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 there are spoilers in this post.
Wednesday, March 4, 1998
Raymond and Ashley had filled in for me over my two-day absence, though they admitted that there wasn’t much for them to do. It took almost all of the time to take attendance and then explain that they weren’t my students’ teachers. They practiced some exercises at the beginning of the students’ exercise books, which were, to my disappointment, the Side by Side books that I had fought to replace at the hagwon. Lots of repetition, lots of narrow fill-in-the-blank responses, and little room for expansion. When I was promoted at the hagwon to lead the other teachers, and with the help of Tanya, we procured better books that drew in our students’ interests.
There was little chance that I could persuade the university to update its choice of books.
Raymond and Ashley also had assigned a seating order to the students that corresponded to the attendance list. They said it was easier to keep track of the students and to also force them to pay attention, rather than sitting beside friends and becoming distracted.
My first class was a short walk down the hall from my office and faced south, letting so much sunshine come through the windows that the overhead lights were not necessary. The students were seated in rows at tables that accommodated five students each. An aisle ran down the centre of the room. A Plexiglas partition separated each student and I could see headphone jacks and volume controls built into the surface in front of each seat. This room was used for listening to languages but we wouldn’t be using any equipment in this course.
My desk, at the head of the room, was situated on a stage that was about a foot above the floor, giving me a clear view of everyone.
“Annyong-haseyo,” I said as I entered the room and stepped onto the stage, for which I received a round of oohs and ahs.
One student, a young man in a white button-up shirt and grey slacks, stood up and said, “Teacher, Hangul excellent,” and several other students echoed, “excellent.”
“Gomap-subnida,” I said, just to stir them up further. I knew that over the past year, my pronunciation was getting better. Some of my private students would help me sharpen my tongue during some breaks of me teaching them English.
I took off my jacket and set it over the chair at my desk. I then walked to the blackboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and wrote my name in large letters. “My name is Roland Axam. You can call me ‘Roland’ or ‘Songsaengnim.’”
“Gyeosunim,” said a young woman in the front row, though she said it timidly and as soon as I looked at her, she put her hands over her face. Her yellow t-shirt was emblazoned with Mademoiselle S. Tomboy.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
The timid woman lowered her head but the student who had praised my pronunciation stood again and spoke up. “She said ‘Gyeosunim,’ not Songsaengnim. You are professor.”
“Gyeosunim means professor?”
“Yes.” The student sat down.
“Okay, thank you. Please call me Gyeosunim Roland.” I received a round of giggles from the whole class, and I joined them. It seemed to make them more comfortable at seeing me smile. “Let’s continue,” I said, trying to bring the room back in control. I wanted to let them know that I could smile but that I was also serious about teaching them. “My name is Roland and I am 34 years old.” My birthday was tomorrow, but close enough. “I was born in Scotland but I live in Canada. I have one sister but no brothers.” To illustrate what I said, I wrote ‘34’ beside my name on the blackboard. Underneath, I wrote ‘Scotland,’ drew an arrow, next to which I wrote ‘Canada.’ Under this, I wrote ‘sister = 1’ and ‘brother = 0.’
“I know all of you live in Chŏnju, yes?” I received resounding nods from the room. “I want you to tell me your names, how old you are, and if you have any brothers or sisters, okay?” I picked up the attendance list and pointed to the first student, who stood up to be heard over the Plexiglas.
“I am Bak Hae-sung,” she said, “I am nineteen years old. I have one brother and one sister.” She sat down and I marked her on my list. I then pointed to the student next to her. She looked identical to Hae-sung and I immediately recognized her as a twin. I had never seen twin Koreans before.
“I am Bak Su-hee. I am nineteen years old. I have one sister and one brother.”
“Surprise surprise,” I said, placing a check mark next to her name. We went through the whole list and I was impressed with the clear pronunciation of each student. Ashley had told me that some of my students were in the English programme and were very keen, and I realized that this was one of those classes. When every student had introduced themselves, we still had about fifteen minutes left, so I picked up my copy of the Side by Side book and asked the class which page they had last looked at. Again, it was my eager student, who I now knew as Kim Jung-eun, who spoke up.
“Gyeosunim Lolan-duh, we only practiced pages 1 and 2. We are ready for page 3.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kim,” I said, consulting the attendance list, “Can I call you Jung-eun?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.” He sat back down.
I turned to page 3 and saw it was an exercise in adjectives. I quickly deemed that this exercise was too easy for this class, but most of my classes were using this book—no doubt, following the same exercise at the same time. I had the feeling that the book was chosen to challenge some of my students, but clearly it was not going to be a challenge for this class. It would be up to me to provide the challenge by deviating from the book or by calling on the students to provide examples outside of what was printed in the book.
The adjectives on the page were accompanied by illustrations, to which the students had to apply the correct adjective. The first example showed two vehicles: a small red car and a large blue truck. The prompts read The car is _____ and ___. The truck is _____ and ____.
Disappointing.
I called on one of the students at the back of the room. He answered without hesitation. “The car is small and red. The truck is large and blue.”
“Excellent,” I said.
I saw the next example. It depicted an aged woman and a young woman. I looked around the room and I spied a beautiful young woman staring at me. I noted her location and then found her name on the attendance record. “Yi Shin-hye, can you read the next one, please?”
She smiled and stood up. She was wearing a floral-patterned dress that complemented her slim, curved figure. The dress was cut above the knees. It was then that I noticed that the young woman in the illustration was similarly dressed. Not identically, of course, but the patterned dress was also short, revealing slim, shapely legs. Like Shin-hye, the woman had long brown hair.
“The woman is old and ugly,” said Shin-hye, “the girl is young and pretty.”
“Look,” I said, “that girl is you.” The other students saw the similarity and began to laugh.
Shin-hye blushed. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Of course,” I said, “you’re beautiful.” More laughter came from the other students, but Shin-hye just stared at me, smiled, and sat back down. I immediately regretted my words. I didn’t want to appear to play favourites and I certainly didn’t want to seem like the creepy old teacher, hitting on his students. I quickly moved on to the next example and another student. I didn’t want to look over to Shin-hye. I could see, in my peripheral view, that she was still looking at me.
***
I had six classes each day. Two of my classes were with advanced students and we went through the exercises in the Side by Side book easily. I did not make the same mistake of choosing a pretty young woman to use those adjectives; instead, I chose a male student to work through that example. Two of my other classes held students of average to slightly below-average English abilities. One of my classes—the last class of the day—included students of a widely mixed level of proficiency. These were students that were taking night classes because they either held day jobs, had failed this course before and had to pass it in order to graduate, or were here simply for interest. Some of these students wanted to be in this class, and paid attention: others didn’t want to be here but had no choice. I found myself battling some to keep off their mobile phones and others from talking to one another, rather than focusing on the lesson.
One of my favourite classes, held late in the afternoon, before dinner, and in the third floor of the library building was an adult class that used a different book, one with which I was familiar: Let’s Talk. It was the same book that I had used in my early morning class at the hagwon. Together, we would read an article that covered a controversial topic, such as trades versus professions, or about capital punishment, or mixed marriages. The class comprised older students and adults and was an ungraded class. No attendance was required, other than to determine that the student was registered for the course, and there would be no exams. An added treat was that a student from my old hagwon, Pak Jae-hyun, was in this class. When we saw each other, we greeted one another like old friends, even though, as a previous student, we had kept our relationship at the hagwon professional.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the hagwon,” said Jae-hyun.
“Me too,” I said, “The drop in the value of the won hurt a lot of businesses.” This became our topic of discussion for the first class: how the economic collapse had affected the students. One of my adult students, Choi Ji-woo, lost her job at the Core Department Store. I learned that the store was closing. Already, the Pizza Hut on the top floor had pulled out.
“I’m sorry about your job loss,” I said. “Are you looking for another job?”
“No,” said Ji-woo, “my husband says I should stay home. He has a good job.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s a doctor. He has a clinic near Chŏnju yuk.”
“You mean the train station,” I said, trying to keep the conversation in English only. I thought of the private student that I would soon be taking over from Jamie. His student was a doctor and owned a clinic across the street from the speed-skating arena, just a few blocks from my apartment. The four-story building held a pharmacy on the first floor, doctor’s offices and small surgery rooms on the second and third floors, and a lavash apartment on the top floor. It was convenient and wouldn’t draw attention as I entered from the pharmacy and made my way to the stairs at the back. Standing and waiting for the elevator would draw onlookers to the foreigner: I would only take the elevator down from the apartment. It also took a special key to gain elevator access to the fourth floor, so taking the stairs up avoided me carrying anything that could tie me to the doctor and his family.
The first day went quickly but by the end, I was exhausted. It was only 8:00 but all I wanted to do, after locking up the office, was to get back to the apartment. There was a bus, just outside the university campus, that would get me to my new neighbourhood within half an hour but I didn’t want to wait for one to come. Instead, I hailed a taxi and was in my unit within ten minutes.
In my apartment and changed into jeans and a t-shirt, I felt more like myself. A suit was mandatory attire for teachers but I found that, even with my custom-tailored suits, the ones that Brad and I had had made a few months ago, I felt too stuffy. Even in March, where the temperature still dipped to single digits on the Celsius scale.
I grabbed a bottle of Hite from my refrigerator and sat on my yo, which was folded like a frameless sofa. The room was too big for my scant furniture, even when I unfolded the yo for bed. I had a small table that had folding legs, which was leaning against the far wall, next to my makeshift music stand. I would have to buy a TV, I told myself. It was the best way to improve my Korean. I took a swig of my beer and surveyed the rest of the apartment, determining what else I needed.
A washing machine, for one, could fit on my balcony. In fact, both Ashley and Raymond had their own washers and the balconies were rigged with hot and cold water faucets. There was a communal washer on the top floor, but it was old and seemed to always be running with other tenants' laundry. I would have to make a trip to Nambu Market on the weekend.
“You’ll have this place looking like home in no time.” The voice belonged to Kristen. She was sitting on the opposite end of the yo.
“This apartment will never be home,” I said. “Korea will never be home.”
“Home is where you make it, my love.”
“Home was with you and Laura Elizabeth. I haven’t had a home in years.”
Kristen rose from the yo and made her way to where the framed photos of her and our daughter stood. The small stoppered vial of their ashes, resting on its side, lay in front of the photos. “We’re here,” she said.
“And here,” I said, placing my hand on my heart. “Why do I only see you? Why do I not see Laura or Da’?”
“You see Laura Elizabeth in me. Though you don’t see her the same way. But think about it: when you talk to me, do you not also feel our daughter’s presence?”
“I do,” I admitted, though what I wouldn't give to have come back to the apartment, opened the door, and heard the pitter-patter of little feet and the gleeful cheer of ‘Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!’ “And what about Dad?”
“You might not see him, but you hear him every time you make a decision for which your father had advice. Iain’s lessons are what make you who you are, Roland.”
She was right. They were all there with me, even though I could only visualize Kristen.
The sound of soft guitar drifted in from somewhere the hallway. The small window near my kitchenette was open, as was the balcony door, allowing for a cool crossbreeze. Someone in one of the other units was playing the guitar. I didn’t recognize the tune but it was relaxing.
“Why don’t you go and see who that is,” said Kristen, still crouched by the photographs.
“I’d rather stay here with you.”
“I’ll be there, too. Remember, I’m not really here. I’m wherever you are and are thinking of me.”
I got up from the yo and went to the door. I opened it and peered out to the hall. The sound was coming from Russell’s unit. His kitchen window was also slightly open. He stopped playing and I could hear him speak, a woman’s voice joining him in conversation. Quietly, I closed my door and returned to the yo, where Kristen was now sitting.
“He has company,” I explained. “I’ll visit him another time.” I finished my beer and lay across the yo, resting my head in Kristen’s lap. I swore that I could feel her tender fingers running through my hair as I drifted off to sleep.
