Goodbye for now: tea and lullabies

Do you ever have a moment where you feel like life sits you down, looks you straight in the eye, and says, "Stop what you're doing, and look - look all around you - look at this huge, sad, beautiful world you're so lucky to be a piece of - tell me that doesn't mean something - tell me that doesn't break your heart and heal its cracks at the same time"? When you feel so big and so small, all at once? When you feel like every atom you've got is somehow precious, like all of you and all of the things you've done have a purpose, like all the chaos around you organizes itself into one crystalline moment that lasts forever and yet no time at all?

That happened to me last night.

It was, of course, an accident. One can never have these moments on purpose. I wanted to end my evening by watching yet another episode of Game of Thrones - my latest TV addiction - but before I started, I wanted a cup of tea. So I took my mug, popped a teabag inside, and walked upstairs to the fifth floor kitchen to get a little hot water. As I was about to go back downstairs, I thought, tonight is a clear enough night. I should go out onto the balcony, see the city, get outside for a bit. So I went out, tea in hand, sat on an overturned trash bin next to the clothesline and looked out over my little corner of Seoul. And I had a moment.

I don't know why. I've been on this balcony many times before, at all hours of the day. But for some reason, this time, it all just hit me. I've been in Seoul for six weeks now, I thought, and tomorrow, I'll be going home. And I'll have to say goodbye to this city and the people I've met here, and I think it might break my heart.

I won't pretend I've fallen completely in love with Seoul. It is a huge, smelly, sometimes frustrating city, and I've felt lost here as often as I've felt, well, not lost. But for better or for worse, it has become home. And it's always hard to say goodbye to a home.

So, with an ache in my chest, I drank my tea and watched my little corner of the city. Watched the lights of Seoul Tower turn from red to blue to pink. Watched the trains go by below, listened to their wheels squealing against their rails. Watched the big, silent hill of Namsan Park and felt that it watched me back. Watched the single, silent star I could see above me through the smog. Felt the hot, muggy wind, and the heaviness in the air that means rain is coming. Heard the toddlers whining in the next building over, the distant cars on the freeway, the crunch-crunch of tires on the road below.

Somehow, it felt like Seoul was singing me a lullaby.

Good night, little foreigner, it said. See you next time.

And in that moment, I realized how truly lucky I am to be able to come here, to explore such a wonderful city, to teach such wonderful students, to have such wonderful adventures.

With that I end my blog.

Until next time,
-Emily O.

In which Emily gets political

My fellow Americans:

I've never been much of a patriot.

That's not to say I'm one of those flag-burning hooligans you see on the news. Rather, I think of myself (maybe a bit pretentiously) as a sedate cynic, someone whose heart does not melt fondly at the sight of the American flag; on the rare occasion I watch sports, I feel boredom rather than pride during the national anthem. There are parts of America I love. I love our friendliness and our open faces, our insistence on spelling "favorite" without a U, our geographically diverse stretch of the North American continent. So I certainly don't hate my country. But I don’t find it particularly inspiring, on the whole. So when I asked my students to provide stereotypes they associated with Americans, I found their answers (pictured below) not insulting, but rather amusing.

"Haha, well, you've got us there," I said, with my best teacherly chortle. "I mean, guns are pretty available in the US. Our diet is pretty terrible, and on average, we are overweight. We do like money, and meat. And I've heard that as a culture, Americans are pretty self-centered compared to, um, a lot of other cultures. But there are nice people in America. I promise."

Yes, you seem very nice, said my students. Do you own a gun?

"No!" I said. "Nonononono. And I don't think America is the best country in the world, either. But there are certainly people who do. And there are certainly people who, um, have guns."

Class continued pleasantly, with the usual friendly banter, and I thought little more of the topic of stereotype of Americans as imperialist gun-wielders. But I was forced to look straight at it when, on my sweaty walk to Seoul Tower, I encountered this:

This, my friend, is the Yongsan Garrison. It occupies roughly 620 acres in the middle of Seoul. And I don't use "middle" lightly. Here is a map of the metropolitan area of Seoul, made by yours truly with the help of Google Maps and WordArt. The city boundary is the black line, and the Yongsan Garrison is the red spot. Yes, that red spot.

Of course, this isn't perfect. I'm not a cartographer. But I attest that this map is basically accurate. And you will notice that the garrison is, in fact, smack dab in the middle of downtown Seoul. It is not tucked away in the outskirts. It stands, in all its glory of concrete and barbed wire, in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the world.

It isn't as if the Americans put it there in the first place. The Japanese started using it as a garrison in 1910, when they began their infamous occupation of Korea. At the time, Seoul was a wee bit smaller than its current 233 square miles, and the garrison was far outside of the city. But as you may have heard, since the Korean War, Seoul has expanded into the second-largest city in the world (by metro area). In the words of the ever-trusty Wikipedia, the city of Seoul "enveloped the Garrison."

So in a way, the US has just been making use of land that was already devoted to military activity. And perhaps its presence is justified, since North Korea's policy towards most of planet Earth is not exactly friendly.

But I will confess that my first reaction to the garrison was embarrassment.

Embarrassment? you ask. Why embarrassment?

Let me put it this way. Would the US allow Korea to have a giant concrete complex in the middle of New York City? Would the US allow ANY country, for that matter, to conduct any sort of military activity on American soil? No. But we are perfectly alright with having our own giant concrete complexes in the middle of foreign cities. And when you see a wall of concrete and barbed wire with signs proclaiming "US Property: No Trespassing" glued to it every thirty feet, do you think, "Hm. This 'US' country looks friendly enough"? No, you don't. The wall is clearly intended to stop people from entering. It is both a protective barrier and a demonstration of power, the capability to do violence.

And it is now no surprise to me that my students believe all Americans are violent self-absorbed gun-toting imperialist nationalists. Because that is, without a doubt, the image we are broadcasting. And maybe that image isn’t too far from the truth. America does have tendency to interfere in foreign affairs, sometimes violently. The fact that the US accounts for nearly 50% of the world's entire military spending doesn't help, either.

Do Seoulites find the Yongsan Garrison particularly offensive? I would guess no. At least, my students view it with ambivalence. It does not affect their ability to conduct healthy, ordinary lives, and it occupies very little of their thought space.

"It's just...there," said one of them. "We just live here, and it just lives here. But sometimes I think about it, a little. It's in the middle of everything. I mean everything. You can't get anywhere without having to get past it."

But no matter the intent behind it, you cannot deny that the Yongsan Garrison - and our countless other garrisons around the world - make us look like unfriendly, inconsiderate imperialists.

What is the solution to this problem? Don't ask me. My major is English, not political science. Maybe the Garrison does serve a purpose. Maybe, to create a sense of international security, America's mighty military power must be visible to all. And I can't deny that as a citizen of the US, I reap many of the benefits that come with such power. For example, I am endlessly lucky that my native language - English - is also the global language of power, which enables me to get by solely with my language in almost any country I visit. I also enjoy a feeling of safety, knowing that no matter where I am in the world, my country's military is never very far away.

And please don't think I'm ungrateful for all of the work that US soldiers have done, and continue to do. I thank every person who is willing to sacrifice their lives for their country's safety - in a way, for my safety.

But if you are an American, and you are traveling, and locals are less than welcoming, do not be surprised.

Teaching: the not-so-boring version

Here it is at last - the long-promised not-boring treatise on teaching.

If you read my last post, you will remember that I am not here to stumble aimlessly around Seoul, sweaty and mute, eating spicy food and taking low-quality pictures with my iPhone. Rather, I have come with a purpose. I am teaching three no-credit courses at a women's university in Seoul, and in spite of various obstacles and oddities, I am quite enjoying myself. But I have not told you of these various obstacles and oddities. And since obstacles and oddities are ultimately what make life interesting, I feel that they will be more interesting to you than hearing me harping along about how much I love what I'm doing.

I won’t summarize the whole six weeks, either. I’ll just tell you about one day – one particularly eventful day – that I think sums up my experience quite nicely.

One this particular day, I wake up promptly at 7:30. I check my email, my Facebook, my Pinterest. I ingest yoghurt and cornflakes. Then I shower while droning, repetitive pop music blares from my iPhone. In place of my usual shorts and wrinkled T-shirt, I put on a skirt and a nice silk teal shirt, because today, I am not a frumpy college student. I am a teacher. I may be a fraud, but at least I'm a well-dressed fraud. I throw on a bit of makeup, grab my umbrella, put on the only pair of heels I own, and teeter out the door.

Today, per most days, it is raining heavily. It is also 85 degrees. Humidity is at 99%. I have started to grow used to the muggy monsoon weather, and while 85 degrees is certainly uncomfortable, it's not unbearable. It isn't as if I'll pass out or become delirious. It'll be fine.

By the time I reach the classroom, I am not dead, but I’m certainly moist. Class starts in twenty minutes. I turn the air conditioners that line the wall on high and hope, that in the twenty minutes I have until class begins, I will be sweat-free.

Ten minutes pass. I am at the computer, downloading all necessary handouts and powerpoints. I do not feel particularly hot. But in spite of this, I am coated in sweat. My shirt is covered with suspicious dark patches. Liquid drips from my face onto the keyboard below.

I now realize that the air conditioning never comes on until about 10:30. Shit, I think. What the hell am I supposed to do? Class starts in five minutes. I can't teach like this. I can't even be in public like this. I go to the bathroom, mop my face with toilet paper, but the sweat comes back faster than I can remove it.

Shit, I think. Shit shit megashit.

You should know that I am not disgustingly out of shape. Nor am I (to the extent of my knowledge) terminally ill, or truly ill in any way. I do not wheeze too terribly when I go up hills or steep staircases, and once, in my high school days, I ran a 5K in 23 minutes and 30 seconds. But for reasons unknown, I sweat. And I sweat a LOT.

"Oh, it's okay!" you say, as you giggle nervously. "I do that, too!"

No, you don't understand. Do you soak through everything you're wearing? Do your arms, your legs get wet? Does your face drip sweat onto the floor? If you answered "yes" to any of these, you have my sympathy. If you said "no," then you do not sweat. You barely grasp the meaning of the word "sweat." Do not assume to understand the plight of true sweaters.

Three minutes. Maybe two. I have to get back to class. I have to reveal myself to the world, in all my dripping glory, because I am a TEACHER, dammit. I might be nineteen, and I might be more of a bullshitter than an imparter of knowledge, but I am not here to feel sorry for myself. I am here to instruct. I have a job to do.

Well, an internship, technically.

At one minute to ten, I stride into class and give my students the usual corny smile. Normally, I'm quite sarcastic, and, as my mother informs me, "a little intense." But when I teach, I transform into a grinning, giggling, nodding, mmhm-ing, skirt-wearing happy robot. I don't know why. I just do.

At first, the students smile back. Then those smiles slip into frowns of concern as they notice that I'm pale, soaking wet, and probably look kind of like the stink monster from Spirited Away:

"Towoh!" I say, beaming madly. This is Korean for "hot." It's an excellent conversation starter - my only conversation starter, really.

The students are politely impressed at my grasp of Korean. But I can see in their eyes another look - pure horror.

"Don't I look terrible?" I say. "Look at me. It's the middle of monsoon season, raining and raining, and I forgot my umbrella."

The lie is out of my mouth before I can stop it. But some of them believe it. They laugh along with me, nod sympathetically. But some of them are not fooled. They are probably thinking, "I wonder if that is her umbrella sitting in the corner." Or, "But she's only wet in...patches."

But they are kind enough to drop the subject. Still, the first half-hour before the air conditioning kicks in is noticeably awkward. No one wants to be (or be taught by) someone who is showering the floor around them with droplets every time they move. As for the smell - well, I will leave that to your imagination. But by the second hour of class, the air conditioning has finally come on, and I am more or less dry.

We go over some new vocabulary. Then we turn to a new topic - beauty standards. The students have a discussion about the benefits and drawbacks of plastic surgery, and I do my best to direct the conversation in a meaningful way. But I barely need to. My students are curious, intelligent – and while their English may not be perfect, they always manage to get their point across one way or another, with or without proper grammar. They are kind, they are respectful. I am so lucky, I think. These are the easiest, most interesting students I ever could have asked for.

You may remember this student from my last post:

I can now more or less pronounce her Korean name, which is very pretty and Korean-sounding. But I can't help but to think of her as Beyoncé. While she attends class regularly, she often sleeps for hours, burying her head in her arms and snoring faintly while the rest of the students talk, read articles, or politely sit through my attempts at powerpoints. Every now and then, she will wake up, say a single word in English, and then return back to her normal position.

"So I've made you another powerpoint, as you can see," I tell the class. "Yes, the title slide is really boring - I finished the presentation two hours ago, and I didn't have time to find a picture" - here, the students laugh courteously - "but anyway, as you can see, it's called 'Overweight'? Or just 'curvy'?"

"Curvy," Beyoncé declares. Then she resumes her nap.

For the next hour, that is Beyoncé’s only contribution. It is not until the end of class, when the students perform skits with American slang. Her line is short, but memorable:

"Bro, that biddy was so hardcore. She passed out on floor. I think we just hookup not girlfriend. She is pothead psycho druggie."

And on that note, class ends. I go out to lunch with some of the students (Beyoncé included), who are kind enough to treat me to some cold spicy noodles whose name I’ve already forgotten. I thank them profusely. Then we part ways, as they head toward the subway stop and I head back to the university. I am almost back to the classroom when I realize I’ve forgotten my cell phone.

Shit shit megashit. I poke my head into the classroom, inform the one student who’s already arrived of my situation, and hurry out of the building. I go back to the restaurant. I find my cell phone. But in a cruel twist of events, the sun has come out, and it is mercilessly hot. By the time I get back to class, I am again covered in sweat. I am also fifteen minutes late.

The students stare. I explain the situation with the cell phone. Then I think of lying about getting caught in the rain, but that’s no longer an option, since it is no longer raining.

“Alright,” I say, as I lean against the board, panting. “Can anyone tell me the meaning of the phrase ‘hot mess’?”

After the quick vocabulary lesson, class continues as normal. Relatively speaking.

“Okay. This next part will be a little strange, but bear with me. I promise I have a point.”

I go to the computer, turn on the projector, and pull up a slide that looks like this:

“Aliens,” I say, “have invaded planet earth.”

There is only silence.

“I will now speak the part of the aliens,” I tell them.

More silence. Maybe this was a bad idea.

I continue anyways.

“Hello, humans. We have come to take over your world. It is ours because we were the first of our species to discover it, so we therefore claim it as our own. You six have been appointed to make decisions for the entire human race. You have two choices: you can fight, or you can negotiate.”

I smile. They smile cautiously back. Then they huddle into a group, muttering in Korean. Probably something along the lines of “What the hell is she doing now?”

I do have a point. This week, we are discussing racial inequality in the US. I want to give them a taste of the Native American experience, in which foreign invaders completely decimate their entire civilization. But I won’t tell them that yet. They have to play the alien game first. In English, preferably.

What happens if we fight? they ask.

“I don’t know. We haven’t fought yet.”

Okay. We’ll negotiate.

“Fair enough. Because we are not cruel aliens, we will allow the human race to live on a continent of you choosing. Except Eurasia. We want Eurasia.”

That isn’t fair, they say. Okay. We’ll fight.

“Alright,” I say. “We fight. Because we aliens have vastly superior technology, you suffer a crushing defeat. The human population falls to five billion.”

Well, it’s only once, they say. We’ll fight again.

Again, they lose. One of them has started to take the simulation very seriously and is becoming irritated.

“Do we ever win?” she asks.

“No.”

“Do we at least get a superhero?”

“No.”

Grudgingly, they choose North America. The game continues from there. First, I force them to move to Canada. Then, I give them a terrible alien plague, and the human population drops to one billion. By the end of the simulation, they are squeezed into a corner of Antarctica with a population of only 500 million, and aliens have taken over the world.

“Does this sound at all familiar to” – I click to the next slide – “this?”

It is a very boring slide.

Oh, they say. Probably, they are thinking, So there was a point to this stupid game. Or God, I hate this class.

I launch into a brief overview of Native American history (drawn mostly from Wikipedia) that even I find boring. I have to stop doing powerpoints. They might be easy, but on the whole, they’re an abomination. A terribly boring abomination.

But the second half of class goes better. They tell me all about their view of foreigners.

I have told them that America’s population looks something like this:

Whereas Korea’s population looks something like this:

That is not quite right, they say. It is not three percent. Maybe…five percent.

“Okay, but still,” I say. “Compared to America, Korea is a kind of homogeneous – uniform country. I can sometimes go a whole day without seeing another foreigner.”

They tell me that probably isn’t true, since I can’t distinguish between East Asian languages, and thus have no way of knowing if someone is speaking Chinese or Japanese. And I probably couldn’t recognize any of the little clues that will show that a person who looks “Asian” to me might not be Korean – for example, Japanese girls tend to wear a lot of blush, while Koreans tend to try to make their faces paler.

“You’re probably right,” I say. “Sorry about that.” I make some self-deprecating comment about my ignorance of Korean (and for that matter, East Asian) culture.

That is okay, they say. We do the same thing with Westerners. You all look the same to us. You might be British, for all we know. Or Ukrainian.

]This does make me feel a bit better. I’ve always wanted to be European. It seems so much more sophisticated than being American.

Then they tell me about South Asian immigrants, and how North Korean is becoming its own language, and how different areas of South Korea have their own dialects. It’s all so very interesting. This is when class is best, I decide – when they teach me.

Then the intermediate class ends, and the final class begins. Mostly, we watch YouTube videos and go over our reading, which this week is about rape on college campuses. They too enlighten me about their own experiences – cases of sexual assault in Korea, college life, and (after we’ve gone a bit off topic) the scandals surrounding various gay Korean celebrities. They are a little quieter than my other classes, but they still talk enough to keep me happy.

Of course, they are very intelligent. But they are also very cute. Their English is very good – much better than my Korean. But every now and then they make mistakes.

My personal favorite is when they confuse their L’s and their R’s. In English, we consider the sound of an R and the sound of an L to be completely different sounds. However, in Korean, they are considered to be almost the same sound. They even come from the same letter, which looks like this:

ᄅ 

As a result, they often confuse the two sounds, among others. "Rapist" becomes "lappist." "Les Miserables" becomes "Res Miserabers." “Raining” becomes “laining.” It is unbearably cute. Every now and then, I try to correct them, but it occurs so frequently that I’m afraid I’ll embarrass them if I call them out every time they do it wrong. Besides, it doesn’t usually get in the way of me understanding them.

I’ll give them a lesson on it someday. But for now, I’ll just listen to the stories of lockstars and lage.

Class ends at 5:30. I am exhausted and in desperate need of a shower. My face is sore from all the smiling. I do not want to interact with humans. I want to go back to my room, scan my Facebook, and mindlessly eat plums for several hours.

“Good-bye!” they say. “See you tomorrow! Thank you! Have a good evening!”

I smile. They smile. And it warms the cockles of my young little heart. And so another day ends.

Not every day is this exciting, or this rewarding. Some days, I fail miserably. Some days, I can’t make class go in a meaningful direction, no matter how much coaxing and weedling I do. But I’m learning how to forgive myself. I might be a quack, but at least I’m an enthusiastic one.

Enough on teaching. Next, I will spout a few of my political views.
-Emily

The lowdown on Koreans

Okay, okay, all of this is SORT OF interesting, you say. But what about the KOREANS? What are THEY like?

Like us, dear reader, they are human. They go about their lives as best they can and, eventually, die.

Yes, I know that, you say. But what makes them different? What makes them KOREAN?

I don't really know. I'm not Korean. And as you are aware, I don't speak Korean, so I'm not really in a position to ask a Korean what it's like to be Korean, let alone comprehend their answers (in Korean), which will no doubt exceed my limited Korean vocabulary of "hello," "thank you," and "rice." But I can give you some general facts about, well, Koreans. And obviously, we're talking about South Korea. Not the other one. And I'm not an expert - I'm just reporting what I've heard from students, friends, coworkers, and Wikipedia. And obviously, not every single Korean is exactly like the people I'm describing below. I'm generalizing.

Enough disclaimers. Per usual, I will give you an answer in a list. I'm OCD. I like lists.

1. The average Korean works 60 hours per week. The American average of 45-ish hours per week pales in comparison. While the Korean government has done a lot to reduce the number of hours people work per week, I think it's safe to say that the average Korean is quite, quite busy, and probably quite, quite stressed out.

2. Also, education is quite competitive. Grades are usually done by rank, not percentage; in other words, only the top few students in a class will get A's, even though many more kids will have done reasonably well on their work. As a result, there is very little collaboration between students and quite bit of competition. Education - from elementary school to college - can be quite stressful. Children are expected to spend most of their waking hours studying or doing homework.

And almost everyone attends college. Which college they attend is usually a matter of how well they do on the National Scholastic Ability Test (NSAT). A top score can mean a place in a top college - a low score can mean a place in a mediocre college, or in no college at all. This could be disastrous for a student's future plans, since employers often choose employees based on the university they got into after high school.

3. Based on all of this, it may not surprise you that South Korea has high suicide rates - the highest of all OECD nations. Suicide is the most common cause of death in Koreans under 40. Youth suicide is often motivated by bad results on the NSAT. In fact, suicide is so prevalent that all subway tracks in Seoul are blocked off by bulletproof glass, to prevent potential suicide victims from jumping in front of trains.

Well, this all sounds very intense, you say. Are they ALL stressed out of their minds?

Probably not. But I would guess that they're more stressed than the average American.

4. Enough about suicide. Let's talk about something else. Something less morbid. How about...North Korea.

Although North Korea is a formidable presence - after all, it does block South Korea off from the rest of the world, at least in a geographical sense - it does not prevent most South Koreans from leading healthy, productive lives. They do not worry constantly about the threat of war.

My students had their own views on the matter.

"Someday, we might reunite, you know, become one country again," they said. "It would be difficult because North Korea is quite poor and South Korea would have to take care of them, but I think we would do it. It would be the right thing to do. Because we don't hate the North Koreans - we just hate their government."

"Now, it is better to be dead than be North Korean," said one of them. "It is better to be a pet or a dog."

Every now and then, it hits me that I'm a mere 30 miles from the border of a country whose citizens face extreme censorship and mass starvation. And it certainly hit me then.

5. Okay, ENOUGH depressing stuff, you say. Let's talk about...fashion. Socializing. Anything.

Okay. Fashion. In general, most people dress about the same as Americans, but a little classier on average. Whereas the average American woman might wear jeans and a t-shirt, the average Korean woman might wear a blouse, a pencil skirt, and sky-high pumps. Quite stylin.

One major difference is in Korea, pale is in, tan is out. People apply sunscreen regularly. There are even lotions to make skin paler, and oftentimes, women wear makeup to make them look whiter, not rosier or...bronzier.  And in Korea, there are two sorts of umbrellas - umbrellas for rain, and umbrellas for sun, to keep UV rays from darkening the skin.

At first, the idea of having umbrellas for sun seemed fusty and Victorian. But I've begun to see the benefits. Not only are you the owner of a exquisite lacy parasol - you also carry shade with you wherever you go. And I don't think that is such a bad idea. It certainly covers more of you than a hat would, and it saves all that time for putting on sunscreen.

Still, this is rather different from the US, where pale people often make self-deprecating comments about their paleness ("Ugh, I'm such a ghost." "Look, it's like I'm translucent.") and tan people are quietly proud of their golden skin tone.

Also, in Korea, there's an entire beauty standard dealing with "face size" that definitely does not exist in the US. My students tried their best to explain it to me. Small faces are good, big faces are bad, they said. It has to do with head size relative to body size, and also where cheekbones are, and something about having a face that could be completely hidden behind a CD.

When all of this failed to make much sense to me, I showed them a picture of myself and my sister and asked, "Who has the smaller face?"

Apparently, I do. I have no idea how. I have no idea why. At this point, my students gave up. As a Westerner, it would be impossible for me to understand Korean face size standards apart from knowing of their existence.

"This does not mean you are prettier," they said. "Because she is paler."

"I thought that went without saying," I said. Anyone with eyes can tell that my sister is the attractive one. Especially in the picture above.

And finally, plastic surgery. It's a big thing in Korea. Mostly, it's women who get it, but men do too, occasionally. The most common surgery is eye surgery (to make eyes bigger and more "Western"), but other cosmetic surgery is quite normal, too. It isn't weird if someone undergoes a beauty procedure - it's just a sign that they care about how they look, and they've decided to make themselves more beautiful. You can find plastic surgery clinics all over Seoul.

5. Okay, but how about social stuff?

Social stuff? "Social stuff"? Seriously?

Well, I know what you mean. Social interaction. Courtesy. All that...stuff.

Since Koreans are also humans, it is not too difficult for non-Korean humans to interact with them. This, of course, is assuming that the non-Koreans speak Korean, or (in my case) the Koreans speak English. But aside from the language barrier, I never felt that I was plunged into a completely different culture from my own. People are generally friendly and respectful. We laugh at similar things, resort to the same small talk (usually, "God, it's hot today") when other conversation fails. But there are a few major differences when it comes to social interaction.

First of all, they do not smile at strangers. They do not even greet strangers. Americans do both things quite often, and for the first week or two, I had to stop myself from smiling and saying "hello" to approaching pedestrians before they gave me a withering look and went on their way.

Also, handshakes are not a big thing. Waving is not a big thing, either. Bowing is quite common, though. It doesn't have to be a big, sweeping bow - it can just be a nod of the head - but it will do in situations where either smiling or waving would be normal in America, such as when you're saying thank-you to a cashier or greeting a person you've never met before.

In America, eye contact is very important - it shows that you're listening, that you care about what the other person is saying, that you're confident, all that good stuff. But it's not as big of a thing in Korea. Inferiors are not supposed to look superiors in the eye for extended periods of time - it's considered rude. For example, when I showed my students how to do a proper beaming-smile-loud-voice-gaze-straight-in-the-eye-good-strong-grip American handshake, they confessed they found it embarrassing, because they had trouble maintaining eye contact with me (their teacher). They said they weren't supposed to maintain eye contact with elders, bosses, or other people in positions "superior" to their own.

Which brings me to my final topic - the social system.

6. The Social System

(It looks much more official with capital letters and its own little number, doesn't it?)

America is usually defined as a country with a low "power distance" - in other words, there is not a lot of different in how a person treats a social inferior, superior, or equal. This is partly because the English language only allows for one way to address other people ("you"). Whether you're talking to your boss, your mother's friend, or your annoying little brother, you use "you." Thus, while we can use other things to show respect or lack thereof (for example, addressing someone as "sir" or "ma'am" versus "kid" or "asshole"), our position relative to the person we are talking to will never be obvious from the pronoun we use to address them.

In this respect, English is a little strange, compared to to other languages. Most other languages have at least two forms of "you" - a singular form (usually also familiar) and a plural form (usually more formal). Off the top of my head, I can think of several major languages - French, Spanish, Russian, and Georgian among them - that have multiple forms of "you." Korean, however, is strange in the respect that it has more than two forms of "you."

I won't get into the specifics. I'm no linguist. If you want the details, go to the Wikipedia page on Korean pronouns and see for yourself (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korean_pronouns). I'll just say that in Korean, you can express formality or informality in several different ways. There are variety of word endings (honorifics) that can indicate a level of respect; even other pronouns change along with the level of formality (for example, the "I" you use in formal situations is different from the "I" you use in informal situations).

What you should take away from this is that imbedded in the Korean language is a complex system used to express hierarchy. And in Korean culture, hierarchies and differences in power are much more important than in American culture. For example, even though I was younger than most of my students, many of them had trouble calling me something other than "teacher" because I was technically in a position of respect.

This is quite different from American culture, where familiarity is usually an essential part of politeness.  "How ya doin there, Mr. President?" would be just about as acceptable as "How is your day going, Mr. President?" In Korea, this level of informality with a superior would be completely unacceptable.

So there's my hurried, disorganized, generalized lowdown on the people who live in Korea.

Until next time,

-Emily