being the new Korean teacher, and being Korean

There are a lot of triggers here that have popped up that made me realize that this year would be much more difficult than I thought it would be. There are some wounds, some unresolved feelings about my cultural upbringing that have somehow found their way back into my life. A lot of those feelings come from growing up in the Philippines as an expat.

And a lot of those feelings come from being 'citizenally' Korean, which are... complicated, to say the least.

I found out within the first two hours of landing in Chiang Mai that I was also going to be teaching a Korean language class in addition to my already-overwhelming load of English classes. There wasn't much I could do about it, but it's also a little unsettling that I'm faced with this task right after I'd made the realization that I would probably never live in Korea again. I understand that this is part of the 'adventure' that this program so proudly advertises—embracing the challenges, the on-the-go decisions that you have to make—but this is more than a "step out of your comfort zone"-type of deal. This isn't about eating crickets and fish heads, or riding a songthaew to work—this is about me and my memories of Korean school in the Philippines, of being Korean in the Philippines, of being 'with' and not-'with' the ever-exclusive Korean crowd on campus. So much of my insecurities growing up stemmed from being unable to truly be a part of the Korean community, and it's strange if not wholly ironic to me that I find myself being introduced around campus here as 'the new Korean teacher.' My students seem to be much more interested in asking me about K-Pop, about Korean party culture, about Korean dramas, than learning English, which I thought was what I'd come here to teach.

I don't mind. It's not too difficult for me to build up this identity for my students—it comes really easily, actually, digging up old stories and tidbits from the K-Pop bank that I thought I'd closed off and locked away forever after my freshman year of college. But the stuff that's more difficult for me to deal with actually comes from my interactions with the other Korean language teacher. I met with him yesterday to discuss the syllabus and honestly left the meeting a little bit disgusted. He means well, but just happens to hold a set of characteristics that I saw a lot of in the expat Korean community that I grew up around—a suffocating sense of duty towards that ethnic bond, a distrust of local people and customs, and an air of self-righteousness that came both from the pride of being Korean, and of being Christian.

"There is nothing that resembles any sort of public transportation here in Thailand," he told me at the coffeeshop, grimacing. He had just paid for my coffee and meal, and was asking me in a concerned, avuncular manner how my living situation was like. I told him that I would manage, that I planned to learn how to ride a motorcycle here.

"I don't think you know about what it's like here," he said, sighing as he did. "It's very dangerous on the road. The Thai drivers are all hooligans—they get into a car without learning how to drive it and zoom off into the road.  Not like America." I told him that I came to Thailand knowing that the roads were a little wild, and that I would be just fine. My priority was to find a house. "I can find you a house through a Korean real estate agent," he told me in earnest, somehow interpreting my words as an plea for help."We Koreans have to look out for each other."

And without missing a beat, he added swiftly: "Do you go to church?"

"No," I replied, "I don't."

"Would you not like to accompany me sometime?"

"No," I said, emphatically. "Thank you so much, but I'd like to decline."

"What a pity," he clucked, loftily, "that you won't get to go to heaven."

...

Ugh.

When we proceeded to actually talk about what we went to the coffeeshop to talk about—the syllabus—it was disheartening. "The students here don't study at all," he said dismissively. "I've created a book—you're free to follow it, but you're also free to do whatever you want.  It won't really matter; again, the students here don't study."

"What about the final exams?" I asked him. "Shouldn't we at least make sure that our material matches so that we can create exams together?"

"There aren't really final exams here," he said. "It doesn't matter. It really doesn't. There are two types of students here: the rich kids, and the kids who are looking to find rich husbands. They don't care."

"Well... okay," I said awkwardly, trying to change the subject. "How did you learn your Thai?"

"Oh, Thai such an incomplete and lazy language..."

...

I know I should be understanding. I am painting a very poor picture of a man who is undoubtedly kind and well-intentioned, and he runs his Korean class (which I sat in on to make notes) with a level of patience and understanding that I don't think I'll ever be able to maintain. He stands in front of the classroom, switching back and forth between carefully drawn-out Korean and broken Thai (he doesn't speak any English) while students chat and titter, paying little to no attention to this sweaty little man. He didn't even come to the city to teach Korean; his original role was to be a missionary.

But there is something incredibly "White Man's Burden"-esque about the way he describes everything in the city, and it makes me want to throw something in his face every time he says "the people of this country" (이 나라 사람들). There's nothing derogatory in the literal meaning of the words—you could apply the term to people of any country—but I actually don't think I've ever heard a Korean talk about Western countries using those terms. There's something Other-izing in the words—a very subtle nuance that makes it come across as a condescending remark, as if it should be accompanied with a supercilious smile.

... but idk. I know I'm being unfair and making huge, unfounded claims and generalizations; I already kind of regret writing this. Maybe I'll return to this post when I have a better idea of what I'm being critical about.