You might think I’d have exhausted my store of reminiscences from the time (November 2007-January 2009) I spent as a teacher at LIKE School, but not quite. I occasionally delve into the files of my computer and look at photos taken in the classrooms and the halls. Oh, the kids, the experiences, the non-stop challenges, the noise. It was driving me crazy, and I simply had to get out.

Nearly seven years have passed since I left Daegu, and I find that I hold tight to those memories. Each one of my former students—and I remain in contact with a few—has gotten on with his or her life. The youngest are now in high school, the middle schoolers are in college and the high schoolers will have graduated, begun careers, said vows of holy matrimony or started having babies. Yikes! It is the same for Teacher Richard; he has moved on with his life. So bear with me as I tell a few more stories from my 14 months at a hagwon.

*    *    *

I taught in the Chilgok district on the north side of Daegu for the first 4 1/2 months. That included a “class” consisting of one student. She was perhaps six years old, and to my deep regret I do not remember her name. However, as we went through various basic notebooks we read a story with characters named Su-Min and Min-Ho. This little girl—whom I truly adored—and I would call each other Su-Min and Min-Ho, changing them whenever we wanted. For the nonce, let’s call her Min-Ho.

When Min-Ho was tired, and she would lay her head down on the desk. All I could do was to cajole her, asking her to sit up and engage with me in some English exercises. More than once, we ended up at the board for a few games of tic-tac-toe. I know—not much language education there.

As is natural, she sometimes needed to visit what is euphemistically known as the comfort room. But Min-Ho was not sure how to ask for permission; she put her hands between her legs and gave me a look that was equal parts embarrassment, pleading and urgency. I just smiled and said to go. She turned and scampered down the hall.

*    *    *

I had serious doubts about how effective we were at teaching English. But for the more accomplished students, there were some worthwhile challenges. The seven or eight LIKE Schools in Daegu often combined for relatively high-level speech contests (I served as a judge at a couple) or writing contests.

One day, I arrived at Yongsan and was informed that the high school kids had been given the task of writing about the Kyoto Protocol. You remember that, right? It was an international treaty adopted in 1997 in Kyoto, Japan pertaining to the reduction of global warming, greenhouse gases and CO2 emissions. There must have been 30 students who were making an attempt to write papers about the Kyoto Protocol. As one of the school’s two native English speakers and a writer/editor, a big burden was put on me to help them out. I did heavy editing, and in some cases I took the kids’ ideas and wrote much of their papers for them. I did not leave the school until 1 a.m.

*    *    *

In August 2008, I was at Busan's Haeundae Beach when I received a text message. I was more than a little surprised to find that it purported to be from a middle-school student named So-Ra and that she wanted us to enter into a carnal relationship. Utterly perplexed, I waited until I had returned to Daegu before investigating. As soon as I saw So-Ra, I asked whether she had sent me that message. (I really did not think she had. Never before I had I gotten a text message from So-Ra, and her deportment around me was typically chaste and respectful.) She had no idea what I was talking about and was equally surprised and flustered. It seemed that another student had chosen to play a prank on both of us. I never learned the identity of this miscreant.

*    *    *

I had what I thought—I take that back because I know—was a good idea, but it simply did not work out. The issue was pen pals. I asked the students in a few of my classes whether they would like to have pen pals in the USA, and the response was strongly affirmative. About 60 signed up and eagerly waited to hear from an American boy or girl. With the help of family and friends in Texas, I tried to set up something with one school or another. I kept getting delays and bureaucratic answers. What could possibly be threatening about having a Korean pen pal? The project never got off the ground, and I unhappily had to explain, with apologies, to my students.

*    *    *

What made me feel like a failure as a teacher? The many times I stood before a class and saw nothing but blank faces. Maybe there were some cultural factors at play here, but it did not lessen my chagrin. I was willing to do nearly anything to establish a connection and get the students involved. When all else failed, I went with the old math gambit. That's correct. I would, for example, write on the board "373 x 45" and choose a kid to come up and solve it. Suddenly, their eyes brightened and they raised their hands! Most of these children were quite competent at math. The chosen student usually arrived at the right answer (16,785, in this case) as soon as I got it from the calculator on my cell phone. What, I asked, about 782 divided by 39 (20.05)? They were eager to show their stuff.

Don't bother telling me this had nothing do with inculcation of English because I am aware. My logic—weak though it may have been—was that if I could connect with the students, maybe the next class would be better. I just could not abide those silent, expressionless faces I had seen a few minutes earlier.

*    *    *

My first day at Yongsan, I met a young student named I-Rae (이래, I believe). She and her friend had heard that there was a new foreign teacher, and they wanted to check him out. I was visiting Andy Weiler, a Canadian who had a good handle on his classroom. In walked I-Rae and her pal. It was not an introduction per se; they just wanted to get a look. I talked to them for a couple of minutes and snapped a photo as they flashed the familiar “V” signal with their fingers.

One more memory of I-Rae. We were sitting on the steps outside of the school. She was with her mother, or a lady I took to be her mother. After some kind of give-and-take between us, I spontaneously walked up to her, took her chin in my hand and said (to her, to her mom, to myself and to whoever else may have been present), “Look at her—she’s so cute!”

*    *    *

Here is a somewhat related story that pertains to Andy. As mentioned before, he was quite good with his students. The younger ones, especially, thought the world of him. There was a seven-year-old girl named Gun-Young who had classes with both of us. Andy spent a few minutes with Gun-Young once and taught her a special lesson. “How are you?” is a frequent question in virtually any language. He instructed her to respond with the words “As cute as ever.” He told me about this, and of course I had to give it a try. I found Gun-Young and put the query to her. She answered without the slightest trace of a smile, “As cute as ever.”

*    *    *

There was a boy named Su-Bok, probably a middle schooler, who gave me fits. He fancied himself cool, a hip-hop guy, so he wore his baseball cap rakishly tilted to the side. I wish that were all, but no. Su-Bok was rude and disrespectful, making little effort to cooperate in the classroom. This young man, who had no interest in learning English, was bad news from the start.

*    *    *

As I have written elsewhere, I worried about some of these kids. Even under the best of circumstances, Korean students are under enormous academic pressure. But let’s not forget the social part—who’s popular and who’s not. I had read stories in the paper about children who were ostracized, depressed and maltreated. I agonized over a girl and her brother who were in my classes. Both were terribly introverted and had to be coaxed to talk. Linguistic and cultural factors prevented me from intervening, but God knows I wanted to. I yearned to take each of them aside, ask what the problem was, and give a little advice and support. I hope they have emerged from their cocoons, I sure do.

*    *    *

One of my students at Chilgok went by the English name of Lucia. She sometimes wore a blue-jean skirt that I thought looked very nice. Lucia, such a sweetheart, could not have had a better attitude. But she was no pushover. Whenever a male student would say or do something she found inappropriate, Lucia defended herself quickly and vigorously. Better not to mess with her.

*    *    *

Kim Min-Ji sometimes waltzed into my classroom and started to compose artwork on the board. She was rather talented, once drawing an elegant, long-haired woman; she said it was for me and called it “You Wife.”

She had a close friend by the name of Ji-Young. Before class one day, they started singing and doing a little dance. I think it was based on a K-pop song because Min-Ji was a K-pop fanatic. She definitely served as the choreographer because Ji-Young was following her lead closely. Anyway, I pulled out my cell phone and hit the “video” button. I must have watched that performance a dozen times before getting a new phone.

*    *    *

Gonggi is an ancient Korean game resembling jacks. It consists of five colorful plastic pieces, and the players take turns throwing and catching them—sometimes on the back of the hand. More than once, I used the 10-minute break between classes by having the kids play Gonggi on the floor. They were nimble and fast, and I saw smiles all around. 

*    *    *

Let’s not forget about Word Relay. What a life-saver it was in many classes. I stood at the board with marker in hand and offered up a randomly chosen word—let’s say “elephant.” Since it ends with a “t,” the kids were to come up with a word starting with that letter, such as “tomorrow,” and then we were off and running (elephant –> tomorrow –> water –> rock…). In some classes, the new words were given in a quiet and orderly manner. But just as often, the students yelled them at me from all directions. I wrote the one I heard most clearly. I have few fonder memories of LIKE School than playing Word Relay with my students. After one particularly raucous game, Andy walked over to my classroom and asked what the heck had been going on.

*    *    *

So who, you might ask, was Andy? He and I were separated by a full generation, but we got along well. He was a native of Watford, a town not far from Toronto. A big fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs and Detroit Tigers (he had his reasons for liking them rather than the Blue Jays), he attended Trent University and came to Korea shortly after graduating. Andy did his one year at LIKE before heading to Australia for further education. Despite having student loans to pay off, he traveled a lot in Europe and Asia. I think he spent two years teaching in Kuwait and is now at an international school in Shanghai

*    *    *

At this writing, the Yongsan LIKE School is on its last legs. In my subsequent visits to Daegu, I have seen a gradual decline in the number of students. Whereas there were about 250 when Andy and I taught, now there are barely 60. To say it resembles a ghost town is no exaggeration. While I would not presume to know the reasons for such a state of affairs, I find it distressing. But, as I said at the top, life goes on. 

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