“Teachuh, how are you?”
“I am very very happy.”
“Why are you happy, Sam-Teachuh?”
I responded, “I am happy because I am here with all of you.”
And it was true. Their cuteness was incalculable. I had love for them, already—but would it be enough?
*
For about five weeks, I’ve lived and worked in Busan, Korea. Much of my time here has been a pure gift. A sweet reverie. A kaleidoscopic memory. A vague, generally pleasant, waking déjà vu. (Speaking of past lives, I reckon I was most recently a one-eyed lady in New Delhi. Another story…)
Living on my own within a different culture has brought my adventurous, curious, independent spirit to a splendorous cultural buffet. But, unfortunately—and there typically always is a yang with the yin—I won’t, in fact, be eating much of it. (No really—I can’t eat much Korean food without becoming quite sick!)
In addition to my lack of culinary excursions, I will probably not soak up as much of the culture as I had hoped. A year before visiting the country, some of my hobbies included Korean television (with subtitles), Korean cooking shows, and studying the Korean language. However, I can’t envision myself staying for an extended period anymore.
Why?
The truth is, I’m just too damn sensitive. The atmospheres of both Korea in general and my school in particular have made the excitement of life abroad, well, rather too exciting. And that’s okay.
*
“Sam-Teachuh, Sam-Teachuh!”
“Hello Everyone!”
“Sam-Sam! Haha, did you know ‘Sam’ means ‘teachuh’ in Korean?”
(In fact I did. I heard it as often as I (begrudgingly) heard, “Sam I am” when I was younger.) “Why does it mean that?” I prodded back.
“I don’t know?”
I said, “Just because?”
“Just because!”
*
At the start of every class, students were asked how they were—and why. When speaking in a native language, this is not always the easiest pair of questions to answer. In a foreign language, it’s of course much more impossible sometimes. So, often, students would say, “I’m happy just because.” “I’m sleepy just because.” “I’m angry just because.”
(And really, why is anything the way it is? Well, to avoid an infinite series of inquiries, it’s best to tell ourselves, “Just because.” This way we can move along and eat lunch!)
(I loved ‘Just Because’ so much that it earned a spot in my home as my WiFi network name. (That’s a big deal.))
*
Why the stress? And what’s the deal with the food?
I’ve lived abroad a few times before, and know what culture shock feels like. It’s not fun, and it can be incredibly disorienting. While I am going through a bit of that, I would say I’m, more accurately, overstimulated by non-cultural obstacles.
Every day, I teach a decade-range of humans: from ages three and four to ages eleven and twelve. Some are consistently cute, some are silly, and some are little nightmares. It’s a micro-society, every day, in the span from 11am – 7pm. As someone who’s drawn to living exclusively in dark, cave-like apartment rooms and sought dark, quiet environments at work, I realized brightly lit teaching classrooms full of young students throughout the day would be taxing.
But, not this draining.
I see the kids in (to me, piercingly) bright-white fluorescent rooms. (Did I mention I have special light-blocking Irlen lenses?) This alone has profound effects on my vision (and sanity). Noise-wise, their loud voices reverberate throughout the hallways and my own labyrinthine inner ears. When I teach gym class, forty kids buzz about me—and absolutely love to yell!
But, Sam-Teachuh just wasn’t built for this kind of stimulation. Although I’ve never formally tested anywhere on the autism spectrum, I’m surprised just how sensitive my nerve systems are to the lights and noise of the school. After only an hour or so of being there, I feel completely fried. It’s hard to describe, but it’s a kind of electrified exhaustion that makes relaxation nearly impossible. Winding down from it takes me maybe three or four hours (this includes meditating, walking, and, most frequently, exercising at the gym.) It seems outside of work I’m mostly recovering from work.
Most people don’t have to do this, I know it—and if they did there’s no way the whole teaching abroad jam would work.
(When I’m extremely fried, the idea of teaching my class the following vocabulary seems like excellent, perverse self-therapy: “Everyone say, ‘Mommy needs a Xanax.’” “MOM-EE NEEDZ A SAN-EX.” (I have so far refrained.))
On top of an easily overwhelmed set of nerves, my immune system is rather mercurial. As for the atmosphere and the food in Korea, my body is dreadfully sensitive to anything it perceives as allergens (so a lot!). Growing up in the dry, low-pollution state of Colorado, this trait never became too bothersome (besides my autoimmune condition which is, fortunately, in remission). I had managed numerous food sensitivities for the past four years decently well. I hadn’t needed an asthmatic inhaler for maybe seven years. But, in Korea, staying outside in higher levels of pollution and humidity for a few hours really bugs my immune system. And eating at restaurants, save a handful of dishes, makes me ill.
I’m a damn sensitive guy. It’s in my DNA.
(Just…because.)
*
“Teachuh, what was a happy moment from your week?” asked one of the younger students, who constantly resided in an impenetrable dream-state. (He’s very imaginative, but tricky as hell to instruct!).
“There were so many. One was with you, when you grew a bubble while washing your hands.” Illuminated by the pearl white fluorescence above him, it shimmered a silver-purple just before bursting across his delicate fingers
“Another was when I spoke some Korean two days ago, and everyone’s heads perked up. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, Teachuh! Please speak more now!”
With a perplexed face, I implored, “But how do you all know Korean?! I thought you only knew English?”
“Teachuh! Sam-Teachuh! We speak Korean!”
“But who taught you Korean? How do you know?”
“Teachuh…we are Korean!”
“Yes, but who taught you?”
Confused looks. “Just because!”
*
I’ll stay for as long as I can. I’ll boost my allergy medication. I’ll cook for myself and eat more carefully at restaurants. I’ll try new approaches to teaching to not feel so fried. I’ll find more curries to compensate for the stress.
And when it’s time to leave, it will be time to leave. It’s okay. It’s life.
Just because.
*Unrelated note: the Korean word for pear is bae. (As in, “My boyfriend is my bae (pear).”
“I am very very happy.”
“Why are you happy, Sam-Teachuh?”
I responded, “I am happy because I am here with all of you.”
And it was true. Their cuteness was incalculable. I had love for them, already—but would it be enough?
*
For about five weeks, I’ve lived and worked in Busan, Korea. Much of my time here has been a pure gift. A sweet reverie. A kaleidoscopic memory. A vague, generally pleasant, waking déjà vu. (Speaking of past lives, I reckon I was most recently a one-eyed lady in New Delhi. Another story…)
Living on my own within a different culture has brought my adventurous, curious, independent spirit to a splendorous cultural buffet. But, unfortunately—and there typically always is a yang with the yin—I won’t, in fact, be eating much of it. (No really—I can’t eat much Korean food without becoming quite sick!)
In addition to my lack of culinary excursions, I will probably not soak up as much of the culture as I had hoped. A year before visiting the country, some of my hobbies included Korean television (with subtitles), Korean cooking shows, and studying the Korean language. However, I can’t envision myself staying for an extended period anymore.
Why?
The truth is, I’m just too damn sensitive. The atmospheres of both Korea in general and my school in particular have made the excitement of life abroad, well, rather too exciting. And that’s okay.
*
“Sam-Teachuh, Sam-Teachuh!”
“Hello Everyone!”
“Sam-Sam! Haha, did you know ‘Sam’ means ‘teachuh’ in Korean?”
(In fact I did. I heard it as often as I (begrudgingly) heard, “Sam I am” when I was younger.) “Why does it mean that?” I prodded back.
“I don’t know?”
I said, “Just because?”
“Just because!”
*
At the start of every class, students were asked how they were—and why. When speaking in a native language, this is not always the easiest pair of questions to answer. In a foreign language, it’s of course much more impossible sometimes. So, often, students would say, “I’m happy just because.” “I’m sleepy just because.” “I’m angry just because.”
(And really, why is anything the way it is? Well, to avoid an infinite series of inquiries, it’s best to tell ourselves, “Just because.” This way we can move along and eat lunch!)
(I loved ‘Just Because’ so much that it earned a spot in my home as my WiFi network name. (That’s a big deal.))
*
Why the stress? And what’s the deal with the food?
I’ve lived abroad a few times before, and know what culture shock feels like. It’s not fun, and it can be incredibly disorienting. While I am going through a bit of that, I would say I’m, more accurately, overstimulated by non-cultural obstacles.
Every day, I teach a decade-range of humans: from ages three and four to ages eleven and twelve. Some are consistently cute, some are silly, and some are little nightmares. It’s a micro-society, every day, in the span from 11am – 7pm. As someone who’s drawn to living exclusively in dark, cave-like apartment rooms and sought dark, quiet environments at work, I realized brightly lit teaching classrooms full of young students throughout the day would be taxing.
But, not this draining.
I see the kids in (to me, piercingly) bright-white fluorescent rooms. (Did I mention I have special light-blocking Irlen lenses?) This alone has profound effects on my vision (and sanity). Noise-wise, their loud voices reverberate throughout the hallways and my own labyrinthine inner ears. When I teach gym class, forty kids buzz about me—and absolutely love to yell!
But, Sam-Teachuh just wasn’t built for this kind of stimulation. Although I’ve never formally tested anywhere on the autism spectrum, I’m surprised just how sensitive my nerve systems are to the lights and noise of the school. After only an hour or so of being there, I feel completely fried. It’s hard to describe, but it’s a kind of electrified exhaustion that makes relaxation nearly impossible. Winding down from it takes me maybe three or four hours (this includes meditating, walking, and, most frequently, exercising at the gym.) It seems outside of work I’m mostly recovering from work.
Most people don’t have to do this, I know it—and if they did there’s no way the whole teaching abroad jam would work.
(When I’m extremely fried, the idea of teaching my class the following vocabulary seems like excellent, perverse self-therapy: “Everyone say, ‘Mommy needs a Xanax.’” “MOM-EE NEEDZ A SAN-EX.” (I have so far refrained.))
On top of an easily overwhelmed set of nerves, my immune system is rather mercurial. As for the atmosphere and the food in Korea, my body is dreadfully sensitive to anything it perceives as allergens (so a lot!). Growing up in the dry, low-pollution state of Colorado, this trait never became too bothersome (besides my autoimmune condition which is, fortunately, in remission). I had managed numerous food sensitivities for the past four years decently well. I hadn’t needed an asthmatic inhaler for maybe seven years. But, in Korea, staying outside in higher levels of pollution and humidity for a few hours really bugs my immune system. And eating at restaurants, save a handful of dishes, makes me ill.
I’m a damn sensitive guy. It’s in my DNA.
(Just…because.)
*
“Teachuh, what was a happy moment from your week?” asked one of the younger students, who constantly resided in an impenetrable dream-state. (He’s very imaginative, but tricky as hell to instruct!).
“There were so many. One was with you, when you grew a bubble while washing your hands.” Illuminated by the pearl white fluorescence above him, it shimmered a silver-purple just before bursting across his delicate fingers
“Another was when I spoke some Korean two days ago, and everyone’s heads perked up. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, Teachuh! Please speak more now!”
With a perplexed face, I implored, “But how do you all know Korean?! I thought you only knew English?”
“Teachuh! Sam-Teachuh! We speak Korean!”
“But who taught you Korean? How do you know?”
“Teachuh…we are Korean!”
“Yes, but who taught you?”
Confused looks. “Just because!”
*
I’ll stay for as long as I can. I’ll boost my allergy medication. I’ll cook for myself and eat more carefully at restaurants. I’ll try new approaches to teaching to not feel so fried. I’ll find more curries to compensate for the stress.
And when it’s time to leave, it will be time to leave. It’s okay. It’s life.
Just because.
September 19, 2016
*Unrelated note: the Korean word for pear is bae. (As in, “My boyfriend is my bae (pear).”
I like this a lot...just because. <3
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