Things I Ate: the Student Festival Edition

So Tuesday through Thursday of this week were devoted to the Student Festival on campus. For three afternoons we collectively shirked our responsibilities and decided instead to play outside, eat questionably prepared foods, watch concerts (Guess who has a new favorite Korean rock band!), and contribute to the common mood of frivolity and merriment that so saturated the atmosphere that it seeped into the very sidewalk squiggly bricks upon which our dancing feet so joyfully trod and the earth fairly hummed with our vitality.

Of course it rained this morning so it’s all gone now, but it was nice yesterday.

I went to concerts, did a little head-banging, did a little dancing. I watched contests and was suitably impressed and/or amused by all the acts. I laughed at our MC’s jokes, not because I knew what he said, but because I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was most likely hilarious. I watched my students get pummeled by water balloons and was constantly surrounded by other students determined to sell me their wares. Like sharks that feel a drop of blood in the water or Monterey Jack the mouse smelling cheese from three blocks away, they seemed to have some otherworldly ability to sense the presence of won burning a hole in my pocket.

But, despite all the fun I had and things I did, I think my festival experience really is most vividly and accurately summed up by the pile of food sticks, crumbs, and drips of sauce that I left in my wake over the course of those three afternoons. So with great pride and a little bit of a stomachache, I give you Things I Ate: the Student Festival Edition.

1. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because they asked me so enthusiastically to buy it. Also it was the first thing I saw.

2. Spicy sausage on a stick. Because it was across from the spicy chicken on a stick. On the down side, it dripped a lot. On the up side, I did not get any drippiness on my clothes. Final analysis: a successful eating venture.

3. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because I was still hungry and it was still close.

4. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, strawberry, and green. Because it seemed like a good idea. I was right. It was. Even the green part.

5. Popcorn. Because I thought a change of pace might be nice. When will I learn that I always regret popcorn? Stupid kernels.

6. Thing in a cup with a toothpick to facilitate consumption. Because I wanted a toothpick. Stupid popcorn.

7. Slushie thing – plum flavored. Because it was cheap and pretty, like a prom dress or a hooker.

8. Slushie thing – plum flavored. Because one is never enough, like a prom dress or a hooker.

9. Candy in the shape of a heart. Because those Marines earned my business and did so with gusto.

10. Peach iced tea. Because it was clearly a better idea than normal iced tea.

11. Thing on a stick involving some manner of meat and spiciness and something a little squishy that was probably rice-based. Because I’m adventurous and can make up my own names for things. I call it Meat-Squish on a Stick and I liked it.

12. Thing on a stick with cheese in the middle, sugar on the outside, other unnamable things in the middle, and slathered in ketchup. Because, let’s face it, at this point I think we’ve all realized that I’m a pushover when it comes to food on sticks, even something as questionable-sounding as that. I ate it all without regret.

13. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, green, vanilla. Because I wasn’t able to figure out that green ice cream the first time and some experiments deserve to be repeated. I was just being a responsible scientist.

14. Spicy chicken on a stick. Because sometimes you need to check to make sure they’re still doing it right. It's a simple matter of quality control. The quality having been adequately controlled, I moved on.

15. Red bean slushie. Because beans do not belong in slushies and I needed proof.

16. Strawberry smoothie. Because eating healthy food is very important to me.

17. Slushie thing – can’t get away from plum. Because it comes with such a cute little spoon, like a prom dress or a hooker.

18. Waffle with three scoops of ice cream – vanilla, vanilla, vanilla. Because I’ll never become a true connoisseur if I don’t try them all. I was just being conscientious.

There were other things I tasted and stole from those around me and still other things that I never quite managed to try, but there’s always next year and, like the practiced festival-goer that I am, I am already formulating my plan for the next Student Festival. Preparation is the key to success. And I was, after all, trained on the Circleville Pumpkin Show. I have festival-going skills the likes of which most of the rest of the world has never even imagined. This was my warm-up year.

So brace yourselves. Troubadours will sing songs about the next one.

Strangers on a Train

In my life, I’m really quite lucky to be able to say that I haven’t had very many people hate me just for being me. At least as far as I know. At any rate, I usually have to do something stupid first. And, quite often, I do, so anyone who wants one has only to wait a little while to find a good reason to wish I weren’t around. Today, however, my greatest, most pervasive, and completely unalterable fault was simply being not Korean.

Mind you, it’s not that I take great offence at having people dislike me – like I said, there are reasons enough, some of which I’ll even agree with. And it’s not that I can’t understand why people here might object to Westerners in general and Americans in particular on principle alone – we have a complicated enough history to accommodate all sorts of thorny and problematic feelings. So, when someone finally comes to the end of his tether and decides to vent his frustration and anger at me and mine, I suppose what really stings is having to feel so conspicuously small and off balance, and being able to do nothing about it except wait for the end, all the while just hoping I’m not doing anything that will make it worse.

So. I rode the subway today.

Typically, riding the subway is not an occurrence of much note. There are maps and timetables to read, seats to fight for and little strappy handles to hold – all innocuous enough, despite how attractive I’ve made the subway sound so far. So when I and a couple of other foreign professors decided to go to Songtan to search for a few bits of this and that, we loaded up our T-Money cards with subway fare and set out, practicing the days of the week in Korean (which I’ve forgotten again) while we waited for our train. As we waited, we ran into a former student of one of our number and, as a result, also had some lively non-days-of-the-week-related conversation.

The train came and all four of us boarded, found spots to stand in the full train and commenced to waiting again – this time for our stop. There was some brief dispute as to how many stops we needed to pass before we reached our destination, but I’m glad to say it was settled amicably, and the dueling pistols that I’m sure you know I carry with me at all times (just in case) were unneeded.

Professor and former pupil stood together and chatted and the other two of us stood a few paces away, doing some chatting of our own. All seemed well, but I’m afraid Trouble was brewing in River City. (Oh yes, we’ve got trouble. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for . . . Probably Slightly Inebriated And Therefore Emboldened Old Man, actually.) Anyway, it wasn’t long before we started hearing “Hello! Hello!” bellowed at us from across the middle aisle by an old fellow in what seemed to be military dress of some sort, though I could be mistaken, followed by something sharp and fast in Korean. My fellow traveler responded to the Hello and tried briefly to understand, but I knew just from the tone of his voice that no good could come of it and we mostly did our best not to notice as he continued to yell and gesticulate.

Unfortunately, after a bit, simply yelling from his seat lost the allure that I assume it had at the beginning, so he stood up and came close to us so he could yell and point forcefully with greater impact. It was at this point that I think he really began to build up a head of steam. When the student who was with us eventually noticed the old man’s yelling, he came over and spoke to the man, sweetly trying to calm him and shield us poor, confused foreigners from the brunt of the vitriol ricocheting off the walls of the subway car, but there was a limit to what he could accomplish there.

By now, the rest of the people in the car were paying rather a lot of attention to us – we were providing quite a little show – and, though they frowned and shook their heads at the man, he was a determined fella with a need for self-expression that could not be quelled. Today was Parents’ Day, after all, and elders should be allowed to do as they please, up to and including shouting at strangers on the subway. Gradually, a few other Koreans drifted silently nearer to where we were and stood close by. It may have just been coincidence or curiosity, but it felt like a kindness, a show of some small measure of support. I hope that’s what it was.

Every so often our old man would wander away, only to return with renewed vigor to say something he’d apparently forgotten to say before. It was during one of these gaps that our friendly student explained to us that on the grounds of fervent nationalism, the old man objected to our presence in his country. If his volume, boldness, or verbosity were anything to measure by, he objected greatly. And I didn’t have to understand Korean to understand that, in his eyes, we didn’t belong here. At all.

It seemed like a much longer train ride than it actually was.

Before he got off at his stop, the old man came close one last time to shake our hands in turn, say something in Korean that still sounded pretty cross, and then “thank you,” though I couldn’t tell you why. He wasn’t sincere, but I shook his hand and bowed my head to him anyway – it doesn’t do any good to be rude, after all. And then he left.

As I watched him step out and the doors close behind him, as the train jolted again into dispassionate and implacable motion, I wondered.

I wondered if my conduct had been what it ought to have been, or if I could have somehow made it better, or if I somehow made it worse. I wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t had a Korean friend with us, as it happened, by chance. I wondered if I can ever do anything more than just be sorry when this happens and let it all wash over me. I wondered if he yells at all foreigners or if we were special.

Make no mistake, nearly every Korean I’ve met or had even fleeting contact with in these last months has smiled big and been kind and patient with me, so much so that it was all the more startling today on the train for the simple strangeness of such an occurrence. But, no matter how kind someone may be, people lump other people into groups, units and categories that help us label and account for our world and those in it. So here, Westerners especially become a single very visible unit and the sins of one become the sins of us all, whether those sins be fresh or decades old, real or only perceived.

Coming from a place that so values the sanctity of the individual – sometimes to excess – it’s hard to get used to or feel good about being seen as simply a nameless but guilty Foreigner who must shoulder the weight of the responsibility for foreign and military policies across the Western world. I’m not naïve enough to be shocked at being viewed that way, but I can tell you without hesitation that my shoulders aren’t strong enough for such responsibility. And I don’t think they ever will be, even if I do manage to get used to the occasional outburst from someone who’s feeling particularly uninhibited at a given moment.

Maybe next time the party offended by my existence will know some English and I can tell the joke about gorillas and their big nose holes and, since it’s such a hilarious joke, we’ll all laugh so hard that all umbrage will be forgotten and we’ll go have ice cream and donuts together. And if I can learn the joke in Korean also, I’ll be prepared for anything.

Next time.

On the way back home I kept my head down and read a newspaper. Nothing happened.

The Midterm Scourge

As a student, I entertained bitterly fanciful notions of the hidden private lives of professors. What fun I knew they must be having. During Midterms and Finals, while I was sleeplessly stuffing fact after frightfully important fact into a brain fueled only by Honey Nut Cheerios and Jolly Ranchers, dreading that nearly palpable moment when night gives up and lets day come again, I just knew that somewhere all of my professors were having a party.

In my bones I could feel them savoring bonbons and peeled grapes while string quartets played easy-listening covers of songs selected from the Queen and Led Zeppelin catalogues in the background. Possibly a little BeeGees thrown in for good measure. (There were also, as I recall, a great many chaise sofas to aid in general lounging and a number of poor saps standing by with large fans at the ready.) And I would turn my bloodshot eyes to the hopefully still pitch black heavens and curse their clearly undeserved good fortune.

So you’d think that now that I’m one of those exalted elect – the few, the proud, the professors – I could get someone to turn the heat back on in my office on days when I can see my breath or at least get a test copied without having to forfeit all pride and/or sell my soul. I mean seriously, what’s a girl have to do to get a thing copied around here?

So in the absence of all I expected from my new and privileged position, I will concede that Midterms turned me a bit loopy these past few weeks. And I think if I’d had a guy with a fan following me around it would have been easier. (Though, upon reflection, I probably would have had him lose the fan and made him figure out how to get me copies. Which, of course, would have made me very happy indeed.)

I’m sure the first semester is the most tiring – only arriving a few days before classes began, not getting a schedule of the classes I was teaching until two days before classes actually began, staying just far enough ahead in my lesson plans to reasonably be considered (or assumed) to be prepared for each class, and adjusting to new everything all at the same time – all that can take a toll on even the most well-rested person. (Which I have never been.) But come fall semester, these things will not possess the gravitas they do now. Oh, they may still be issues in one form or another, but the degree necessarily lessens.

I’m looking forward to that.

In the meantime, however, that mature understanding did little to stop me from wanting to swear in three languages. And I could now, too, so you can imagine how tempting it was. Stacked up on top of all the regular horrors my schedule continues to offer me daily, I also had to find time to write, administer and grade approximately 63 billion written and speaking Midterm tests. It’s a rough estimate, but a conservative one.

And does anyone appreciate the trials of the solitary, beleaguered professor during Midterm time? Ha. Don’t be silly. No, it’s just a steady stream of “Have you entered your grades, yet?” “Are you done, yet?” “What’s my grade?” “Why did I get this grade?” “But if I lose those three points I’ll never be successful in life and it will all be your fault, Professor” and 63 billion sets of accusing eyes (conservative estimate) staring back at me for weeks.

Well if you didn’t want to lose those points, you should have turned it in on time!

[mentally regaining my weary composure]

I don’t get paid enough.

I know my acrimony may startle you, but I can assure you that it is the honest acrimony that comes with having lived through something that a pithy adage will tell us has made us stronger. I’m here to tell you now that sometimes those things just make you grumpy and tired. Also a bit hungry. And, if I’m going to be honest, a little nonplussed. Sixty-three billion students (conservative estimate) and not one of them offered to peel me a grape? The baseball of cruel reality has shattered the stained-glass window of my youthful dreams. It really is a hard world sometimes.

And clearly I’ve been teaching my students the wrong things. My lesson plans next semester will address this gap in their learning. Thoroughly.

Eight weeks to Finals.