CAVEAT DVMPTRVCK

Well, it wasn’t really much of a deluge, as deluges go.

There have been some men working on digging up a sidewalk outside of the hallway outside of my classroom, the last few days. I guess they made a mistake, and piled some dirt in a ditch that was important for draining something. The consequence was that water started oozing into the hallway, making a flood.

My 6th grader, Rachel, came into the classroom toward the end of the lunch hour, and said, “Teacher! You must come the hallway. Now! See this!”

I poked my head out into the hall, and saw the flood. But what was really interesting to me was the way that there was a group of students cleaning it up – with no adult supervision. 5th and 6th graders, fetching mops, and moving the water down the hallway and splashing it out the door. They were not working very efficiently, but the fact they had taken the initiative to do this only serves as another confirmation to my speculations yesterday about how Korean culture still has deeply embedded memes about preparing for and coping with an unknowable future.

Maybe that’s too deep. The flood wasn’t that deep. Here’s a picture of the kids with mops, tackling the flood.

It was a day of minor crises. In my afterschool class for the first graders, a new enrollee punched another kid in the nose while my back was turned. I got to experience that inevitable moment, that every elementary teacher gets to experience at least once, of being bled upon profusely by a wailing child. This was not the first time, for me. And interestingly, the whole thing didn’t really phase me.

It’s weird how when the adults around me do stupid shit, I get furious – I’m thinking of my current mess involving my housing. But when kids around me do stupid shit, I just smile and say, “it’ll be OK.” I guess that’s a good thing.

I carried the child to the nurse’s office, down the hall, and she installed some cotton in his nostrils. I separated the two boys involved, and was hopefully appropriately stern – I suspect the new kid had punched the other because the other had been teasing him for being the new kid. So I assume both were at fault.

Anyway – I have a ruined shirt, with bloodstains. I hope my necktie can be saved – I like the one I was wearing (it’s the one I bought in Germany, showing a map of Leipzig, in silk – the kids think it’s cool: “oh, necktie map!”).

I was so angry yesterday. I was told (not consulted, simply told) that I would have to move out of my apartment at the middle of next week. And that my new apartment wouldn't actually be ready for me to occupy until sometime in early June; consequently, I would have to live in "temporary housing" for around 2 weeks – I guess the school's teacher/staff dormitory. I got to see this dormitory – it's about like my apartment in Ilsan (a small single-room studio), but it seems I will be sharing the space with other employees-in-transit. This was not entirely clear.

I suppose, as I reflect on this, that I brought this on myself: the main thing (really, the only thing) that I complained about, at the start of my job, was the quality of my housing. So for all I know, this little nightmare is the consequence of some bureaucrat in the administrative office getting wind of my complaints and trying to "help" me. I don't feel helped.

First of all, I had worked out a sort of peace with myself about my apartment. I dealt with the filth by buying lots of cleaning supplies and scrubbing the place industriously over the last several weeks. And so part of my resentment now is over this "wasted" investment. Also, I'd been getting comfortable with the positives of the apartment – its large size, it's unique configuration, its very convenient location in downtown Yeonggwang. Mostly, I was just glad to be having a place that I could call "home" again.

And now that's all messed up.

Living and working in Korean society sometimes reminds me, quite a bit, of military life: the sudden, unplanned-for changes in course, the arbitrary announcements, the disconcerting mixture of carrots and sticks, arranged so differently than in American life. So they throw some new thing at you, and you just have to cope. I have been in the habit of calling this "Confucian Immersion Therapy" – but now, I'm not so sure. I'm not so sure how Confucian it all is – a lot of things that make Korean society and culture are attributed to the 500+ years of state-sponsored, orthodox Confucianism (hence the moniker you hear sometimes: more Chinese than the Chinese).

But this pel-mel, from-the-top style of people management doesn't really match my understanding of Confucianism. I think it must arise from something else. My guess is the centuries of oppression, both by conquerers and an internal, highly entrenched and privileged elite, have led to a culture of "adapt to the moment at all costs." And, just like the military embeds uncertainty in its culture as a kind of semi-intentional means of ensuring preparedness among the troops, I suspect Korean society may embed the same sort of military-style uncertainty, for similar reasons: you never know who might come over the mountain next week.

What Confucianism offers (and, prior to that, what Buddhism offered, and, more contemporarily, what Christianity is offering) is a sort of equanimity for dealing with this certain uncertainty. A reason. A why and how for coping. But the uncertainty itself, so prevailing, so dominant, so universal – that's just plain old Korean.

I believe in the selective evolution of cultural traits – so I assume that this arose in Korean culture because it was selected for, by historical factors. Now, it is deeply embedded, and, vis-a-vis the broader, emerging, global culture, it offers both advantages and disadvantages. It makes Koreans great entrepreneurs when they are the minority (think of the millions of Korean diaspora, successful small business people all over the planet). When they're the controlling, dominant majority, as in their own country, it can make the whole enterprise seem a bit… well… challenging to deal with.

Back to my dilemma: I've made my frustrations known. I explained my feelings to a coworker this morning: "I feel like furniture." This simple sentence seemed to be something he could wrap his mind around, and made clear that I was unhappy. But he only shrugged, and said, "sometimes it's like that." See? Equanimity.

Korean schools (both public schools and private hagwon) seem to have a firm tradition of the periodic 회식 (hoe-sik [the official romanization is misleading, pronunciation is /hwehshik/] = meal of raw fish), where all the staff gathers together to eat sashimi (회), sushi (조밥), etc., and drink soju and beer and bond together as an organization.

[CORRECTION, added 2010-05-23: I guess the word 회 in this phrase actually means “get-together” or “group activity” according to one of my Korean-speaking readers – but I had always assumed it referred to the sashimi, because 회 also means sashimi, and that’s always – without exception – what was served at these get-togethers, in my experience.]

Korean business dinners are highly ritualized affairs, with complex rules for serving and downing shots of soju with the principal, vice-principal, eldest teacher, etc. Everyone sits down cross-legged on the floor at a single long table – the women staff tend to sit toward the ends, the men in the middle arranged roughly by age (not seniority, which isn’t quite the same) so that the oldest are near the middle of the length of the table.

I mostly try to resist ending up drinking to much, but it’s very difficult. It was interesting to see the principal (who seems very “upright” – not quite the right word but you get the image, maybe) ending up very drunk – because he has to drink some for each shot he forces one of his underlings to consume. He “held court” – sitting in his spot and having people come to him and serve him and he would them serve them. Meanwhile, the vice-principal was making rounds doing the exact same thing starting from the other end, but he was mobile and the people he visited were stationary. In this way, by the end of the evening, each of them had done at least one shot with all the main people under them (I don’t think they did it with everyone, but maybe down to the department-head level).

It was much more ritualized than what I have been used to at hagwon 회식, but it also managed to feel more friendly. Hagwon events always felt awkward, with a lot of tension between various bosses and sub-bosses, probably due to the for-profit nature of the hagwon biz, and the fact that that means no one’s job is secure if the CEO decided to cull the ranks. Of course, everyone manages to show up the next morning as if nothing happened.

I wonder how much of Korean civilization has been implemented by people with hangovers?

I arrived in Suwon just now. I had left some things with my friend here who runs the guesthouse where I stayed in February and March, and I’ve come to pick them up: a box of books, and some winter clothes (which, given how chilly this Korean spring has been, I probably should have taken with me to Gwangju two weeks ago… but, I’ve survived).

I’ll spend some time tonight or tomorrow using the convenient intenet to catch up on my blog posting. I could have gone to a PC방 (internet cafe) last week in the evenings and done it, but I was obsessing with cleaning my new apartment, and focused on adapting to school.  Anyway, if it takes longer to get internet in my apartment, I’ll have to develop a PC방 habit, I suppose – I can’t neglect this blog too much, can I?

Here is a picture of my main classroom at my new job. Imagine it filled with a bunch of wiggling first-graders, as it was this afternoon. As an English teacher, I’ll see bits and pieces of all the grade levels in the school, from kindergarten to 6th grade.

Korean addresses are backwards from what we Westerners are used in most countries I’m familiar with. They list the largest geographical unit first, and then “drill in” or “zoom in” to the most local unit, without using commas. So my new workplace would have a partial address as follows: 전라남도 영광군 홍농읍 상하리 홍농초등학교 (jeollanam-do yeonggwang-gun hongnong-eup sangha-ri hongnongchodeunghakgyo = South-Jeolla-Province Yeonggwang-County Hongnong-Town  Sangha-Village Hongnong-Elementary-School).

The map above shows Yeonggwang County. It’s on the west coast of the peninsula, in the northwestern corner of South Jeolla Province, which is the southwestern mainland province of South Korea.  So you visualize that it’s “facing” China’s Qingdao across the Yellow Sea to the west. The green-bordered blob you see is about 50 km. north-to-south and the same east-to-west, with some islands floating offshore. Maybe I’ll get to visit them sometime.

Hongnong Town is the knob at the top of the map. Yeonggwang Town (the “county seat”) is the cluster of extra roads you can see near the center of the map (but a bit off to the southeast from center).

The county is rural, but it’s not as rural as many might imagine. South Korea has a very high population density, so the number of persons-per-square-kilometer, even in an area like this, is more like New Jersey or Eastern Pennsylvania than it is like Iowa or Idaho. And Korea is crisscrossed by expressways, nowadays, too, so there’s not much left of the long, slow trips on twisting one-and-one-half-lane highways that even I remember vividly from the early 90’s.

I already like my new school. It’s just like any other Korean elementary school, a bit of a cookie cutter architecturally, with the dirt playground in front and the three-story facade of classrooms. But in a town as small as Hongnong, it has a bit of the feel of a community center, too, maybe.

I was shocked and dismayed to learn that my apartment will not be in Hongnong Town, but rather Yeonggwang Town. That seems like a long commute (about 30 km.). Also, when I saw my apartment, it was rather dirty, and definitely a bit shabby. Hmm… lots of cleaning to be done.