Another working week

I wonder sometimes how I fill my days and evenings, yet I never seem to have enough time to do everything I want to do and it goes so quickly. It’s exactly a month since I arrived in Namhae, yet I feel (as always happens) like I’ve lived here forever. Walking to work in the morning through the quiet, narrow backstreets, I fall into a semi-trance as I think about the day ahead and am surprised that my feet have instinctively brought me to the college where I can cut through the car park to my school. I barely notice the tiny bent-over old ladies pulling carts of pumpkins or the gaggles of short-skirted schoolgirls who look like they have just stepped out of a manga. It’s all just another day.

Having almost completed the Herculean task of administering a speaking test to each of my 400 boys, I have now begun teaching in earnest. Lesson number one is disastrous of course. Fortunately I’ve been teaching long enough to accept this as inevitable and quickly revise the lesson plan for a better afternoon delivery. I find it hard to get to grips with teaching very elementary English to such young students, but I take Lisa’s advice even before she gives it – choose three points and drill them continuously for 45 minutes. Serendipity turns up the ‘Real-English’ video clip website which reduces the number of times I have to repeat ‘I am Korean, I am from Korea’ to only 87 times a day. I also discover the Zamzar website where I can download Youtube clips and save them to my USB drive and then insert them into my powerpoint presentation, making me look like I’m really on top of the game. The students respond well. I even manage to slow down my speech and simplify my vocabulary enough for the Year 7 teacher to understand, which is a challenge.

The highlights of my working week are the pre- and after-school lessons where I teach small groups of students, many of whom are far more advanced in the language than their classmates. Having time to get to know them in a less formal setting, playing games and making jokes is what I really love about the job. Despite the fact that they have already destroyed two of my three school-issue white board markers in their competitive enthusiasm to write answers on the board and stolen the padlock to the ICT room, they are very friendly and eager to learn. The younger ones are almost primary school affectionate. In Korea, secondary school is very hard, starting early, finishing late (as late as eleven pm when they take additional classes at ‘academies’ for English and other subjects) and of course they attend school every other Saturday morning. A good education is of the utmost importance. As a result, Koreans tend to over indulge pre-secondary school children and they are loved and cosseted by everyone. Physical affection – pats on the heads, arms around shoulders – don’t ring the bells of social services like they do in Western Europe. So I have one or two tiny younger boys who, during our pre-school lesson, will pull up their chairs as close as possible to mine and lean on me as I speak to the class. It’s quite sweet really.

Though I’m supposed to ‘co-teach’ each lesson, Sun-Mi has recognised that I am a competent teacher and occasionally leaves me to it while taking the opportunity to get on with her many other pressing tasks. Moon-Seong joins in with my lessons, translating where necessary, laying a firm and threatening hand on any boy who chatters or dozes. The Year 7 teacher, whose name continues to elude me, seems incapable of managing his classes. After one or two impossibly distracted lessons I take control and instil a bit of discipline into the class, even having a word with the class captain to remind him of his duty to bring the class to order at the beginning and end of each lesson. The teacher seems pretty oblivious to any of this, so I become oblivious to him in return.

Showing a bit of competence has its down-sides. While being mired in test-marking and transferring results to the county education board website, developing a framework of competences and course outlines to go with them, teaching about twenty lessons a week and still getting to grips with the school layout and the remaining domestic issues, Sun-Mi tells me that I also need to develop and direct a short play, to be performed by the students, in English, at the school ‘expo’. On the 20th November. Shortly after that, the provincial Board of Education will come to observe Sun-Mi and myself co-teaching and a lesson plan must be submitted by 1st December. It’s just as well it’s almost winter and I have nothing better to do with my time.

Wednesday, and I arrive early for my pre-school lesson. The day seems harder than the others as I teach every other lesson on the timetable, leaving me an hour at a time to fill between classes. Three-thirty, with lessons over, I round up the stragglers who have avoided speaking tests and repeat the nonsensical questions another fifteen times. Four-thirty and I really want to go home, but as I have one final search for the padlock for the ICT room, Sun-Mi finds me. She’s on her way to watch the teachers’ volley ball game. I mildly protest, mitigating my anti-socialness with the promise that I have indeed brought my new (as yet unused) sports gear but I had to do the last tests so thought I’d missed it. “Lets go and watch anyway” she says, ignoring my rehearsed look of exhaustion.

In the sports hall the game is in full swing. Sun-Mi takes a look at my shoes and says “oh well, you just cheer us on” and joins her team. She hands me her watch for safe keeping, as good as shackles bolting me to the floor. I put down my jacket and bag, resigned to staying for at least another hour. It’s past four-thirty – my working day is officially over.

A woman enters the hall with a large polystyrene box and I’m familiar enough now with the sight to know it’s raw fish. She places it next to the beer and mandarin juice and fruit on the table. They are here for the long haul. I rest my head on my arm, my arm on the table, feeling utter despair. I know it’s only a matter of time before that ball comes hurtling towards me and smacks me in the face. Balls always do. I realise how much I really, really hate team sports, especially those involving balls.

It’s half time and they are changing sides. I look at the clock for the thirtieth time in thirty minutes; five past five. I’m horrified by the knowledge that I’m about to cry. Sun-Mi comes over to me as the players move to different ends of the court. “You look really tired” she says, “you don’t have to stay, but there’s raw fish…”. I begin to answer but I’m scared my voice will crack. I manage “I will go home if it’s OK, I am really tired…” and I slope out.

On my way home I feel really angry and upset. Even before I’m out of the school grounds I pull out my hair clip and I feel like I’m 6 again, fighting Mrs Lyons as she forcibly ties up my hair with a piece of string.

“I’ve warned you Daryl Morgan, if you come to school with your hair all over the place, I’LL tie it up for you”.

I hate Miss Badley and her stupid hockey lessons too. I hate being made to be part of a team, I hate being made to do things I don’t want to. I’m glad I have cigarettes at home so I can go straight there, through the college.

Once home I throw off my clothes, get into my pyjamas and light a cigarette. I sleep for an hour, and wake up feeling better. Sitting on my own in the peaceful oasis of my little room, I come to realise that I can live with the isolation, the constant barrage of a foreign language, the lack of meaningful conversation, the sense of being an outsider, so long as I get adequate amounts of time on my own. I remember a conversation with Sara P a year or two ago, when we discussed feeling exactly the same wherever we are, even in our home towns. Being on the outside of everything is an internal thing for me; it’s a perverse pleasure. Just don’t force me to join in. I let off steam to Sara H on MSN and she asks me if I’m lonely, and I can state categorically that I’m not. It’s not the aloneness that gets to me; it’s the lack of it. I fear that my lesson for this year is learning to be part of a group, joining in with the Korean colleague bonding culture – a scary prospect.

Thursday and I’m looking forward to school. I don’t teach until 11 so I arrive ‘just in time’ at 8.30am. Sun-Mi has finally phoned the bank for me and she needs my details, but I’ve left them at home. “We’ll do it first thing tomorrow” she says; she knows I need to send money to Sara before the weekend. My lessons are now well rehearsed and go smoothly. My colleagues are all friendly and one are two are getting a little more adventurous in trying their English. The students are spectacularly sweet today; In-hee finally solves the mystery of why I can’t find the recycling bags I’ve read are compulsory to use in Korea – Namhae doesn’t have a recycling system. The other students are overly-impressed that I can now read the Hangeul names ‘Kim’ and ‘Lee’ in the register. Four-thirty and I’m free to go home and sit on my own. Bliss.