There are 33 of them set in pairs, in three neat columns. There used to be 34, but shortly into the year, one disappeared. I know this because it makes the columns uneven, and one loner never has a partner. 

I watch them go from orderly columns into a sea of waves every day. I push each chair in at the end of the day, thinking about how tomorrow someone will only push them out again. I sweep the dark brown hair away from the chair legs, finding inevitably more hair later. I erase the drawings, markings, and words as best I can on the desks, knowing that tomorrow something new will take its place. Maybe it will be in English, maybe not. I pull out the trash from inside, leaving the “useful phrases” lamination only. I shake my head at the chip bags and odd assortment of wrappers I pretended not to notice during their consumption. 

Every morning I raise the blinds with “English” pictures on them and open the windows to allow in some cool, fresh air. Later the room will get stuffy and hot with sweat. I glance at the AC unit mocking me in its silence, guessing at least five people will ask me to turn it on today, although I have no control over it (and it never goes on). I push the whiteboards open, ignoring the fingerprints all over my TV powerpoint screen (the glare is so bad anyways), and again wonder what the shiny green board is for. I may never know. 

These desks and chairs aren’t particularly exceptional pieces of furniture; they are durable and functional, places too small to rest a person’s legs comfortably. But I’ve fallen in love with them because my students sit in them. They remind me of a life, a moment of learning, and the possibility of illumination. They remind me of 50 minutes of English struggle and overcoming or a battle for another day. In their unsuccessful attempt to constrain, they remind me that youth is energetic adventure and that education is an exploration. 

So, I love these blinds with their stupid pictures and the windows that hint at freedom. I love the teasing AC unit, the TV glare that makes it impossible to watch movies, and the sound of the whiteboards sliding into place at the end of the day. They are witnesses and sidekicks to the happenings unfolding in this room. 

I think about how in 3 days, I’ll say goodbye to this room. To these desks and chairs. To the girls who sit in them or don’t sit in them. It’s strange to realize that this room feels like home. In about a month, another person will stand in my place and push 33 orange chairs into 33 desks. It feels like trespassing. 

These desks don’t notice who is cleaning them, and the chairs don’t notice whose hands are moving them. The windows will continue to open and shut without me there to do it; someone else will unlatch them. This room and the things in it will grow changed—dirty, used, and broken, but it won’t care. It will silently bear the history within these walls as an indifferent witness. As students come and go, they will etch records on the surface of this room, dents deepening over the years with no reproach or celebration. 

This room is so impartial, impassive. A part of me fears these desks and chairs for their impassiveness. They don’t realize that they inhabit a space that has seen more battles than any battlefield will, victories and defeats hashed out in the name of growth and education. I want them to feel my joy, sorrow, struggle, and laughter as I felt it each day. I want them to remember the girls who sat in their seats and graced them with their presence. But they don’t remember and the room doesn’t notice. It doesn’t notice the haircuts, hear the hilarious workings of language, or smell the sometimes intolerable stench of summer and youth.

And because it doesn’t notice, this room will pull traitor and say nothing when someone comes to take my place. This room, empty and apathetic, is a cold reminder that this space isn’t really mine. There is no fence, nothing to trespass over.

I feel the room staring at me, unapologetic, reminding me it’s time to leave. The last bell has rung, the night is seeping in, and the bits of dust are settling. But I don’t want to go, not yet. I want to wait a little longer and will this room to remember me. 

An orange chair beckons me to sit; the standoff is broken. We understand each other. In a little bit, I will pack up and turn off the lights. I will close the door and slide the lock into place. Turning, I will move through the darkened hallway past the rooms of sleepy, studying students and go out into the cool, forgiving night. I will walk away from the 33 desks with the 33 chairs and I will remember the students who chose to sit in them each day. 

Yeongcheon Charm

what a beautiful night

Friday June 29

Well, it happened. Today, I cried in class. I had to leave the room within the first five minutes because I was unsuccessfully stopping my eyes from… watering. Embarrassing. The morning had been bad—tired, finals stress, starting to say goodbyes—and then my students announced they were making something for me. Their sweetness really touched me and the thought of leaving them just broke down my last resolve not to get emotional.

In my office, Yea Ji took one look at me and asked what was wrong. I just shook my head, too afraid I’d start REALLY crying if I spoke. I spent the first ten minutes of class in my office attempting to get myself under control. Kindly, Yea Ji had taken over my class for the moment and students were late anyways. 

When I had finally pulled myself together and walked back into the classroom, class 7A began to sing to me Josh Groban’s “You Raise Me Up.” And that was the end of my hard work trying not to cry. I love that half the time I was laughing at their lack of singing, but the spirit of the song and their earnestness made it so endearing. After the song, they presented a poster they had made with little handwritten English notes of love to me. We finished off the class with games and happiness.

Thank you 7A for your precious gift!

“When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

My students and I all agreed it was way too hot last Tuesday night.

I started class with the above idiom and then told them I was “life” and I was going to give them a lemon- the heat. With that, I proceeded to turn off the fans and shut the doors and windows. The complaints (and sweat) started immediately. 

I told them that they had a few options: they could sit and throw a fit (I mimed an upset toddler) or they could do something about the situation. A) Call the office to turn on the A/C…if we were lucky. B) Open the windows and doors. C) Turn on the fans. D) All of the above. If it was still hot, we could be thankful for the fans we did have, the cold water down the hall, and tell ourselves that we were giving Earth a lower electricity bill. 

Once we were again bathed in semi-cool air, we went back to the idiom and discussed the importance of making the best of our circumstances, finding the good within tough circumstances, and ultimately, trying to find a solution.

The lesson inspiration came from two self-expression projects my ETA class has created: “Korean Students Speak” and a recent tumblr from another ETA in my program. Both incredible projects focus on freedom of expression and finding your voice in another language. In considering taking on the project, I noticed that my students are often very negative in their self-expression. If I ever do a cultural lesson, they latch onto the things other countries have that they do not, be it freedom, food, boys, etc. Their deep discontent with their reality is distressing, especially when it turns them into grumpy, bitter, restless complainers. I want them to thrive and have joy, not become jaded and cantankerous.

So, out of that mentality, this lesson was born. The “Lemons” are the bad things handed to us in life, be it long studying, no air conditioning, bullying, etc. and the “Lemonade” is how we handle it. We can’t control all our situations, but we can control our reaction and attitude to those situations. The objective for this lesson was to help students realize that speaking out is only a first step, and is most productive when coupled with either a solution to the problem or an encouragement to keep fighting the problem. The plan was to get my students hoping instead of despairing, and it was to get them actively seeking and being change instead of just talking about it.

I’ve only done the lesson twice now and will only have time to do it with a few other classes. I’m still fine tuning it, but am having a decent result so far. Not all my students have grasped the concept of “lemonade,” but it has been encouraging to see others really take off with the idea.

In pairs, the students come up with a “lemon” (problem/complaint) and then the “lemonade” (solution/encouragement). Most of my students chose to give a sort of encouragement or silver lining to their lemons instead of offering a direct solution, which is fine since I just want them to think beyond their immediate discomfort or dislike in order to gain a more balanced view of circumstances as well as a hope for the future. After all, they are the future!

Speaking tests this week, which also means MOVIE day! While I am testing students, the rest of my class gets to watch a movie. One of their movie options this semester was “Remember the Titans.” I knew the unfamiliarity and the word “football” would make it a tough sell, but I really, really, really wanted them to choose it. 

My students woefully lack exposure to other ethnicities. They live in a homogenous country and have little interaction with outside cultures and people of different colors. In Yeongcheon, even I rarely see other foreigners much less interact with them, and I have the greater time and opportunity than my students do. 

I knew my students lacked exposure in this area, but I didn’t realize the extent until the penpal project. Our penpals were brave enough to send video messages to my students, and I suddenly found myself dealing with classes actually laughing at the color of another person’s skin. 

I was mortified and deeply concerned. I thought maybe my students were embarrassed and trying to ease their awkwardness in the situation (laughing inappropriately can be a means of saving face). However, I realized as I watched a teacher’s reaction (and non-reaction to the students behavior) that my girls didn’t view their laughter as inappropriate. In their ignorance, they were unconsciously treating their epals with different colored skin as something less than themselves. 

So, I stopped class right then, and we talked. I asked them how they would feel if someone saw their picture or video and started laughing at their face or skin color. We talked about beauty and how beauty differs all over the world. Lastly, we talked about one of the penpal’s shirts aptly reading: “I am not a statistic.” It turned out to be a good, eye-opening lesson. 

Because of this situation, I REALLY hoped my students would watch the movie. I had a hunch class 1-7A would choose it (the discussion in that class went extra well) and then prayed that somehow I could get other classes to watch it, too. Yes, I even tried to sell the movie with: “look, lots of boys!” and “…this is my FAVORITE movie” (I do love it!). 

In the classes that did choose it, I was extra worried about how it would go over. Coming back in for the last 5 minutes in 1-7A, I noticed one of my students writing the name of it down. It was an even better sign when the bell rang and nobody moved.

Class 2-2 hadn’t liked any of my movie options telling me, “Saw them.” I pointed to “Remember the Titans” and asked, “Oh really. Even this one?” I promised they would like it and they begrudgingly let me show it. By the end of the class, no one was working on homework and even my rebels were getting into it. When class finished, I asked a few of the stragglers, “So, did you like it?”

“Oh yes, teacher!!!” 

My only response: “ha, told you!”

Here’s to the Titans—raising exposure and understanding half the world away. 

Earlier you asked me if I wanted to be a model. I had caught you and your group stealing glances at me every time I looked up from my desk or finished my walk around the classroom. You were supposed to be working on your fairy tales but without fail I’d find you watching me and then conferring together. My curiosity got the best of me, and I walked over to you. 

You looked at me, and told me I was skinny. I laughed and said, yes, I like to walk a lot. A little while later though, you were all still looking at me, so I came over again. This time, with several of your friends poking you, you asked me my weight and my height. I shouldn’t have answered, but it just kind of came out. You gasped and then paused. That’s when you asked me. 

The way you asked me was so serious that it took me by surprise. When I said no, you asked me why. You told me I was thin enough to be one. I said that they would probably force me to be thinner and I didn’t want to do that. Then someone else was calling my name for help, and I turned to leave. 

But that wasn’t what I wanted to tell you.

In the moment, words failed me and I gave an insufficient answer. I don’t want to be a model because I don’t want you to look at me and see just a pretty face, a pretty body. I don’t want you to try to be my face and my body. I don’t want you to obsess over your appearance and feel like you have to look like the media wants you to. Everyone is going to get old and wrinkly and “ugly” someday, so I want you to stop worrying about it.

I don’t want to be a model because I don’t believe in what they stand for. Not all of them, but it’s too big a risk. While some use their platform and public presence to be conductors of good, I know that when you see them, you often only see the clothes, makeup, and perfect body. They want you to remember their causes, but all you want to talk about is their high nose, big eyes, and S-line. 

I wonder when I leave you in five weeks, if you will talk about me when I’m gone. I wonder what you’ll remember. Will you only remember me as the tall, thin American in skinny jeans? If that’s all you’ll remember, then please don’t remember me. 

Please don’t remember my numbers: my kilograms, my centimeters. I’m sorry that I told you. Please remember that I think you’re all beautiful, and that inner beauty is lasting while outer beauty only fades away. 

When you watch the Dove Evolution commercials, please don’t ask to watch it over again because you think the editing is cool. Please see my heart breaking because I realize that’s all you see. I hope you remember that I posted photos of you and your classmates anyways even though you kept telling me you needed photoshop. Please remember that I didn’t think your face needed any editing; it’s beautiful just the way it is. 

Please remember that I liked you before your double eyelid surgery and even with the trouble spots on your face. Don’t second guess the fact that I’d rather hang out with you than with SNSD.  To me, you are more precious than the most famous person or the most beautiful person. 

And if you don’t remember anything else, please remember that you are beautiful.