as well as a thirst for revenge. He adopts the Iljimae persona to steal riches for the poor as well as to look for the people who killed his father. Mayhem ensues.
Tonight was the night for episode 14. I fired up the computer, found my Korean drama site, and clicked the mouse over episode 14.
It opened a page saying the link was broken.
After a few minutes of frantic searching, I found a site that offered episode 14 . . . with French subtitles.
I goggled for a few minutes (thinking, "What? The French watch this, too?") before deciding to go ahead and plow through it.
It was . . . interesting, to say the least. I don't know much Korean and the only French I know came by way of The Pink Panther and a few Gerard Depardieu films. From watching the previous 13 episodes, I thought I would be able to follow the story, if not understand all the dialogue. I listened hard while picking through the subtitles and became lost in exactly three seconds. I heard Korean, but everyone seemed to have a French accent. When the little girl was run over by the horse and the villagers attacked the castle, I heard music from Les Miserables. The words "Pepe le Pew" (or what looked an awful lot like "Pepe le Pew") kept flashing across the bottom of the screen. And I'm certain that someone was extremely worried about their churro. I did learn that "cheval" means "horse" thanks to the main love interest saying that word and then a horse appearing. I also learned that after being strung up and pelted with some sort of animal dung, the rider that ran over the little girl offered to pay her family 30 pieces of the currency of the time and 20 rolls of toilet tissue. Although, thinking it over, he could have used the tissue more.
Oh, and I learned that the French like Korea, too.

The Case Against Photoshop

I heard from JB in Incheon that school photos in Korea are often touched up. I saw the proof with my own eyes as JB pointed to the photo of a doll on her wall and tried to convince me it was, in fact, her. I peered at the wallet-sized photo and did see traces of JB - the hair, the eyes, the necklace - but it didn't look like JB. Her face just wasn't so . . . plastic. Every wrinkle, every line of expression had been smoothed away until it became what JB would look like if she never smiled, laughed, cried, or breathed. I repressed my shudders and cheerfully reassured myself that my school preferred people in their natural skin.
As I sat in the teacher's room pouring over the sixth grader's graduation year book, I discovered that I was wrong.
I stared at the first page, featuring my principal and vice principal.
"Wow," I commented to CT. "These pictures are OLD."
CT looked over my shoulder and gave me a look. "No, they are not. They are new pictures. This year."
My stomach sank as my gaze fixed on the impossibly smooth-faced men in front of me. I turned the page and looked at row after row of rubber-faced teachers that I used to recognize.
"Oh, dear," I muttered and searched for my face.
Memories of the nice little man in the photography studio now haunted me. His cheerful smile and hearty laughter hid the intent to turn us all into little plastic versions of ourselves. I remembered sitting on that chair wondering why he needed a computer for 35mm prints.
Now it all made sense.
I flipped the page and gasped. "Ah! My freckles!"
CT jumped at my shout. "What?"
I jabbed my finger at the photo of my face. "My freckles are gone!"
"You don't have freckles," CT contradicted, staring at the photo.
I jabbed my finger into my cheek (ouch). "Yes, I do!"
CT laughed. "You do here." She pointed to my face. "But, not here." She dropped her finger to the photo.
"But . . . but . . . I like my freckles!" I protested. "And they're gone!"
CT looked at me and then at the photo and then back at me. "It's the same," she said.
"No, it's not!" I wailed.
And then HT (Head Teacher) walked over to see what the fuss was all about. I sat there in shock while CT and HT chatted and laughed in Korean. Then HT snatched the book, glared hard at the photo then glared at me and said something to CT.
"What?" I demanded, hearing my name in that sentence.
CT shrugged. "He says you look better."
"Thank you!" I said, feeling vindicated. "Real life is better, right?"
HT shook his head. He pointed to the book. "Pretty. Very pretty."
CT sort of half laughed and half coughed. "He thinks you look better in the photograph."

Driving like it's 1899

Do you remember when cars were first invented? Of course you don't. Neither do I. But I imagine that the public reacted like a little boy given his first BB gun - with unbelievable glee and excitement, leaving mass mayhem in his wake. Sort of how CT's boyfriend acted with his car.
I met CT in Gwangju yesterday. She has been up there taking an English class and wanted to have dinner with me one last time before I leave for vacation. I sat at the Gwangju Bus Terminal, going over my Korean flash cards while I waited for her class to end. Finally, my phone rang.
"Hayna, where are you?"
I slipped the flashcards into my pocket. "Outside by the stage. With the orange chairs and the big, green . . . uh . . ." My vocabulary failed at this point to describe the art deco structure erected around the stage. ". . . thing," I settled and stood up. "Where are you?"
"I'll go there," CT said and hung up.
I have accustomed myself to the fact that most Koreans do not say "goodbye" at the end of their call, seeming to just hang up mid-conversation, but it still irks me.
"Yeah, okay," I said into my cell phone, "I'll watch for you. Bye."
Seconds later, I saw CT and we met underneath the large, green arbor (?).
"My boyfriend is coming," CT said. "Is that okay? He has a car."
I nodded, instantly pleased at the fact that we wouldn't have to pay for a taxi. "Not a problem," I replied. "That is excellent."
I have met CT's boyfriend (to be known as Sonny) several times before. On the first day I met CT, Sonny drove us from the hotel at Gwangju to my new apartment in Nokdong. We have since gone to dinner several times in Nokdong and Podu, both very small towns with limited traffic. For some idiotic reason, I did not imagine that his driving would be any different in this huge city. The fact that I was staring at bumper-to-bumper traffic while waiting for him to appear did not make any impact at all. When I slid into the front seat on his tan Samsung (Samsung? Does Samsung even make cars? Don't they make, like, radios and TV's and stuff?), I actually congratulated myself on getting a spot with a seat-belt.
And then he pulled into traffic.
"Whoa!" I said, and grabbed onto the door handle.
Sonny laughed and faced me. "I good driver!" he proclaimed, using one hand to sweep his newly permed hair out of his eyes. "No worry!"
I sort of chuckled. "Right!" I agreed, subtly tightening the seat-belt.
"We'll go look at the University Campus," CT said from the back seat.
I twisted around to look at her, amazed at the way she causally sprawled against the seat, shifting her weight with the car's (erratic) movements, her hands not gripping the door in fear, but loosely holding her cell phone. She looked for all the world as though we were not destined to exit the vehicle via the windshield.
I knew from taking taxi rides in Gwangju that the rules of the road are more like suggestions here in South Korea. That may be a broad statement, but Sonny certainly displayed the Anything-To-Get-Where-I-Want-To-Go mentality that seems to afflict so many cab drivers. He wove in and out of traffic, flipped a few U-turns with no regard to oncoming traffic, ran several red lights, and - my personal favorite - drove on the WRONG side of the road to bypass four cars waiting at a red light. When we finally arrived at the University, I was ready to throw up. (I am prone to motion sickness, so I had taken some Dramamine on the bus, but Sonny's driving proved stronger than modern medicine.)
"Should we walk?" CT asked no one in particular.
"Yes!" I agreed, reaching for the door handle.
"No!" Sonny protested at the same time, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.
They had a short conversation in Korean and then CT said, apologetically, "He will catch his train at 8:30, so we don't have time to walk."
"Okay," I said, choking down my disappointment as Sonny's car chugged up a small hill.
CT guided the tour from the back seat, "Here is the fitness club. There is the language department. Oh, look! An animal hospital! There is the Business Incubator," (I don't know and I didn't ask what a business incubator is) while Sonny drove all over campus. He dodged the students walking in the middle of the road by driving on the sidewalk. He missed a turn and drove backwards in a round-about. He willfully ignored several Do Not Enter signs (I'm not Korean, and even I know what they say!!) and drove the wrong way down a narrow, one-way street, laughing off the honks of the oncoming cars. Through it all, he kept repeating, "I good driver! No worry!" until I began to suspect he was doing so not to reassure me, but to convince himself.
"Now for dinner!" CT announced.
"Is it close by?" I asked desperately.
Of course not. Another twenty minutes of death-defying driving and I was finally able to get out of the car. I stood on solid ground and glared at Sonny across the roof of the car. I don't know if it is possible to have road rage against the driver of the vehicle you are occupying, but I had it. In spades.
Sonny puffed out his chest and smiled. "I good driver!" he said again.
It was all I could do to not pound my fist against the car while shouting, "No! You're not! You are a terrible driver!"
"Let's go eat," CT said and walked into the restaurant.
Sonny walked around the car to the restaurant door and I turned to follow. Just as my hand touched the handle of the door, I heard the screech of breaks and the honking of multiple horns. Sonny and I stepped around the car and peered down the street. A small car had decided to ignore its red light and was slowly making its way through a busy intersection by a series of stops and starts depending on which way the cars were coming. Several cars had stopped even though the green light gave them clearance to go. The car finally made it across the intersection and scurried down a side street.
I looked at Sonny.
He looked at my accusing expression and said, "See? They very bad driver. I good driver."
I said nothing, opting to practice the "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all" adage.

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.

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?

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"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.

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.

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.