Shocking and being Shocked

Just over one week has passed; it seems an eternity longer. Though that, apart from the first two days, is fortunately not due to that initial crazy overload of information. Well, at least not 'overload.' 'Crazy' and 'information' certainly still apply. These last two words have begun to be a somewhat normal addition to daily life. I am, happily, beginning to be able to piece together some manner of framework in which to fit the many random pieces of information constantly thrown my way. Daily the picture becomes more complete and comprehensive. Yet, however much more I understand, I feel very much like a puzzle piece (what a wealth of analogy materiel puzzles offer!) mixed in with the wrong puzzle. The picture is entirely complete without my presence. I have no place, no sense of belonging in any way. I can't even claim the status or intellect of a two year old, so far as social interaction and comprehension go. All I know to do is to smile idiotically, bow at what I hope are appropriate junctures, and watch, rigidly alert, for social cues from the Dubes and Teresa. I foresee no immediate break in this pattern, save perhaps, my smiles less stiff, and my bows more timely. Small consolations, these, against the back drop of a way of life so drastically ill-proportioned

On a more optimistic note, though, I must say that, however much this state of things troubles me, as indeed it does, I nevertheless feel quite at rest. There is no stress, no anxiety, no feeling of unrest. Always, in moments of quiet, I wonder at God's goodness in bringing me here, and my heart is glad.

I write this at the training center, about two hours from Seoul, where a kid's English camp is taking place. We got here yesterday, and have been hectically busy since. Shortly after arriving, Adam rushed up to me, "Were you told that you're speaking for a mothers class?"
No I hadn't been. Ms. ??? (for the life of me, I can't remember these Korean names) came up behind him, "Yes! You will talk about home schooling. Come! Come!"
"Wait!" I cried, "Right now?!"
"Yes, they are waiting. Can you do it?"
Well, thought I, there's no time like the present. I followed her into a large room with twenty women or so, and sat to quietly wait my turn. I continued to sit quietly, waiting for the duration of the 40-minute class. Johanna (my interpreter) and I looked at each other and shrugged. Namsoo walked over, "Come back at 4:30, OK? You will maybe have time to speak then. You can do that?"
I nodded and found myself, promptly on time, back in the room. This time I was given a chance to speak. It went smoothly. I shared why Dad and Mom had decided to school us at home, how they had accomplished this, and the effect it had had on me. Then I opened the floor for questions. Apparently home schooling is a very new concept in Korea. No one knows quite what it is. Adam was talking to another employee at SCG who told him, "Yes, we must hire a teacher so that our children can be home schooled."
Another woman asked me, "Did your Mother help with any of the home schooling?" and was appalled to hear that she had schooled all seven of us without any help.
Its kind of fun to shock these Koreans. =)

Conversely, the Koreans also seem to enjoy shocking me. Their eating habits are among the most amazing. No morsel is to large to be eaten in one bite, though at times every finger on both hands must be employed to fit it all in. And no mouthful is too large to talk around. I begin to be used to stuffing my mouth, but I still turn a darker shade when expected to communicate at the same time. I feel that two mouths would be a great asset at meat times…though, in that case, I would no doubt be expected to stuff both.

A food impossible for me to eat but small amounts at a time, and of which many of you have at least heard, is kimchee. Fermented cabbage with super hot spices. Variation is common: radish, cucumber, etc. Other varieties have to do with the level of pain involved in consumption. I've learned to take note of the color as I eat. Very red means unbearably hot. Lighter red also means unbearably hot. Hmmm…never mind that comparison. At any rate, kimchee is growing on me. At first the only sensation I experienced was a mouth on fire and swimming eyes. Now I begin to be able to taste some flavor through the fire. This is certainly an improvement, but I still have far to go before I can look forward with any amount of eagerness to experiencing this staple at every meal.

Another interesting aspect of Korean cuisine is that it tends to lodge with ferocious tenacity between tooth and gum, not to be dislodged for the world. Toothpicks are often provided with meals, but that just doesn't cut it for me. I've taken to habitually carrying floss on my person.

OK, enough about food. On to utensils. I've become, by default of frequent use, quite deft at wielding a pair of chopsticks. I had thought the pair I carried with me before were fine. I haven't been here three days before discarding them with disgust. 'Real' chopsticks are heavy silver and quite thin and dainty. They were rather clumsy for me at first, being so much heavier than what I had been used to, and so small. Now they seem crafted exact to fit my hand, and have become quite an extension of my being – just like an extra set of fingers.

I have been introducing myself to the Koreans as 'Lis'. 'Elisabeth' is a tongue twister, and it both amuses and pains me by turns to hear it so slaughtered. 'Lis' is also slaughtered, but is rather more impersonal to me.
"Lis," I clearly enunciate, "My name is Lis."
"Ah!" They nod with smiling comprehension, "That is very easy! Leesuh."
After two dozen 'Leesuh's I shrugged and began to introduce myself by their rendition, 'Lisa'. This did not last long, however. Namsoo accosted me on the following day.
"It is too hard." he told me, "Your name shouldn't start with an 'L'. When we see 'Leesuh' we want to say 'Rreesuh'. Maybe we can call you 'Illeesuh' (spelled 'Elis')?"
I made a face. I couldn't help myself – or didn't want to – and Namsoo laughed.
"Maybe we will give you a Korean name, OK?"
I nodded in agreement to this plan, though in retrospect I perceive that I likely won't be able to pronounce my Korean name any better than they pronounce my English.
"We will think about what it will be." Namsoo said, and walked away, leaving me to only assume that 'I' have no part in 'we', and will be informed, all in good time, what 'we' have decided. I have my suspicions that I'll be christened the deplorable 'Illeesuh'.

...Hence They are Constantly Laughing

I taught my first English class yesterday, and a subsequent seven more over the course of yesterday and today, 40 minutes each. That's a lot of shouting time…and shouting it must be to keep all attention on myself. My throat is feeling it. But I loved teaching. The kids are beautiful, and adore me. "Teach-uhr" they call me, in their little voices. I enjoy spending time with them, because they laugh at me when I make mistakes (hence they are constantly laughing), so I can correct myself. With the adults I never know if or when a breech of etiquette has occurred, because they just pretend that nothing's wrong. Whenever a little one comes up to talk to me, I point to my nametag, and they stumble through varieties of, "Illeesuhbetuh". I laugh, and then attempt to spell out their names, written in the Korean script. Of course I render their names as outrageous as they render mine, and they take their turns at laughing. But then, without fail, they will say their names back to me with the correct pronunciation. I repeat, and this time they nod and smile, while I feel good about myself. I get a lot of reading and pronunciation practice and correction with upwards of 100 kids here at camp. The language is still a cacophonous labyrinth of sound, but I begin to be able to untangle it, to my great satisfaction. Yesterday I was able to pick out 'mothers' from a string of sound, and the day before that, 'sit down!' ('Uhmunee' and 'ahnjeuseyo' respectively). I can't wait to begin studying Korean in earnest.

One word that is rendered familiar by means of frequent use is the Korean monetary unit, the 'won'. The rate of exchange is just under W1,000 to $1. To walk through the market and hear, "Oh! That costs only ten thousand!" at first made me start. I have since become accustomed to thinking in won rather than dollars, but have yet to reconcile myself to the cost of living, regardless of with what it is financed. It is not uncommon for an item to cost between 4 to 6 times as much here as it does in the States. It's one thing to wince and close your eyes when a watermelon costs W25,000 ($25), but it becomes really painful when a box of granola bars goes for W24,000 ($24), or a pillow for W60,000 ($60). Money certainly seems to disappear quickly.

Though the other Americans seem to find the heat here oppressive, I don't find it so at all. Quite humid, I concede. They say it will grow warmer in August. Maybe then I shall be compelled to push the second button on what I first mistook for a refrigerator. That tall, sparkly, apple red box in the corner of my kitchen, the top of which slides up, and the sides of which grow fins in response to being turned on, converting the box into an air-conditioning unit. Amusing, and definitely more space consuming than necessary, but pompous or not, it does the job.

Regardless of style or event, heels (generally 1 or 2 sizes too small) seem to always be in order. Men have even been occasionally observed wearing shoes with high heels. Perhaps, I first thought, it is because they are so short? I was later compelled to revise this opinion. Some, at least, don't see themselves so; never mind that they're always craning their necks to look us Americans in the eye. The other day we were at SCG and Namsoo asked me how tall I was. I told him. His eyes widened with surprise,
"You are five feet and eight inches tall?! I am five feet and six inches tall! You are taller than a man!!" He tilted his head to one side and considered for a moment. Then, musingly, "I suppose that is possible…"
These Koreans!

A random fact, universally understood among Koreas, but of which I had remained in blissful ignorance heretofore, is that rain causes ones hair to fall out. It is rather hilarious to watch the action effected by this belief. The lightest drizzle causes countless bouquets of umbrellas to blossom out of seemingly nowhere. Such, at any rate, is the usual response. Should, for some obscure reason, umbrellas be unavailable, all dash for the nearest cover. After all, one must take care, at any cost, to preserve a full head of hair!

Anyways, I'm going to leave you for now. This email is much longer than I had first intended it to be. If you've made it this far, I'm amazed.

Have a lovely day
- Illeesuhbetuh