posted 03-29-2001 04:30 PM            

It hit me when we were doing 60 on a highway with mountains out every window...and skyscrapers right on top of the mountains. Aside from the terrain it kinda looked like parts of Long Island. But that difference, along with the copius amounts of street signs that looked like unfinished Picassos, well that's when it hit me.

I was in Korea.

I started giggling and sorta got giddy. This might even be exciting. I looked over at the stoic guide who picked me up at the airport and the even more stone faced taxi driver who couldn't figure out what I thought was so funny. I decided I should probably laugh on the inside.

On the ride to school I discovered many things. One, in Seoul, barbers and their psychedelic poles are locaed anywhere they can stuff a man and his scissors, icluding the middle of a food court. Two, "nostalgia" and "happy fun" are the preferred advertising prefixes for food, cars and household appliances. Three, green and red lights are less standards for driving here than rough outlines. Pedestrians in this country are doomed.It was shortly afterward I realized I was going to be one of them.

Incidentally, you'll all be recieving copies of my last will and testament soon.

The school - the wonderland academy - is filled with different classrooms patterned after different cartoon characters. I have been assigned the "Peter Rabbit" class. It's only 8 kids but one of them is a crier named Mark. This kid cries if he hurts himself, comes in second place in games or if the lunch is the wrong color.

This would be a good time to mention that the only thing I've recognized in my lunch so far is the rice. Today I went to the receptionist of the school and told her that, judging by smell, one of the kids had decided to poop in the sink. Turns out the lunchlady just made a really strong batch of kimchee. By strong I mean it smelled like the mop at a porno theater. And these kids asked for seconds. Actually so did I. Until I can figure out how to determine which is a food store and which is an appliance shop, all I have in the fridge is ice and altoids.

The other teachers here are all extraordinarily friendly and helpful. This is apparently because the four teachers who weren't, snuck out in the middle of the night for parts unknown two weeks ago. I got one of their apartments, which, by all acounts, is a villa compared to the places the rest of the teachers have. I don't even have a roommate. In fact, the only problems I've had so far are that my bed has no sheets (but five blankets strangely enough), the lights from the nearby bus terminal are on all night, and that my landlord broke in yesterday, nearly killed me and ruined my door.

Apparently the school didn't tell my non-english speaking landlord that I was moving in. So, last night, when I finally got home, I collapsed on my bed, locked my door (with door chain) and passed out. I awoke to a screaming Korean man demanding to know who I was. Apparently he had tried to get in to take my heating oil, was stopped by my door chain, and had to break down the door. At that moment I realized, sleepily, that I had no chance of making Screamy the Landlord understand I hadn't broken in to take a nap. Luckily, also at that moment, my neighbor, a fellow english teacher, came along. She explained what happened and who I was in broken Korean. It seemed to go over because he nodded, his wife apologized and they left.

He still stole all my heating oil though.

Anyhow my first exposure to the middle school kids I teach in the second half of the day is only 20 minutes off. With any luck these kids will know a little more english than my morning preschoolers. And with more luck still, it will be more that curse words and American phrases to pick up chicks.

I am not too hopeful on that latter one.

Tonight I'm off to the bars. I'll write again on Monday and let you folks know if there is indeed more to this great country besides badly phrased english slogans written on satin jackets. With any luck there will be affordably priced local hooch, bars with music that doesn't sound like Asian Celine Dion and girls who think I'm the best thing since sliced bread.

Again, I am not too hopeful on that latter one. Especially since I don't even know how to buy sliced bread.

Take care and I need someone to mail me sheets,

posted 03-29-2001 04:31 PM            

This weekend, at a fellow teacher's house, I was introduced to a drink called "soju." It comes in a little green bottle, it's roughly the size of a 16 oz Coke and costs about 65 cents American. Said bottle is nearly tasteless when introduced into a pitcher of lemonade, kool aid or soda. And, coincidentally, makes the drinker also tasteless after four or five drinks.

Apparently on soju, I think I'm not only Irish, with full accent, but I can sing multiple choruses of Hank Williams tunes. Loudly. Or so the neighbors told me later.

While cost-effective, the total cost of soju needs to also include a hangover that could cripple an elephant. I was sure the north korean army was invading when I woke up with a tongue that tasted like brillo. I was fully prepared to surrender in return for some silence when I got up. Turns out it was just someone knocking at my door.

It was my neighbor, the one who saved me from death at the hands of Screamy the Landlord. Turns out Screamy had delivered her MORE heating oil than she needed so she was replacing the stores he stole from me. Things in Korea are more circular than I figured. I'm guessing to get groceries I'm going to have to buy fruit for a stranger and then wait for someone to deliver apples.

Speaking of which, this weekend I saw a guy fall off an apple truck. Now it's not everyday you see a metaphor brought to life like that. Usually to do that you gotta buy a grindstone and get someone with a big nose to look closely at it.

But it IS every day you see these trucks. Peanut trucks, apple trucks, potato trucks. They park wherever there's no traffic ACTIVELY being driven through...and start selling whatever's in the back of the truck. The entrepenurial spirit is amazing to watch. Apparently a sales license in Korea is just gas, an engine and brake lines.

Actually I take that back. Just gas and an engine. I've been here four days and I haven't seen anyone use their brakes yet. They slow, they gear down and they swerve...but they do not stop. Ever. This is a land in perpetual motion. My guess is that it's all just a daily dress rehearsal for the 60 mile an hour exodus the entire country will do south if the North ever runs out of food and starts looking their way. Frankly, having seen some of the food here, those folks are not only taking their chances, the're getting gipped on portions.

Here's a fun fact: when you go to McDonald's here, what WE think of medium is THEIR super-size. I had a big mac that was smaller than a US cheeseburger. And the meat was debatable at best.

But that's not the scary part. You know when you go to throw away you tray and trash after eating? Well you know the disposable cups?

They get recycled.

I thought about it for a minute. Then I thought about the coke I just drank. Then...well then I got more nauseous than when I went on Magic Mountain at Euro Disney on six shots of schnapps. I was about to ask my friend about our straws and then thought better of it. My constitution couldn't handle any more environmentalism today.

I will say this though, for a country that treats food conservation like religion, when it comes to furniture these folks are practically regal in their waste. You have never SEEN such nice furniture thrown out on the street. Coming from a man who's only ever done his furniture shopping on heavy trash pickup day, it's high praise indeed. I mean someone threw out an entire oak & leather art deco living room set. You'd pay 2 grand easy for this new. And at least 500 for it used. Here? it's not even the nicest thing I've seen on the street today. I would take it back to my apartment but, aside from the double bed that's made me the envy of the entire Wonderland teaching staff, I've only got enough room for a table and three chairs in the rest of my house. I ever play bridge, someone's gonna have to sit in the shower.

And finally, speaking of my house, one other tidbit about my place that I discovered this weekend. After I put in some of my heating oil and decided I had enough to splurge and heat my house...well I took a nice long nap. When I woke up my house toasty. Too toasty in fact. I sat up and put my feet on the floor. The floor was hot. I mean HOT. Having excelled in fire safety from grades four through six I knew this could only mean one thing. Fire. Clutching my CDs (the only thing most of you know I truly love) I ran to the hall. Which was cool. Very cool.

I walked back into my house. Hot floor.

Then I went into the Hall. Cool Floor.

I did this a few more times. Then, braving the dangers of certain firey doom, I went back in and phoned a fellow teacher, Kierstie. I asked her how soon I could expect the flames to lick upon my home given how hot the floor was.

It was about two minutes before she stopped laughing.

Seems that, unlike Western civilization, Korean culture ignores vents, ducts and central heating to instead heat their homes through the floor. I pointed out that this MIMICKED exactly the way one knows their house is on fire and quoted my fire safety training from Mr. Auerbach's class in 1982. She said not to worry. Given that my building was made before sprinkers, fire codes and was built entirely of wood...if there was a real fire, well I was a goner anyway.

IN some strange way I took comfort in that and went back to my nap. I might die in a firetrap inferno, but at least I would be well rested.

Riley Ray

PS -

IN case any of you want to send me anything, I could use some books. The only thing I can read over here is the small print on ingredient labels and I've learned it's probably for the best if I don't. Any books at all. Anything interesting or engaging and written in ENGLISH (yeah I saw that coming you jokers). My mailing address is at the school:

Riley Ray Chiorando
c/o Wonderland School
4F, 715-1, Changdong,
Dobonggu, Seoul, Korea

But one tip. they say anything subversive or pornographic MAY be confiscated so I'd hold onto whatever you think my usual reading material is. Of course if you know any way to make a Maxim magazine look like a Ladies Home Journal, you might want to give it a shot. Thanks

posted 04-03-2001 12:00 AM            

I have been to the promised land my friends. Her name is Japan.

Or J-Lo for short.

Now this is kinda wacky, so bear with me. In order to obtain a teaching visa for Korea you must FIRST send a number of documents TO Korea. THEN you have to come to Korea to obtain the proper documentation and fill out a stack of forms the size of a short baby. Here it helps to have a translator because English they ain't.

THEN, when all the right forms have been dotted and checked and stamped with official looking stamps in Korean that look like modern art...that's when you go to Japan. See, you have to COME to Korea to fill out the forms. BUT you have to LEAVE Korea and go to a foriegn country where there is a Korean Consulate to FILE them.

I will never complain about the Department of Motor Vehicles again.

That's why this bureaucratic boondoggle involved a trip to Japan. As my Korean employers explained to me, with a map no less, Osaka Japan, an hour and half away, is the closest foriegn nation to ours. So, neing few options, that's where I would have to go to submit my pudgy pile of paperwork.

Half-laughing, I pointed up to North Korea and commented that communists are usually pretty good with forms. Then I asked if anyone had a bus schedule for the DMZ. Dead Silence. And I mean DEAD. The kind usually reserved for cops who walk into crime scenes so they can ask, "what smells?"

Anyway, North Korean humor isn't traditionally well recieved here. If you're planning a trip, you might wanna jot that down.

So off to Japan I went to get my teaching visa. From start to finish, Japan is just a great place. I arrived at an uber-modern aiport that seemed like it could land space craft. I met an information desk person who never broke eye contact while drawing a detailed and perfect map. And I rode a subway so clean and plush that seemed like it came from IKEA.

Of course you should bear in mind I'm from a city that lets you use the F train as a toilet after 11PM.

But I digress.

Now this is NO slam on Korea, but this was the most refined, amazing metropolis I have ever gotten lost in. Really. And I'm not even saying that because all the women wear outfits like they're on Ally Mc Beal.

Okay maybe that's HALF the reason I'm saying it.

But really, to see it is mind boggling - even for a man who's lived in LA. In fact that's what it reminded me of - all the sexiness of the way women in LA dress combined with all the style of the women in New York. That and I think the entire nation is a size four.

And the comparisons became pretty clear. Korean women here, even the prettiest women in Seoul, for the most part dress for economy not allure. Thankfully there are some exceptional exceptions - which I'll get to in a my next update. However, in general, the theme is "girl next door...who works for Hyundai."

Now I appreciate, given a history of nation to nation domestic violence, there's no love lost between the Japanese and Koreans. It's practically Jerry Springer with embassies. So maybe it's all a determined differentiation that makes Korean women here approach day to day fashion in a Wal-mart sense and not an Ann Taylor one.vStill, the total effect is that women dress modest, wear minimal makeup and don't even shyly smile at Riley Ray.

Okay so I may be reaching on that last one. Still...Japan.

It's night and day. And it's a nice day. Like South Beach with less skin. Like NY with less diversity. Like LA with less silicone. Like Europe with less attitude. And more baths. The whole of it was simply remarkable to look at.

And I'm guessing that goes a long way toward explaining why I got lost three times in two hours and almost missed my slot at the Korean Consulate.

Once there with my Visa fee money I awoke to harsh reality once more and found out Japan's crucial flaw: with the Yen in the toilet, Japan has decided to monetarily bitch-slap the Korea's dollar, the Won.

Translation? In exchange rate terms my employers had barely given me enough to buy gum. And, as it was almost closing time, I only had 10 minutes to find the only place that changed Won to Yen close to a mile away.

I shed my jacket, grabbed my passport and trucked off, full tilt, in the general direction the visa clerk pointed me in. The natives of Osaka were gracious enough to step to the left - pretty much all at once - and give the sweaty American a wide berth. When I reached the bank with the help of - count em' - four helpful construction workers, I changed over the last of my OWN meager money and prayed it would cover the shortfall.

Turns out I had just enough extra to buy gum after all. But not spearmint. I'm guessing that's for millionaires.

So, Teaching visa approved and in hand, I headed back to the airport by an effective and charming light rail system. This time I only got lost once due to the fashionable and attractive denziens in short skirts. And even THEN it was only because she was wearing an honest to god garter belt. With a mini.

Seriously, that's like seeing ball lightning. Or a white buffalo. Or a congressman with a conscience.

An hour and half later I was on my way back to a teaching gig with screaming five year olds, a humble flat where the shower is the ENTIRE bathroom and a country full of women with restraint. Damn them.

I'll leave you all with two fun facts. Did you know Korea is known as "The Land of the Morning Calm" ? It's true. I learned it from an airline magazine and those things are practically almanacs. According to their crack staff it's the offical motto of Korea.

Land of the Morning Calm. That's the motto. Really.

Now, here's the other fun fact. Korea has the third worst driving conditions in the world. Their auto accident rate is 26 times the rate of the USA. And apparently that includes both New Year's Eve and New Jersey.

Having SEEN 7AM traffic in Seoul, I tried to reconciling those two things. What wI came up with? Korea's motto writers must be a profound liar who probably works for the Tobacco Industry now. Or I could be wrong. Maybe he's an honest writer with good intentions who sees the TRUE Korea.

That and he got hit by a 7AM bus before he could write the motto "Land of the Careening Hyundai."

I'd like to care more but a motto writer is probably dead and I've been early twice this week. Frankly, as I do the math, that makes for a pretty good country after all. I mean, provided you're not paying the car insurance premiums.

Riley Ray

posted 04-10-2001 01:01 AM            

I am nothing if not dedicated.

So. What are the chief mysteries of Hooker Hill? This bastion of bawdiness? This small mountain of Korean excess? This island of sin in a city of reserve? They are four-fold.

1. I have discovered where the Korean women who do not dress modestly, who are not hookers, hang out.

2. I have discovered where the military chicks and non-korean women, who are not-hookers, who dress even less modestly, hang out.

3. I have have discovered where the hookers - who do dress somewhat modestly for ladies of the night - hang out.

4. I have discovered that taxi drivers in Seoul hate folk songs. (more on that later)

The first observation was probably the one I was most looking forward to. I have spent the last few weeks in an environment where no woman, as far as the eye could see, dresses any racier than a librarian. Once I hit Hooker Hill, modesty took a holiday. There was enough fishnet to catch a whale. As for the reserve most Korean women seemed to apply to their makeup, well that went elsewhere too. You could've made an Albino red - head to toe - with that much blush.

All in all, these women looked as good as I suspected they would... provided someone gave them the permission to cut loose. Which is what these girls were doing with a vengance.

Not to be outdone, the ex-pat women, the female military and the girls just on holiday were trying to better their Korean counterparts in "see em from 200 yards" attractiveness. My fellow english teacher and "hooker hill" tour guide, Krista, even wore her "making trouble" dress.

The whole thing, when you came right down to it was like some trashy arms race of love. I nearly cried. It was like a beautiful wedding. In a trailer park.

But, as with nearly everything here in the east, there is a saddening yin to whatever kickass yang you can come up with. And the other shoe to drop here was numbers.

All told, for a city the size of Seoul, including the military girls the ex-pat girls, the drunken German Heidi vacationers and the Korean women willing to buck an entire society's tradition...well there just weren't that many of em.

A little math: in any given club in Seoul, the number of women looking to get funky on the dance floor is about the same as in any American club. So is the amount of booze they drink. And so is the number of times in a night some overtired DJ can be shamed into playing "Paradise by the Dashboard Light." (2 for those scoring at home)

So what's the magic X-factor number that turns the equation sour?

The the number of men.

By my accounting, hungry men outnumber the funky women here 8 to 1. On a good night. On a bad one? The lone woman in the club might be hiding in the bathroom waiting for the testosterone to descend to merely "hazardous" levels. And remember, this isn't just regular guys outnumbering women on the dance floor. This is an alpha male heavy, well trained army. Literally. Your average regular Joe is competing with at least one or two deadly forward batallions.

All in all, for you women getting this little travelogue, Seoul is a seller's market - so to speak. You can have any well-employed, clean cut, athletic man of your choosing. All it takes is one good come on line. I hear "hello" works pretty well. Actually coughing is close enough for most of these guys.

And what are these men searching for looks-wise? That'd be boobs. If you're a woman, the verdict is that you're gorgeous. Period. You could be a serial killer with a third eye and hair over 2/3'ds of your body and some soldier would bring roses. Twice. AND, if you've got more than just the basic plumbing aspect going for you, you're likely to get a marriage proposal before you make it to the ladies room.

On the upside, it does cut down on those long lines for the can.

Now me, I'm a sensible enough guy. I know that to try and compete on physical terms with a guy who exercises for a living is sheer madness. Which is why I, when competing, go in stealth. With what? Conversation. Yes, a rapier wit, a charming line and a raft full of the most perfect comebacks known to man. Those are my secret weapons in the battle for women on a Saturday night.

And in Korea I was Don Quixote.

Aforementioned weapons are as useless as the French Army when shouted over Madonna songs to a Korean women who can barely understand the lyrics they're lip-syncing. The first night I went, I figured it was bad luck. The second night, a fluke. The third night was the epiphany:

I'm going to be a lonely man here in Korea.

Which brings me to the hookers.

No, I haven't sunken that low yet - at least not in a town with a military STD rate almost as high as the Nasdaq is low. But when you're getting blown off by foriegn women faster than you can hit on them, you get the time you need to walk the area.

So, rather than fight my wat through the 9 guys clustered at each of the only english speaking women in the club, I decided to take in the sights on Hooker Hill. Aside from the "priced to move" imitation Tommy Hilfiger underwear, the sights are maily scores of military men facing the same insurmountable odds I encountered in the clubs. Their decision? To opt for a quick, legal and...less heavily defended position. The Korean Brothel.

The brothels are named, near as I can tell, by pulling random phrases from the newspaper. A sample? "Endeavor" "Calypso" and Device." So named, even though, as near as I could tell, none of the ladies were Shuttle Pilots, Carribean or Engineers. Possibly device operators yes, but engineers no.

The only brothel whose name made any sense was the one at the very apex of "Hooker Hlll." Its name? "Last Chance for Love." And for the drunken soldier who'd ascended Hooker Hill's very steep procession, who'd entered into each club along the way, who'd been rejected by local and foreigner alike, who'd gotten to the very top of the hill with no chance for romance in sight...well it was truth in advertising. The first I'd seen since I got here.

Though that's mainly because they sell blenders here as "happy refreshing blenders."

In any case, I did not partake in the "sin on a stick" available in the storefronts that outnumbered convenience stores here two to one. I simply waited for the soju to subside, for my friend Krista to emerge from the hordes of servicemen begging her for a number and for dawn to break. When it did, she, me, and two of her girlfirends caught a taxi for our home of Ouijambo.

Which is how we found out about the folk songs thing (see I didn't forget).

On our way back, a soju laden Krista begged our Korean cab driver, a cranky old guy who was more eyeglasses than man, to put on "English radio." He refused. She, being drunk, asked several more times. He said no, even louder, each time. Requests for Korean radio were similarly declined.

Now I'm not sure who started in the back seat, but someone, improbably, decided to start singing the folks song, "You Are My Sunshine." To date, no one has taken responsibility for this folk explosion. Likely no one ever will. Folk songs almost always come out of nowhere. This was no exception. But, in grand camplike tradition, we all quickly joined in. We even added drunken counterpoint and harmony to the diddy. I think I did both. We were almost up to "The other night dear, while I was sleeping..." part.

That's when the old guy stopped the cab.

Now I've known a folk song to engender a certain degree of hostiitity before. It's been warranted in most cases. But this guy? Near as I can tell, Joan Baez beat his children to death and set fire to his house while singing "he's got the whole world in his hands." Either that or this guy never got over Dylan going electric.

In any case, the screaming started and didn't stop until we were out of the cab - halfway to our destination and in the middle of nowhere at 6AM. Then Glasses The Cab Driver demanded what was on the meter. Krista responded by calling him a number of provincial Canadian epithets and general North American swears.

It was a very inclusive diatribe.

It all left the driver so flustered and angry he leaned out the window, screamed something Korean, flipped the bird, THEN pointed and shouted the only English curse he seemed to know. As he drove off he pointed and yelled "WHORE!" Amazingly, we all agreed he was mostly pointing at me. Given my track record at the clubs, I think he misunderstood the actual definintion of the swear.

That or it means something different here.

In any case, from now on I will no longer engage in drinking and womanizing and will now confine my efforts solely to drinking. Dangerous? Possibly. But I hear it's a good way to pick up nurses here. Provided I lay off the folk songs during courtin'.

Your pal the whore,

posted 04-17-2001 09:54 AM            

For fun, I occasionally explain that phrases like "letting the cat out of the bag" don't necessarily involve prior animal cruelty.

Overall, from 3-7:30 PM, I'd say it's challenging, interesting and, ABC afterschool Specials be damned, occasionally rewarding. Honestly? I think I even like it. For better or worse, and it's mostly better, that's my afternoon. In the mornings I teach kindergarten. At least that's what the school calls it.

I call it my daily 4 hour hostage crisis.

From 9:30 to 1:30 I act as warden to seven 5-year-olds who drool, hit and eat clay. For fun they try to pick their noses so deeply it looks like they've lost a knuckle. What do I teach them? How close to homicide they can push a grown man who once said "I love kids." Now it didn't start like this. I was gonna be the FUN guy.

Really.

On day one, I was uber-teacher. I was full of energy, jokes and unconventional teaching methods out the wazoo...and I got a huge wazoo. My goal was to be the complete OPPOSITE of my former 1st grade nemesis, Mrs. Strauchler. She was a bitter educator who smelled of witch hazel and, legend had it, strangled cats for fun. No, I was Captain Cool Teacher, vanquishing ignorance with zeal, zest and James Brown songs.

And then my kids killed the Godfather of Soul.

The ironic part is I did better than most and much better than Mrs. Strauchler ever could. My crew would've eaten her like a Nutter Butter. Kindergarteners, and my hellions especially, are cunning, have no fear and can sense weakness like jungle cats. They would have taken a bookbag to Mrs. Straucher's bad knee in 20 minutes flat.

No, Captain Cool Teacher was defeated by deaf, Korean midgets who all know Tae Kwon Do. I was overmatched. I was going to be full of energy? These kids have fusion reactors under their yellow sweatsuits. I knew jokes? Funny to them was yanking out my arm hair to understand "fuzzy."

As I said, even my lone James Brown tape snapped under the Digimon sneakers of a stocky boy named Jake. Seriously, when the hardest Working Man in Showbizness gives up...well you gotta think that's a bad sign.

Still, the fact is, while 5 year olds are a handful in any land, these kids ARE different. I'm not whining. Seriously. It comes down to discipline and culture.

Apparently, in Korean society, the disciplinary standard is to let kids run wild as rabid Red Sox fans until they hit elementary school. On their offspring, parents here impose no punishments, no rules and - from what I can tell from the 2 inches of rice on the floor after lunch - nearly no table manners. The spoiling is so profound, you'd think there was a nation of grandparents raising these twerps.

But, as with all things Asian, you know there's got to be a catch. A strict yin to this hang-loose yang. And there is. The reason these kids get so spoiled till age 5 is that the day they reach elementary school...the party's over. Big time. According to my afternoon classes, from Elementary School on, these kids are in the educational equivalent of a chain gang.

When they hit 1st grade, kids usually go to TWO schools a day. They get home at 8PM on a weeknights and have anywhere from 4-6 hours of homework. Weekends? Weekends are Saturday classes and a Sunday of studying. Finally, completing the learning smackdown, when kids get vacations, their parents make them take either study prep seminars or "intensive subject day courses". A kid in my 5:15 is trying to work up enthusiasm for a weeklong "MS Office Computer Skills" tutorial...for spring break. All told, from age 6 to 18, these kids are sleep deprived, overworked and pathologically afraid of textbooks.

But, till then, I got my kindygarten killers.

On an ideological level I do appreciate that this is their last year of freedom in the Korean Educational Lockdown. On a practical level though, I spend most of my morning screaming, cleaning and wishing the kids who know martial arts would stop trying to kill the kids who don't. If I'm lucky, somewhere in-between, I get them to say "big" "small" and "bathroom" instead of pointing at their crotches and yelling "PEE PEE PEE!"

Which brings me to the Parent Teacher conference.

I was put into a small room with six of the seven women who took credit for these three foot tall sociopaths. With me came the school's administrator, Jean, who would serve as my interpreter, and her two aides. The mothers, as a goodwill gesture, brought me some flowers.

Well goodwill or they were being early for my funeral. Either or.

On that note, I started by talking about my teaching methods. I talked about connecting kids to concepts and reinforcing those concepts through repetiton and recitation. I talked about our songs and I talked about our games. In fact the only things I excluded from my teaching method chat were all references to whacking fighting children on the heads with magic markers and yelling "SHADDUP YOU FREAKIN DEMONS!" at the top of my lungs. All in all, it went fairly well.

Then we played the telephone game, Korean style.

My misunderstanding of the Parent-Teacher conference concept comes down to the aspect I thought mattered the most: Criticism. All teachers recieved a short note before the week of the conferences. It said a number of general things in general terms and had only one phrase bolded: "do not tell the parent anything negative about their child." I took this to mean: "put all criticism into constructive terms and don't tell a mother her child is a murderer outright."

Ooooh, I was wrong.

After putting considerable effort into writing long critical evaluations of each child I discovered at the conference they weren't given to the mothers. A mistake. Or so I figured. When it came time to talk to each mom about their child, I just looked at my copies of the evaluations and gave them the jist. The jist was then translated by the school administrator, Jean.

About five minutes into the first kid's mom, I began to suspect there was some censoring going on. As it went on, I began to figure out how much. The kids I was now talking about, they were the VERY bad ones. I mean like misdemeanor bad. But as I talked, their mothers were smiling. When I criticized, they just smiled more.

That's when I got that this was as rigged as a New Jersey garbage hauling contract.

Administrator Jean's aides, who were observing, laughingly related later the type of "interpretive theater" that they bore witness to. Here's a sample:

-------------

Riley: "Your son has a lot of energy. If he can just find an outlet for it that doesn't involve hitting Mark with a book I think he'll be okay"

Jean (translating and editing into Korean): "Your son has a lot of energy. He'll be okay."

Mother (sensing something more and questioning): "Does he have discipline problems at school? What should I do to control him at home?"

Jean (translating and editing into English): "She wants to know what she should do with him at home."

Riley (sensing nothing and trying to get at the free refreshments): "Teach him that hugging is better than biting."

Jean (Translating into Korean): "Make him read his storybook."

--------------

Picture 1 hour of that and you get the idea. Around halfway through, once I realized that none of this was being conveyed to the parents I said the hell with it. With Jean the censor cutting it all off anyway, I dispensed with any couching terms and just started to tell the mothers plainly what was wrong with their kids.

---------------

"Your son Mark? He's a crier. I mean a big crier. If I ever showed Charlottes Web this kid would die of heartbreak."

"Sherry is very pretty and she knows it. She's been using that to make the boys fight over her. She really seems to like that."

"James likes to sleep sometimes. But he doesn't snore."

"Josh has perfect pronunciation but he says his words very slow. With a drawl. Your son sounds like he's from Texas."

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Jean really shot me a look over that one. I think the mothers started to get a little wise when I would say forty words and then Jean would say five. Frankly, Jean's being underused here. She's clearly destined for important work writing press releases for the NRA.

If they did notice my censor at work, they didn't say anything. In fact, after it was over, I got a nice round of applause and all the mothers went over to the cashier. In a move not seen at any of the other parent teacher conferences, they all immediately paid their tutition for the next two months.

According to all involved, my little confab concluded the most successful Parent-Teacher conference they've had yet. In fact, later that night, the school's owner, Mr. Kim, took all the teachers out for dinner to celebrate. Afterwards we adjourned to a Noribong - a Korean singing room - so that Mr. Kim could regale us with several chrouses of heavily accented "My Way." If that's not a celebration of success, I don't know what is.

All things considered, after it was over, I got the feeling I might have been too hard on myself. For a while there, in that brief window, I was even suspecting I must be a pretty good teacher after all. Hell, those kindygarteners were going to learn English after all, even if they couldn't make the "th" sound.

Of course, then I went back to work.

Today I resumed whacking the kids with magic markers, separating them from eating what they spilled on their shoes and unsuccessfully teaching the concepts of "front" and "behind." This morning, holding up a picture of a dog in front of a horse, I asked James about the dog and made him pick from only two choices - front or behind. He got it wrong. I asked him twice more. Twice more he got it wrong. That he got it wrong three times with the same answer isn't suprising.

Surprising was that in each case he answered "left."

Then I reminded him of the answer. I wrote it on the board. WITH arrows. I then asked James if he might like to change his answer. He nodded. He did.

He said "up."

On the up side, he didn't say "right." Or better still, "elephant." That's what Mark was convinced it was. Elephant. I said it wasn't and then recanted when he started crying. I'm not sure which is worse - that someday that kid is going to think hear the word "behind" and think there's an elephant chasing him or that he's can't tell a horse from an elephant. Or a dog.

Either way I'm betting he'll cry. Mark's a crier.

In any case, the lesson to be learned here is that, in Hollywood or Korea, one should never believe their own reviews - good or bad. If you do, reality will inevitably remind you of the opposite by "accidentally" putting kim-chee in your pocket with a bad alibi.

And if that isn't something to live by, I don't know what is.

Riley Ray