Friday Fiction: Meet the Teachers

The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.

Friday, February 27, 1998

I’m sure that I heard my alarm when it rang, at seven o’clock, but I didn’t actually respond to it until more than an hour later. Though my head felt heavy, seeing the actual time shook me awake and made me scramble. I had just over forty-five minutes to get to the university.

As quickly as I could, I showered and shaved, and threw on my black two-piece suit that I had had custom-tailored for me, in Pyeongtaek, not far from the Osan Air Base. Brad and I had travelled there, one weekend, to have our suits fitted, and returned the following weekend to pick up the suits. They were so well made by Lim’s Tailor Shop that we returned again, last fall, to have another suit made for each of us. That time, I had a lovely navy blue, pin-striped three-piece made.

With my suit I wore the crisp, white shirt that I brought with me, a year ago, and a multi-coloured silk tie that I picked up from Lim’s shop. I hurriedly shined up my black leather shoes and headed out to the main street to flag a taxi to the administrative building at Jeonju University, arriving with only five minutes to spare. Luckily, I had been to this building before, when I had provided information for my work visa, and so I knew exactly where to go.

In the administration office, the receptionist greeted me and then escorted me across the hall, to Director Cho’s office. In nearly flawless English, except for her Korean accent, she told me to take a seat and that Mr. Cho would be with us shortly. I saw a couple of other white teachers in the room, so I knew I was in the right place.

Now, all I had to do was stay awake until the meeting and orientation was over.

***

"When do you think it would be acceptable to leave?"

"I think we have to wait for Mr. Cho to leave." I looked over to our director, who was in an animated discussion with Choi Chul-won, the only Korean in the foreign-language department of Jeonju University. I had met Chul-won during my interview in December. He taught English grammar to our students, doing so in their native tongue. It was we western-English teachers who gave the students practical experience with the language.

It was hard to tell if the two men were ready to leave: their plates and bowls were empty, their cups of cha—tea—almost finished. Would they call for another pot or call it a day?

It was late in the afternoon and we were finishing a meal at a restaurant that was just down the road from the university and across from the Chŏnju Historical Museum.

There were four other teachers at today's meeting. I had expected more, but when I remembered that this meeting was an orientation session and a meet-and-greet with the foreign language department director, it made sense that the returning teachers would not be attending.

After gathering in Mr. Cho's office with the new teachers, we were plied with strawberries and handed our contracts to look over and sign. My fruit allergies prevented me from actually eating the luscious, oversized fruit but at least I could devour their fresh aroma.

Everything in the contract was exactly as it had been stated during the December interview, had been signed and stamped with a doh-jon, which made it official. Or, as official as a personal stamp could be. I still had the doh-jon that I had purchased at the Iri Cherry Blossom Festival, last spring, in Iksan, after my young students from the hagwon had given me my Korean name: Kim Mihn-Shik.

While there was no problem with my actual contract, there was an issue with my work visa. Or, more specifically, my lack of one. When I had agreed to work for Jeonju University, the administrator promised to post the E-2 paperwork to my Ottawa address. It wasn't waiting for me when I first arrived home and wasn't there when I returned to Ottawa from Scotland. Meeting with the administration department, after the strawberry feast with the director, I learned that although the paperwork had been prepared, it hadn't been sent in the mail.

A communication mixup, the administrative secretary had said. Typical Korean screwup, I told myself: the paperwork for my visa for my previous job, at Kwon's hagwon, had also been delayed so long that I had had to make a rushed trip from Ottawa to Toronto to get the forms processed in order to make the booked flight, which had already been delayed by several weeks. I had initially blamed the fiasco on Kwon's secretaries: now I was starting to think the administrative failures were cultural.

“Don't be so cynical, Roland.” Kristen was with me, looking longingly at the strawberries, her favourite fruit.

The problem was swiftly remedied. A flight was booked for Fukuoka, Japan, for Monday morning. Paid for by the university. I was told that if the Korean consulate wasn't busy, they could rush the paperwork through and have it ready in a matter of hours. If not, they would have it within 24 hours. The secretary who booked my flight told me that if I had to wait overnight, the university would reimburse me for hotel and dinner expenses. I only had to keep my receipts.

There seemed to be a good selection of English teachers among me. There was a married couple, Nelson Cathnelson and his wife, Cathy. Nelson's parents had a sense of humour in naming him, and that sense of humour obviously carried forward when Nelson chose his life partner. And Cathy further showed a sense of humour in taking her husband's surname. They were from Salt Lake City, Utah, and were quick to point out that they were not Mormons. No one in their families were. They seemed defensive, even though no one was saying anything. But they were kind, smiling, laughing. They were young, in their early twenties, and had only been married for a year. When they looked in each other's eyes, you could see that the honeymoon hadn't ended; indeed, might never end. They were enjoying their adventure together.

The other woman in our group was Françoise Dubé, from Dijon, France. Naturally, she was brought in to teach her native language. I would have been surprised that another language other than English was being taught in Korea, had this been my first time in the country and had I not met a Korean woman last summer, at the Internet café, who was studying French. When she saw me sitting at a workstation, deep in e-mail correspondence, wearing a shirt with CANADA stamped on it, she approached me and asked if I spoke French, knowing that Canada was a bilingual country. We soon learned that she spoke that language far better than I could.

Turning to my new colleague, proffering my hand, I said, "I'm Roland, nice to meet you."

"I'm engaged," were the first words to come out of her mouth, her hand seemingly reluctant to take mine in what wasn't so much as a shake as it was a brief touch. It was the oddest greeting I had ever faced. What had I said? Nothing in my words or gesture had indicated anything more than a simple "hello." Was she often accosted in France? Did she assume I was hitting on her? Only seconds before, I had greeted Nelson and Cathy in the same fashion. What was Françoise's story? Was she full of herself? Did she think that every man who approached her wanted her?

“She’s not your type, Roland,” said Kristen with a sly smile, “leave her alone.” She was having me on.

Physically, Françoise did nothing for me. She had a small frame; not an unattractive figure, but nothing that would make me take a second look. Her face was plain, her skin pale. The glasses that defined her hazel eyes typified a no-nonsense, prudish school teacher. Her brown hair was cut short in the back and was even shorter than my own. The style didn't appeal to me. Both Kristen and Tanya had had long, straight hair.

No, there was something in Françoise's prickly response that told me we were not going to be friends. Which was fine: my words to Siobhan echoed in my head—I'm not here to make friends.

The other gentleman in our party was Canadian named Russell Symes. When we shook hands and I told him that I was also from Canada, he was quick to ask, "Where in Canada?" It was the standard question that folks from the same country seemed to ask one another.

"Ottawa." My Scottish accent was buried, much as it had been last year when I taught my students, as it had been the first time I spoke to Linda Bryce, a woman who had been teaching at the hagwon when I was first considering working there. Our relationship was one that had gone from friendly to strictly professional, to one of animosity, and then, finally, hatred, contempt, and loathing.

"Same as me," said Russell, who then clarified, "sort of. I live about forty minutes away, in Fitzroy Harbour."

"I know the place," I said, "though I've never been."

"There's not much to see," he admitted. "It's sort of a bedroom community. Few shops—just a general store, a liquor store, and a small Home Hardware. If you want to do any real shopping or any recreational activity, you need to drive into Kanata." Kanata was a small city on the peripheral of Ottawa's west end, much like how Nepean bordered along the south.

Russell had previously been teaching at a small hagwon in Imje, a village between Chŏnju and Iksan, until the institute ran into economic troubles, much as had been the case with my hagwon and so many others. Russell had been teaching for only a couple of months; he had been fully paid but the sudden collapse had left him in a lurch. Luckily, a student's father was close friends with a professor at Jeonju University: a call was made and Russell was in.

"The university wants me to enroll in a Masters program," he said. "They feel my Masters in music isn't sufficient."

"I'm in the same boat," I said. "They told me that if I considered enrolling in a Masters program, they'd hire me right away. I told them at the interview that I would consider enrolling: I've considered it and I've decided not to."

"Have you told them?"

"Not yet. I thought I'd wait until the subject came up. Most importantly, I thought I'd wait until the contract was signed and I had my work visa in hand." When I had read over my contract, I scoured it for any mention of a Masters course as a requisite for my employment: thankfully, there was none, so my declination would not be a breach upon which I could be terminated.

"I've already paid for my first set of classes," said Russell. "I should have waited. I don't really want to take any courses. Did you know a Masters degree from here means nothing outside of Korea? It doesn't even count if you want to change universities within this country. And Jeonju University isn't exactly a prestigious institute; it's actually considered the last-chance U. If you can't get into any other university, this is where you try out of desperation. " If you are rejected, you may as well apply for a job as a garbage collector."

"Really?" asked Cathy, who overheard us. "I wonder what caliber of student we're getting."

"I've talked to one of the other teachers," continued Russell. "Raymond." I told him that I knew Raymond Close, had first met him on Cheju Island. "He says they're mostly good kids. They're either not the brightest or their parents aren't wealthy enough to put them in better schools."

"As long as they want to learn, I'm happy," said Cathy. She wore a perpetual smile, gave the impression of a person who was always optimistic, always looked at the bright side of a situation. The same went for Nelson. They seemed like naturally happy people.

Hopefully, Korea wasn't going to change that about them, wasn't going to spoil them and turn them into cynical pessimists. Like my first year had done to me.

This is a clean slate, Roland. New year, new attitude. Indeed, the university seemed much more stable, much more organized, save for the mixup with my work visa. It seemed a healthier environment, with a good staff and good teachers. “Take your experience with the culture and go into your new role with the confidence and positive attitude with which you used to approach life.” Again, Kristen's voice overrode my inner one.

Our day had been long. After the initial meeting in Mr. Cho's office, Chul-won took us to our office, where we picked out our desks. Russell and I chose to sit close to one another, as far back in the office from the front door as we could get. Only the two returning teachers, Ashley and Brian, and Chul-won sat further back. I insisted that Russell let me take the desk that faced the door, and he was happy to accommodate. He preferred the other desk that was tucked behind a row of lockers, where more privacy was given. I told him that I didn't like to have my back facing doors, that I hated being surprised. He said that he valued his privacy and that if a student only peeked inside the office, searching for him, he wouldn't be spotted unless the student actually entered, walked the twenty feet, passed beyond the lockers, and peered around the corner.

"Do you have something to hide from? A jilted lover?"

"No," he laughed. "If a student is serious about seeing me, he or she will come in. But if he or she is only looking for an opportunity to chat, not seeing me right away and seeing other teachers, might intimidate them into staying away."

"You don't like idle chat?"

He smiled, knowing that I was trying to trip him with our idle conversation. "Not from students, truth be told. When I'm not teaching, I like my solitude."

The day had gone smoothly, which suited my jet-lagged, sleep-deprived brain just fine. I remembered my first full day in Chŏnju, last year, when a former teacher from my hagwon, Jason, had given me a tour of the city. I couldn't have been in a bigger fog, could not have been less observant, had I been in a drunken stupor.

And I knew drunken stupors.

The preliminary meeting in our director's office had been quick. Mr. Cho explained that Jeonju Dae, as it was affectionately called, was celebrating its twentieth year as a university. Before then, since the early 1960s, the institution had held college status. The current campus was built in 1981 and was set to undergo further expansion over the next few years. The most-recent structure was the massive library and administration offices, in which we now sat. The imposing structure sat on a hillside and offered an impressive view of the south-western edge of Chŏnju. There were classrooms in the building as well: some of us would be using them, though most of our classes would be taught in the Foreign Language building, just down the hill and closest to this building. My interview had been conducted in the Foreign Language building: these were the two buildings that I would be using the most.

As part of the tour, Chul-won took led us to the classrooms where most of our lessons would be taught: rows of partitioned tables that would allow students privacy, where they could connect headsets into jacks in the walls, enabling them the ability to listen to recordings of spoken English as well as the ability to speak into microphones, the sound transmitted to the teacher's headset. Lessons could be individualized.

I also saw it as an effective means to keep students from cheating—cunning, as the Koreans called it—during written exams.

Chul-won took us to the Student Union Centre, where the stationery store, barber shop, cafeteria, and other student services were located. We were taken to a small, brightly lit office, where middle-aged women who never smiled operated industrial cameras for ID photos. We were instructed to pose as though we were having portraits taken for passports. Not only did students carry identification cards, but the teachers and faculty as well.

Back in the restaurant, the secretary who had accompanied the director to our late-afternoon lunch rose from the table, clutching an envelope that seemed to be holding a modest stack of won notes. "I think our tab is being paid," I said to Russell, watching as the young, pretty secretary walked to the cashier. "It shouldn't be long now. Mr. Cho looks like he's finished." Had he been ordering rounds of soju, a vodka-like drink that was distilled from rice, we might have been forced to remain. But our director didn’t seem to be about to get drunk with his new employees. Perhaps, another time, when his day was less formal. It was still early in the day, barely four o'clock, and I had the impression that he would be returning to the office.

Mr. Cho hadn't been with us since the initial meet and greet: after his brief hello and after all of our contracts had been distributed, our director assigned Chul-won to be our facilitator for the day. With our orientation wrapped up, Mr. Cho promised to take us to a restaurant. Chul-won spoke with a voice that was as expressionless as his face. Although his words were composed in a way to sound positive, they were delivered in a robotic tone, without emotion. It was impossible to discern whether he was happy to be fulfilling his assigned task and pleased with the new colleagues who would share his office space, or if he wanted to kill us all.

I would never want to play poker with him.

I was reminded of the poker game that Brad had taken me to, at a hagwon across from city hall, next to the pink-light district, where Chŏnju's brothels blended into the other low-income housing. I had only played with the other foreigners the one time: it seemed so long ago and I wondered if any of those folks remained in town. I had lost touch with many of them after Brad, Wilma, Tanya, and I had abandoned SE for Urban Bar. Where was Nigel, Colin, Sean, and Donna? Had they finished their contracts? Had their hagwons survived the economic downturn that crushed my former institute and so many like it?

Over the next couple of weeks, I would have to venture to the various bars that were popular to the waegukin to see which familiar faces were still standing.

In the afternoon, the new teachers were introduced to the dean of the Korean Cultural Studies department. A petit man with the physique of a teenager, Dr. Kim was in his late forties, though the lines in his face made him appear older. He was dressed in flared, black polyester slacks with a mustard-yellow shirt under a dark brown, corduroy blazer. Complete with longish, unkempt hair, Dr. Kim looked like he belonged in the 1970s.

Dr. Kim spoke in a kind, soft voice, his English only slightly accented, but perfect. He was an American-educated man, having lived in California for almost ten years. All of his students were required to take English-language classes, and so Dr. Kim spent many hours each week liaising with Chul-won and the foreign teachers. It was his responsibility to coordinate the marks that we assigned to our students and to ensure there was a balance between the grades of the students who juggled both departments.

"Your marks must fall within the same bell curve as mine," he told us. "Ten percent of our students are A-level achievers; fifty percent fall within a B; twenty percent are worthy of a C; fifteen percent will earn a D. Only five percent of our students shall fail." It was important that the students that lined up with our grades matched Dr. Kim's.

A student would automatically receive a failing grade, though, if he or she failed to take the mid-term or final exam, or if he or she missed more than five classes without a satisfactory excuse.

Dr. Kim took us, page by page, through our contracts, where our duties were outlined. Russell found one item in our contract and read it out loud to me: "Teachers are forbidden from having physical relations with the students."

"Makes perfect sense to me," I said. One of the teachers at my former hagwon had married one of Kwon's secretaries and took her with him when he returned to the United States. This angered Kwon to no end and he had made it clear to me that his other employees were off limits. No one would have dreamed of getting involved with a student, though one of mine, Mi-gyeong, had tried to start something with me.

"Yes," said Dr. Kim, who had overheard Russell. He spoke so that everyone could hear him. "No teacher may have a sexual relationship with a student unless he plans to marry her." His words seemed directed at Russell and me, the only single teachers in the room. He was putting this clause on the record.

Sitting in the restaurant, the day done, Dr. Cho finally rose from the table. Our meet-and-greet was over. We all stood and bowed to him, thanked him for the meal and for making us feel welcome. As he and the secretaries left the restaurant, Chul-won turned to us and said, "we can go. See you next week."

"I don't need to be told twice," I said to Russell, "I have a bed with my name on it."