One Year in South Korea

Crossing the Lines

2009-07-02T11:06:00.002-04:00

Crossing The Lines

She is standing at the curb shifting her weight back and forth. She has her light blue Kumon bag full of books from the hakwon she just left at 11:00p.m. tightly clutched to her chest covering her white uniform top that is neatly tucked into her grayish black uniform skirt. Her cell phone is somehow squeezed between her fingers ready for whatever calls or text may come. Her eyes are darting back and forth looking up and down the empty street across from the Nunghyup Bank. Her agitation increases with every passing second. The urges are beginning to overpower her, but they are wrong. She has been taught better. The training from her mother and grandmother for the past sixteen years will not be thrown away in a fleeting moment like this. She can’t do it, not now, not tonight. Her mother has already tucked her little brothers and sister into bed and is preparing rice for tomorrow morning. Her father, who just showered after another twelve-hour day on the road selling fruits across town, is trying to relax for a few minutes before crashing for the night without dinner again. They have worked hard to get her in to this hakwon, the best science, math and English academy in Cheonan. She cannot disrespect them like this; it would crush them if they ever found out.

Besides, how will she be able to go to Church on Sunday after such disregard for Korean tradition and values? NO! She will not do it! She lowers her head in shame at the very thought of even attempting to be so reckless.

And then as if she just figured out her clothes were on fire she raisers her head and starts running across the street. I can see her sheer delight at this moment of freedom at being like a real woman who is strong and able. Her eyes are wide-open and bright, cheeks flushed with vibrancy and arms lifted with each stride. She is halfway there ands realizes what she has done, almost comes to a complete stop, begins to lower her head again with a natural twitch but realizes she has come too far, she cannot go back now. She panics and hurriedly looks left and right, then forward and again darts across the street, exhilaration pours out of her like she is an American girl who is out drunk with her friends on a Friday night accepting free drinks from all the boys trying to attract her fancy knowing they will just flirt, tease and go home laughing together at their conquests. She reaches the other side of the road and freezes cold in her tracks. The momentary flash of freedom evaporates and becomes drenched in guilt, shame and humiliation. She wants to hold back the tears but is not able. She drops her cell phone for the first time and bends over to pick it up forgetting she is wearing a skirt and is supposed to lower herself properly like nice girls do. Her book bag slides out from her grasp and the books fall all over the black sidewalk, she is aware she will be noticed now for certain. Someone will tell her mother. There is no way she can now just walk in the door like nothing has happened. They will know even before she runs the final three blocks to their seventieth floor apartment in Highvill 2. She trembles as she gathers her things off the ground and stuffs her cell phone into the bag and takes off running even faster than she crossed the street towards home with tears streaming down her now pale cheeks. How could she be so careless and ungrateful to her family and bring such shame upon them? They did not raise her to be the kind of girl who crosses the street while the light is still red! Nice girls follow the rules even if there are no cars on the road at 11:20 at night. They obey and follow traditions no matter what. Crossing the street while the light was still red; who did she think she was and did she forget where she is and what country she lives in?

Me, I am shocked. I have lived here for ten months and waited patiently to see if during my thirteen months stay I would see one, just one young woman or girl cross on the red. Their moms do it, all teen boys do it and certainly all men do it without even thinking, but young women are trained well here. By well, I mean effectively.

It has been three weeks since I saw that girl cross the street on a red light. Every night when I am walking after dinner I think about her and how hard being obedient must be to those who need to dance and stretch their own limits. What pressure these young girls carry with them day and night to conform to traditions that are so old that there are nobody left to explain why they exist or where they came from. The answer is simple- “It is what we do”.

Friday Night in Danyang Valley

2009-06-08T11:10:00.002-04:00

Friday Night at Danyang Valley

My tent is pitched between two retaining walls and next to a rock to sit on. It is a full moon on this Friday night with a hint of clouds in the sky to add to the feeling of Truth I sense here in Danyang Valley. Although not really Truth since the campground is pretty well tended to and has that air of resort. I am twenty feet from a man-made waterfall with a wooden wheel turning and spilling into a lively and vocal brook that flows down from Mt. Seobeksan. This is where I will sleep tonight.

The solitude is both comforting and disconcerting. My life in the cemented city of Cheonan does not provide this kind of solitude; even my mountain. The quiet is loud as the water cascades in all directions like my mind.

It is cool enough for me to put on a long-sleeved shirt at thirty past midnight but the night air in the mountains is nourishing my skin and pores. My first yawn of the night. A good one that inserts its message loud and clear. I will obey.

Tomorrow is the Second Annual South Korea Couchsurfing Gathering. There should be between 40-50 people coming from all over the country to attend and participate in hiking, climbing, paragliding, eating and enjoying our weekend together. I wanted to camp the night before to get my whole Self present. And I love camping this time of year.

It is working; water, mountains, green and fresh air what can rarely be achieved in city life, even for a recluse-wannabee like me.

Michael = Dog?

2009-05-07T10:28:00.002-04:00

Michael, Dog?

Anna is one of my favorite students. She is in second grade and just adorable and beats up most of the boys in our class as a bonus. She has black hair like everyone else here, brown eyes like everyone else here but hers are deeper, darker and rounder than most. Her full cheeks with that soft, silky Korean skin is just unavoidable for a quick, gentle caress every time I see her when she is done walking with me with her little hand inside mine. Anna is very affectionate and loves to be loved. Fortunately, I love loving her, so we get along well.

Today while waiting for her classmates to get to class, she was holding my hand, well actually my wrist and looking up at me with those wondrous eyes and dimpled smile. I was lost in her world when I noticed there was someone petting me, yes petting my forearm and I came back to earth and my classroom. It was Anna stroking and petting the hair on my arms. She again looked back up at me this time with wonder in her eyes and said in her best English, “Michael, dog?” and she pointed to my arm hair and then to my chest. Translation for the non-EFL teachers of the world: “Michael you have hair on your arms, are you a dog?”

I laughed half-heartedly and smiled at my precious little angel who somehow made calling me a dog sound sweet. Second graders can get away with stuff like that but adults get the Jersey/NYC stare when they venture into making comments of that sort.

I still get startled at the fact that most Koreans, both children and adults have never touched a human being with body hair or facial hair. It startles me. I grew up in an Italian family and amongst Italians, chest hair and facial hair are signs of virility. In fact, you are not really considered a man until you have chest hair. I faired well in that department. The other symbol of Italian manhood is not as easy to see, but we will leave that one alone for now. The idea that men can be men and not have hair on their chests, face and arms is beyond my mental capacity to understand. When I am lazy and do not shave, the next day almost every young one will come and rub my stubble. It occurs to me that they may have never felt a man’s facial hair as stiff as mine, another fact that baffles me and my social programming.

While on a roll about my social programming, bodies and cultural differences, I might as well dive into the women. Wait, that did not come out right. What I meant to say was I would like to explore the different bodies of Korean and Western women. OK, that didn’t work either but I think you get the point! I was here almost a month before I realized that the majority of females in Korea are not teenagers! Korean women have very slight frames and bones. It is of the highest importance for a woman in Korea to be skinny. I mean skinny, not thin or athletic. Typically, their bodies remind me of the standard American eighth grade girl in girth, bone structure, weight and size of butt and breasts. Even when pregnant, Korean women are less voluptuous then the American college girl on a diet. And I am speaking of American White girls, not Blacks or Latinas. Their butts are smaller then most pre-pubescent American girls, often with even skinnier legs. If thin is in, then Korean women are it but if curves are what shake your nerves, head east in a hurry! Again, I grew up around Italian women and the physical features that define her as a woman are her curves coming and going.

It has taken me a while to adjust my personal definitions of what is considered attractive, sexy and mature here in Korea. I am not sure I would ever adapt completely from the social and familial programming that is seated deep in this curious mind. But I am curious about what the skin feels like, I cannot lie. Koreans have the smoothest, silkiest skin on this planet. It almost doesn’t feel real. I have a friend in the states who is half Korean and I call her Silky Pants (she calls me Jerk Face for the record) and she warned about how the whole country has skin like hers. I did not believe her, I am a believer now. At times, I reflect on wanting to have a one-night stand or something similar just to touch, caress and lay next to such soft smooth skin. My Inner-Slut has a field day with these kinds of thoughts. But generally, return to my prudish ways and go about my business while trying not to gawk at an occasional woman that I cannot tell if she is twelve or twenty-eight- their bodies, faces, skin and clothes are almost identical. I blush when I realize they are a child and lower my head in shame.

The lessons and education continue for me here in Korea. I am starting to pay attention again to my surroundings knowing that my time here is limited. So the young ones will have to find another man to pet and call dog, and I will have to hold the hands of somebody else’s children with skin more course and a lot less bowing. In the mean time, Michael Dog will try to not smirk at the idea of being a man without chest and facial hairs and being a woman without curves. The programming is deep, like the center of an old Oak Tree. And like an Oak Tree, they don’t die easily.

Go Ask The Mountain

2009-05-04T11:06:00.003-04:00

Go Ask the Mountain

It’s just a simple three-kilometer hike, nothing of great proportions. I do it almost daily, well, really nightly. It is a mountain, like but not like every other mountain in Korea, with one bug except. It is the mountain I will miss when I leave here. Tang San is my best friend in Korea.

Tonight while climbing up the side by the Golden Buddha of the Temple I sit at on occasion, it occurred to me I would leave this mountain, soon. I was sad for a moment and then felt my heart twitch with joy. I have lived and learned on this mountain. I meditate every morning in my room but Tang San is where I ask the questions that I need and often do not want the answers. Tonight the question was simple while slowly stepping on the bed of fallen pine needles with the refl3tio of the almost full moon shining a light for me over the branches and stumps. “What do I need to learn to tonight about myself, us or how I can be of better service or become of better man?” A simple question.

What struck me as I came to one of the side paths which I took a left around the family trying to coax their little dog with a red light blinking around its neck is this; why do I always ask to be a better man? Why not a better person?

I passed the dog and headed toward the bench I spent Saturday afternoon in the slight drizzle on Buddha’s Birthday sitting and reflecting. It one of my favorite spots on the mountain. Yesterday late afternoon I had an energizing experience of standing Qi Gong in front of the bench while sensing the curious Koreans passing by looking at the strange Foreigner. Strange indeed but not because I was standing and meditating. Tonight I kept walking. I wanted to stay focused and present. There is something here I need to learn.

Then another question slid into my consciousness. Why do I get irritated when women speak of themselves as something separate and, therefore, special and seem totally fine with making that distinction myself? Hummm good question. Maybe someday I will have the answer. I was not able to let go of a nagging feeling in my belly. It was initially stirred yesterday afternoon during a Skype session with a friend discussing our departures from Korea. What have I done here? How is it that a mountain in a city of a half million people is my best friend? Maybe my only close friend? How did I spend this much time here and really only make a few semi-strong relationships and they were predominantly with Koreans? Why have I avoided non-Koreans with such commitment?

Well, I have done some things! I have done the rough drafts of a novel, a book of essays and memoirs and the foundation of a cultural and social book about Korea and Koreans. That is something. And I learned about non-verbal communication, especially energetic exchanges between people. I leaned that sex is not a given. Good friendships can be formed with folks I have never seen or heard online. That writing is important to me, no, essential at this point in my life. That I could fly 8,000 miles but still miss my dead family members. I still don’t have a clue about much, not a surprise. That going months between ANY physical contact with humans above grade six is challenging, very challenging. Koreans do not share physical affection with other that are not family except for women who walk with their hands or arms wrapped around each other as a matter of course. Hugging matters, even to a semi-cold distant man like myself.

Tang San is my friend. It is hard for me to visualize my experience here in Korea without my time on this mountain. Like all good friends, Tang San lets me come to my own conclusions but rarely leaves me without something new to chew on. Tonight, while reaching the base of the mountain and walking down the staircase in front of the Church with large red cross in the sky and the larger painting of Jesus n front of the building I realized where I am headed next has many mountains. They are larger and dry with little else but rock. Deserts are like that. This particular desert is without sand, just rocks, mountains and space. I will try to make friends with those mountains like I have been fortunate enough to with this one. And hopefully that will not give me the answers without forcing me to search and claw a bit first too. Tonight I was thinking of Gurdjieff while walking- a Teacher, a model and haunting face with intense expressions of locked eyes, forceful cheeks and a forehead that tells stories of many miles. I will walk some of those same miles soon enough.

In Case i thought i Knew Something

2009-04-28T11:45:00.002-04:00

I have noticed more lately than usual how often The Universe takes care of things while I am busy thinking I know how this works.

I just keep making plans and watching them recreated into something more beautiful and inspiring than I could possibly do on my own. This is comforting to a guy like me. I tend to over-think and over-analyze stuff in my head. And then bang! I walk directly into a red brick wall and find myself lost and bruised momentarily. Then without notice or warning, the whole situation shifts and the miracle of life happens, just like compost but a heck of a lot faster and smells better too.

This past weekend I was excited to participate in The Lotus Lantern Festival in Seoul. It is a festival that begins the weeklong celebration of The Buddha’s Birthday, this year being May 2nd. I made some searches on my favorite online community, The Couch Surfing Project, which I have been a member for about two years for a great host home for the weekend so I would not have to travel in and out of the city and enjoy more of the festival. In the process of this search, I met some really interesting folks who then got excited about the festival themselves. I could feel the energy building with each ‘couch’ request and response but still no ‘couch’ available. Then I received two separate offers from interesting people who seemed to be nice places to spend the weekend and share some conversation, meals and experiences together. The one that more obviously fit my mode and personality had photos of a large Golden Buddha as her picture, the other less revealing of her spiritual interests but more revealing about some other treasures in her photo. The former has been a member of the CS community for a long time, the latter just a month. All roads pointed to the former, I ended up at the latter. Thank God for this!

We had an incredible weekend together and stayed up till almost 6:00a.m. on Saturday night talking and sharing our lives, loves, struggles, gifts and gratitude for life. It was nothing short of amazing and riveting. I am certain we will be friends for life or at least a significant part of it. She reminded me that life, love and connection are so worth the risk. I was able to share with her that we survive and grow from whatever life has in store for us. Together we shared one of those opportunities that come around every now and then if we are fortunate enough that opens our eyes to why we are here and that life is so worth it.

Sitting at her simple table and somewhat swept wood floor, we dove into ourselves and each other without flinch or regret. Although I did have to pull back a few times when overly lost in her physical beauty but that is not new or surprising for me.

We enjoyed the festival together the next day with a group of her friends. We really both made a sincere effort to engage with the group but our interactions and connection from the night before were too deep and meaningful to separate yet. We needed to be still just be ‘us’ for a little longer. I appreciate that she too was able to discern this and we became a group of two within a group of eight or nine, and eventually just became a group of two before enjoying some Mexican food in Itaewon. I have not had Mexican food since the day I stepped on that plane headed west towards South Korea. I typically make Mexican food at least weekly if not several meals a week. They do not have the proper ingredients available here, so I have waited till the right opportunity while in downtown Seoul to hit one of these places. It was such a treat. I ate my Baja Burrito and her Bean Enchilada after she wore out halfway through. The fresh salsa and guacamole were not so subtle reminders of home, but not this one.

The first real flinch either of us demonstrated was when we were parting. Words often have no place in tender moments like this. Eye contact, holding of hands, kisses, hugs, slightly red eyes and gazing while trying to stay composed take care of what words are not able to do.

All because I wanted to participate in a celebration of the upcoming Buddha’s Birthday. I am grateful I do not know as much as I think I do about how this all works and that something else does. Something that must have such enjoyment in witnessing me thinking I know something. Well, I still have more brick walls to walk into, so better get my backpack on so I can follow The Trail Leader on this expedition we call life. Happy Trails and watch out for those brick walls, they can be tricky.

This is how to do it

2009-04-07T11:28:00.002-04:00

This is how to do it

“No, no, no. Michael you don’t use the lettuce to eat grilled beef, that is for pork only.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Grilled pork we eat directly from the grill.”

“Why?’

“I don’t know. It is Korean culture.”

It is those last four words that have been playing through my mind tonight and many nights lately, It is Korean culture.

What does that mean? Really, what does that mean? Stating it is the way it is because that is what we do is not an answer to a question.

Arresting Officer: “Why did you rape those poor defenseless women?”
Perpetrator: “This is what men do”.

Divorce Lawyer: “So why did you cheat on your husband of 27 years?”
Woman: “This is what women do when their men don’t pay attention to them.”

NYC Tourist: "Why will nobody help me find the Brooklyn Bridge?”
NYPD: "This is New York. If you don’t like it, get the hell out of here and go back to where you came from.”
NYC Tourist: "Why does nobody care about helping a lost visitor out?”
NYPD: "We’re Americans that’s why.”

Washington Post Reporter: "Mr. President, Why are we attacking the people of Iraq?"
George W. Bush: “Because we are the United States of America."
Washington Post Reporter: “What does that mean Sir?”
George W. Bush: "It means we are Americans. This is what we do.”

I used to live in an intentional community for a few years around the turn of the millennium. It was a vegan, environmentalist community with a small group of radical activists; I was not one of them but lived there and participated in our activities. I was labeled the community Passivist. Not pacifist, Passivist. They said I was the opposite of an activist, therefore, Passivist. But that is another story. One of the community members liked to go into town from our space on the outskirts of Hoosier National Forest on Tuesday nights to go to Tortilla Flats for Taco Tuesday- tacos for $1.00. I could usually be talked into going. I never quite got the point of a taco without cheese, but the meatless part didn’t faze me. One night while seated outside on their terrace with white iron table and chairs, we were talking about why we feel the need to identify as vegan, as opposed to just not eating meat or dairy and when we feel moved to do so, choose to eat it in special situations. She said something to me that felt very profound, “Michael, for me it is easier to just to make the decision to not eat meat or dairy products than to have make the decision before every meal. It is just easier this way. To be vegan, this is how to do it. It solves all the questions.” I think this is how most of us go through life- the this is how to do it system of life.

In Korea, this seems to be more so than most places. Koreans in general seem to embrace the notion of one way to do everything. The say hello all in the same exact tone and cadence. They say goodbye in the exact same tone and cadence. Mood, affect, relationship or environment do not matter, it is always said the same way by pretty much everybody- one tone for men and one tone for women. Done. This is how to do it. When being taught how to say hello my first day and by every single person thereafter, they all demonstrated the exact same tone and cadence for saying hello and made me practice it that exact way. Until less than ten years ago, every boy and girl in Korea had the same haircuts-one for boys and one for girls and each had their own uniforms. This is how to do it if you are a child in Korea. Done.

A friend was aware a few weeks back that it was the anniversary of my mothers passing. She asked, “Are you going to Church tonight?”

“NO. I will light a candle at home and say a prayer.”

“Can I join you?”

“Yes, I would like that. Thank you.”

Around 9:00 that night, she rings my doorbell and I open the door and she is standing there with sad expression holding a large grocery bag. “I brought you some fruit.” She hands me the bag and I look inside and there are oranges, kiwi and strawberries. She knows how much I like fruit.

“WOW. Thank you! Do you want to come in?”

“No. I can’t. It is Korean culture. Sorry.”

“Oh, OK. Well thanks for the fruit and the thought. See you tomorrow.”

“OK, hope you feel Better. See you tomorrow.” And she leaves. At another conversation she explains how she thought she would be able to join me with her sister but her sister could not come. And in Korean culture a woman cannot be in a room alone with a man that is not her husband. Done. This is how to do it. I knew this fact of Korean culture, although more rare today than twenty-five years ago, but did not think that applied to prayer and memorials but hey, it is Korean culture. Done.

Non-Korean: “Why do you not hug or have physical contact with your friends?”

Korean Native: “It is Korean culture. Why do you and your friends hug each other all the time?”

Non-Korean: “It is what we do as humans.”

Korean Native: “Really? Humm. We are human and we do not do this.”

Why do we grip so tightly to this need to have one way to do things? We are we so afraid if living without prescribed rules, mores and laws? Are we that fearful of what we are capable of? If so, do these rules really keep those dark desires and longings from being expressed? Or are they the cause of the outward expression themselves? Do Catholic girls who go away to college get pregnant so quickly because they are sheltered from the knowledge and experiences to deal with their feelings and actions or is it hidden desires that finally are expressed?

Boy: “Why do you spend an hour getting ready every day?”

Girl: "This is what girls do. Why do you play sports every day?"

Boy: "Because this is what boys do."

White Person: "Why do you talk like that?"

Black Person: "Why do you talk like that?"

Person from Culture A: “Why do you eat the skin on the apple?”

Person from Culture B: “It is where all the vitamins are and it tastes good.”

Person from Culture A: “No, the skin is bad for you, you shouldn’t eat it.

French Chef: “Why do you serve the vegetable salad after the meal?”

Italian Chef: “To help you digest your meal. Why do you serve it before the meal?”

French Chef: “To help you digest the meal.”

If there is one thing that will push me towards definitely making the decision to not renew my contract and stay another year, it is the exact phrase, It is Korean culture. It is not that the social rules or mores themselves are that troublesome for me, it is the blind obedience to living a certain way for no reason other than it is what we do. I ache every time I hear this phrase. It is what is wrong with every ‘developed’ society, this need to set life up to be a certain way with no or little room for personal or spiritual growth, guidance or direction. Love and Compassion lose out to this is how we do it. God takes a back seat to social programming and acceptance. Have we completely lost touch with our primal sense of being?

Michael: “Why do you keep giving different versions of the same example?”

Michael: “Because this is what I do. It is how I do it.” Done. This must be how to do it.

Communal Bathing

2009-02-15T08:11:00.003-05:00

Community Bathing

Naked
Bathing
Scrubbing
Shredding
Being
Seeing
Shedding
Cleansing
Together
Community
Peace
Respect
Safety
Knowing
History
Hands
Holding
Suds
Green
Hot
Tubs
Sweat
Dripping
Feet
Bare
All
Prone
Moan
Ground
Found
Dissolve
Dissipate
Remove
Renew
Re-you
Water
Salt
Pine
Wood
Steam
Breathe
Release
Men
One

one year: 2.14.2009

2009-02-15T07:50:00.004-05:00

One Year: 2.14.09

It was a snowy day in the mountains of southwest North Carolina. I had worked there as caretaker for only two months. I lasted longer than I thought. I had not been so abused and disrespected in my life as during those two months. I had finally had enough. I told the owner of the Glen Choga Lodge I was leaving. I packed up my van in the snow. He said, “Why don’t you stay the night since it is snowing so badly, and leave in the morning.”

I was tired and miserable but my gut said, in the infamous words of Eddie Murphy, “Tiptoe the fuck out!” But I felt bad for the old man; he was sick and I knew I was leaving him in a bad way. To show respect to the old jerk I decided to stay the night, “OK, I’ll leave in the morning.” I stayed the night, slept a little late in the morning and when I made it to the kitchen to heat up a cup of tea on the wood-burning stove, I saw the envelope with my name on it “Michael”. I opened it and read the check he made out to me, five hundred bucks short! I waited till he came out and before I could day a word, “I reckon you should make yourself scarce and get on out of here. You are not welcome here any more.”

“But what about my pay? This is off by $500!”

“I’ll get it to you at the end of the month, now get on out of here!”

“I want my money! I will not leave without my money!”

He made a call to the closest police department, Andrews Township about twenty-five minutes away. I heard him say to the officer on the phone, “Persona non grata”. My Spanish is weak but I knew what that meant. They arrived about thirty minutes later and we both told our sides of the story. I was escorted off the property minus $500 by the two officers. It was a Tuesday late afternoon when my van winded around the mountains toward Asheville. Everybody I met since the day I arrived in North Carolina told me, “You should go to Asheville, you will love it there. Lots of people just like you.” I had no plan, so Asheville would work for the next few days until I start heading north towards New Jersey, my default setting.

I spent a week in Asheville and felt insulted when I left that everybody thought I was just like them; they were a bunch of pseudo-hippies playing spiritual New Age gurus. I ran for cover and headed towards Boone, another place I was supposed to love. I did. When I left Boone, a few days later, I directed the van east towards the ocean thinking I would head north from there. Little did I know that the next five months were going to spent living and traveling out of my van, up and down the east coast of the USA. I learned a lot and experienced all kinds of stuff; some of which I would prefer to leave behind and did. Along the way, I met and became friends with some incredible people. Some of them have become Reiki students and I had the opportunity to share Reiki with many folks. I guess Virginia and North Carolina are not Reiki hot spots.

In those five months, I was fortunate to receive teachings from several great teachers. Two of them being Grandmaster T.K. Shih in Danbury, Connecticut and Tenzin Wangyal Rinpoche in Charlottesville, Virginia. I slept in more than twenty-five different homes during this period, mostly arranged through The Couchsurfing Project. I happened to spend a great deal of time around university campuses and the students. The adolescent slut in me seemed to attract many sweet young things into my life to confuse and bewilder me; it worked. I managed to somehow not have sex with any of them. There is one that I regret that decision but that is another story that I won’t tell.

I was applying for jobs at Princeton and other universities along the east coast with varied responses and interest. I am not sure how, but I ended up on some kind of recruiters list for international work since I applied for a project in Liberia. I didn’t get the project in Liberia but was offered a position teaching English in South Korea. I said yes without much thought, maybe an hour or so. They called me a couple of days later, “Michael, if we paid you an extra 600,000 won per month, paid for your plane fare here and sent you to Japan to complete your work visa, would you come in two weeks instead of two months from now?” I thought about this for nearly two minutes, “Sure, I think I can do that.” Twelve days later with all my stuff stored and legal stuff rushed through, I was on a flight to Seoul-Incheon International Airport. I made it to my new room after 1:00am and unpacked most of my stuff, shaved and showered with cold water since I could not figure out how to turn on the hot water and went to bed after 3:300am to rest before starting work in the morning. That was July 16th, more than six months ago.

I get to bow many times every day now. I get to spend at least one chunk of time weekly at the local Jimjilbang, my other favorite thing about Korea next to bowing. I got involved in NaNoWriMo and wrote the bulk of a novel in one-month totaling over 55,000 words in November, and another 20,000 in December. And no, I had never written a novel or fiction before. I still have trouble identifying myself as a writer but besides teaching, sleeping, Reiki and meditation; I invest more of my time and creative energy into writing than anything else. I guess that makes me a writer? Or lacking in diverse activities.

I remember crying on my cell phone driving the mountains of western North Carolina talking to a friend with both joy and sadness about my episode at the lodge earlier that day. It was Valentines Day and I was a mess. In spite of myself, things have worked out better than I possibly could have dreamt up in a fantasy novel about a mysterious man traveler who ends up teaching English to Korean elementary kids while facilitating Reiki trainings on Skype with folks from three continents. I am glad that the powers that control the Universe have a more fruitful plan for my life than I do. If left to me, I am fairly certain I would still be sleeping in the homes of American college girls half-naked for the rest of my life, or till arrested for some awful act of disrespect on the soul and body of one of my hosts.

One year, twelve months and a pile of days, memories and miles. And who was it that said there is no God?

jimjilbang

2009-01-19T10:08:00.002-05:00

Jimjilbang

Lying on my back I feel the salt crystal rocks settle below me. It is like being on the beach, the way sand will embrace your body no matter what your body is like. I feel the bottom of my back scream with elation at the support that it desperately desires being answered. My hand are sweating, I pick up a crystal or two and roll them around between my thumb and fingers slowly. It brings me back to the beach again. And why not? It I shot in here, real hot. Maybe hooter than any beach I ever laid my body on. Dry heat. The kind that forces all unwanted or unneeded thoughts and toxins out of the body. I can feel every body open, free to breath. I breath, deeply. I ask for Reiki to flow through my body and wait for it to begin its flow, or maybe it was already flowing and I was just now acknowledging it. Breath, slowly and full. I allow the salt air to fill my lungs and belly. Cleaning. I feel the cleansing inside and I and people like me need plenty of cleansing. It could be a full time job. In fact, there was a time it was my full-time job. But these days I have an external full-time job so the need for cleanser is greater, much greater. I enjoy the sensation of the sweat dripping down the sides of my face and it is proof of the cleansing. Evidence. I tend to make thing up in my head so evidence it always helpful. The cleansing continues. There is a handful of other sin the slat crystal room, all enjoying their own version of the same process. We are together but doing it singularly, but I am conscious of their presence, of community. Salt, heat and sweat go way back, back before we had words like salt, heat and sweat. I like experiencing this kind of community in silence.

Once when participating in a retreat at the Abbey Gethsemane where Thomas Merton lived and wrote, I remember reading a little folded white standing card:
“silence is spoken here”. Is there a greater way to experience community than in silence?

Time is bending and I get up after about twenty minutes or maybe three or fifty, and make my way out. My face is red; I can feel its redness. It is clean; I can feel its cleanness. My body is soft, I can feel its comfort as my arms dangle as I open the door and leave. I am brought back to the fact that I am in a public place with hundreds of people at the local Jimjilbang, a Korean bathhouse. I love these places! Jimjilbang and bowing are my two favorite aspects of Korean life. I have been to a couple of Jimjilbang and each time my experience has risen above the previous. I feel at home here dripping with sweat amongst people I do not know and cannot orally communicate with. There are families, couples and friends resting, talking, reading and sleeping in the large main room. It is warm in here but not like the Korean versions of a sauna. The salt crystal rock rooms are one of my favorites. They are always my first stop. If for no other reason, I stop there first to seat ad to mold my body to the crystals and rest till I separate myself from the me that is not me that I walk around pretending to be all day, every day. I am simple here, very simple. Heat, sweat, silence, breath and water.

While walking around the main area to allow my body to regulate a little, I decide it is time to venture to my other favorite room. I do not actually know what it is called. It is a room shaped like a dome with part of the walls pine, which I live the smell of, and part id bamboo think. We lie on the floor or lean against wooden plank to prop yourself against the wall. If lying down, we lie on a sack made of canvas or burlap or something like that. It is comfortable but not as much as the crystals nestled in the back in butt. I start on my back for a short period. This room is always significantly hotter, much like the heat of a cranked up sweat lodge in the middle of summer. A specific one comes to mind near Charlottesville, Virginia, USA this past summer where I had an incredibly forceful experience with a bunch of recent college graduates I just met and camped, ate, sweat and did Reiki together. Sweat lodges are typically naked, Jimjilbang every body is given cotton shorts and t-shorts that are strong and comfortable. Five minutes later I sit up, legs crossed and do some basic meditation leaning against the wooden plank. I notice others are seated differently but I continue being different because I an doing what I need to be doing for right now. I breathe heavy an deep. I pray for those in the room with me and thank them for being here. I feel our connection with my eyes closed and glasses hanging for the collar of my shirt. I sweat more and more. Peace. Love. Sharing. Two young ladies enter together. There is only one wooden plank to lean against which is directly to my left. They sit, one on the plan and one in front of her sitting crossed legged. It tales a minute for me to respond but I motion for her to take my spot and I slide over slowly to an open space against the wall. I am again reminded of that sweat in Virginia. I decide in need to write stefin and graham and tell them I miss them, love them and am grateful our paths crossed for a short but profound four days. Love can do that to us, at least me. More softness while totally grounded and present. I soak it in and feel my breathing start tot strain from the heat. No reason to stay to stroke my ego. I exit through the door that looks just like and oven door from the outside. The water fountain is right next to the door outside in the main room again. I allow a woman with her head wrapped in a towel go ahead of me, she is sweating profusely and looks as if she needs it more than me. She does not smile. I drink my water and walk towards door number three, no numbers do not label them. They have writing outside in Hangeul, which I cannot understand, yet.

It is the room that I think is referred to as the “kiln”. It is not as hot as the other but I have been to another Jimjilbang that has three:”kilns” with varying degrees of heat. I do not remember much about the room except it is a semi-dome with little sacks full of herbs hanging above your head. The strength of the herbs that enters my nose and throat make me a tad dizzy but still grounded. I stay just a few minutes, done with heat for tonight. I leave and reflect on what to do next; stay and reads in the main room, spend a few minutes in the ice room, shower, leave for home, take a nap or head to the gender-segregated Korean communal hot bathtubs. I decide to brave it and go to the ice room. I enter the double sliding glass door and see this one is not like some of the others that have more than a foot of ice on the walls and ceiling. It is just cold, real cold for bare feet and shorts. It feels like such a relief and balance from the heat. A little girl comes in to sit next to “the foreigner”. She smiles sweetly and somehow lets me know she likes me being there. I try to do the same for her. Our exchange is complete in two minutes and she leaves to join her little brother outside to watch “the foreigner”. When cooled enough, I leave and head down towards the men’s area still not sure what is next of the list above.

I go for it and join the naked Korean men and boys in the baths. They are all smooth-skinned and bare of nay body hair except their head and pubic. I am a bear. I have more hair the city of Cheonan. I slide into the mini pool and observe a young boy startled as he looks at me. I am self-conscious for a brief moment but choose to stay present on my experience. It is nice but not thrilling for me right now. I get out and enter the room that is similar to a steam room with little cement mounted “stools” to sit on. There is one man in there already completely absorbed in his experience. I do the same. A few minutes and done. Ready for a shower and to walk home. This all costed the equivalent of $8.00. I walk home totally satisfied, renewed and breathing in the winter night air. It is near midnight on Saturday night and I am happy. I feel alive and part of the world. I exist and I count. This is why I go to the Jimjilbang. Maybe I will sleep there next time. And there will be a next time, and another after that.

Like a Korean Virgin

2009-01-09T11:30:00.002-05:00

Like a Korean Virgin

I am sitting at my MacBook listening to the Buddhist Television Network in the background with volume at #1 about to dive into an area that baffles. Being baffled is not a new or unexpected state for me, just one that well, baffles me.

As I have begun to form friendships and relationships here in Korea, an added benefit is direct sources of information that I would not be able to access otherwise. This reflection comes from one of those opportunities. My ‘informant’, who will remain nameless for obvious reasons, has no reason to lie or distort the truth. She is trying to help me understand her culture as best she can. I am grateful for her trust, respect and willingness to aid me in my continual process of learning. These days, the ‘textbook’ I am studying is about male-female relationships, sex, gender roles, norms and expectations. I say ‘these days’ to make myself feel like it will someday be something different.

Today I had the pleasure of penetrating the topic of virginity and sexual activity in Korea. I was flat out bowled over by what seemed obvious to my informant but oblivious to me. I appreciate her patience in this department since it took several restating of questions and answers to make certain I heard, understood and swallowed the information correctly. I also need to add that any conversation that includes sex, virginity and prostitution as its main focal points will both maintain and distract me continuously.

“So, I have been thinking about what you said yesterday about the whole women leaving the door open or not be allowed in a man’s room or apartment thing. It really has caught my attention since it is so far removed from American culture and norms. My question is; if men and women are not allowed to be in a room together alone before marriage then do they not have sex?”

“No, they don’t.”

“They’re virgins till marriage?”

“Yes. Most Koreans do not have sex before marriage.”

“Both men and women?”

“Yes. But more women are virgins than men.”

“How is that possible? Don’t the men have sex with women to not be virgins?”

“You know how in Korea all men have to serve in the military?” I nod my head. “Their senior and junior officers take them to get sex for pay. It is a regular part of what happens when boys go to the military. Many say they have not done it but we all know they have.”

“So prostitution is how most boys lose the virginity?”

“Yes. It is very normal in Korea. Most girls do not have sex before marriage. If they get married and the girl has already had sex with a man, they will get separated immediately.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Most men will not marry a women who is not a virgin.”

“Really?” For a guy who talks as much as I do, my vocabulary as an English teacher was becoming very limited to just one word; Really? “It is like Muslim culture?”

“Michael, it is Korean culture.” I am beginning to find out that the answer to anything that Koreans feel insecure or embarrassed about is; “It is Korean culture”.

I was about to say ‘Really?’ one more time but thought about it and tried some new words. “So you are telling me that women that are between 25-35 years old and not married are virgins?”

“Yes. It is very normal in Korea.”

“And boys that do not have sex with a prostitute in the military are also virgins till marriage?”

“Yes but many of them lie about it.”

“What percentage of high school students has sex before college?”

“High school students having sex?” She is now the one who is sounding like I was speaking a foreign language(OK, so I am, but you know what I mean!) . It was like she did not understand the question or it was a quantum physics equation.

“Yes. In America, it is very common for high school students to have sex before they graduate high school. In fact, most of them have more sexual partners in high school than I have had in my whole life.”

“Really?” See what a good English teacher I am? In a matter of minutes I have Koreans mimicking my phrases like natives.

“Yes. It is one of the reasons me and some of my friends that work with youth for a living do not want to work in high schools any more. The girls are too aggressive and we get accused of things that didn’t even happen.”

“Do you lose your jobs if that happens? If a teacher or counselor has sex with a high school girl, who gets fired?”

“The man! He loses his job, never can work with youth again and usually goes to jail for many years, sometimes even twenty-five years.”

“Really?”

“Yes. In 1997 I was accused of trying to have sex with a high school girl that was in a program I used to coordinate and I almost was arrested and prosecuted and I never even touched her beyond the way I would touch any boy or girl.”

“Really? So you can’t be a counselor any more in America?”

“I can. There was a lot of support for me and things were sort-of resolved without any legal or professional consequences but I resigned from my job because all the girls thought I was some kind of a sexual molester and I knew I could not do my job effectively any more. It was more about rumors and gossip than legal or professional. Girls were afraid to be alone with me after that.”

“Did you ever talk with her about it?”

“Yes. She said she did it because she didn’t want to be on the camping trip any more and thought by accusing me of trying to have sex with her, we would go home. Unfortunately for her, that did not happen and I almost lost my freedom and went to jail. I asked her about three years later when hired by the University of Cincinnati to conduct research on the effectiveness of the program. She said she didn’t even remember the situation. It meant that little to her.”

“You are lucky michael.”

“It didn’t feel that way at the time though. So this doesn't happen here in Korea?”

“No.”

“Out of 100 kids in high school, how many have had sex?”

“They don’t.”

“Less than ten percent”

“Yes, maybe.”

“And of adult women, how many do you think are still virgins before marriage? More then fifty percent?”

“Yes.”

“More than seventy percent?”

“I do not know exactly but more are virgins than not.”

“So a couple together for several years not married would never have been alone with a door closed or had sex?”

“Yes it is very normal in Korea.”

“Is this true for Japan and China too?” I asked this as a way to validate her statements and just in case what I had heard was completely untrue.

“No, just Korea.” She laughs for the first time. I am not sure if it was because she thought it was funny or she felt uncomfortable.

“I didn’t think so but figured I would ask.”

At this point, we both had to go. I was experiencing many different emotions including confusion, bewilderment, surprise, disappointment, erotic thoughts about having sex with a gorgeous thirty year old Korean virgin and a pinch of anger. I was bothered by all this- what it says about Korean culture, American culture, men, women, social norms and programming, and just plain old judgmental thoughts in my head.

It is now past midnight and this has taken up a large chunk of my mental process the rest of the day today. I was looking forward for the opportunity to write about this to get it out and have a chance to process it. I do not think it has achieved what I had hoped for. I still feel confused, disturbed and turned on by the fantasies in my head of these hot, adult Korean women in high heels, very short skirts that are virgins, real virgins. It is not necessarily a healthy set of emotions but the ones that I am experiencing at the moment. Tomorrow that may change, maybe not.

I can’t help but wonder who is the oppressed culture; Korean or American? At first glance through American lens, it appears that the Koreans, especially women are the oppressed people in these cultural, sexual norms. But I am flinching to say that I am sold on that to be true. The idea of not having any sexual pressure or expectations seems somehow very liberating and freeing for both men and women. If you already know you are not going to have sex with someone before marriage, it really clears so many things up right then and there. What freedom we would experience to be able to love and learn about each other with sex not even a concern now or the immediate future. Not even a discussion topic, nothing, nada, zilch. A complete non-factor in a relationship. Friendship and companion really are why you are together, not just what we say to cover up what we may be truly experiencing inside but playing the waiting game to appear evolved.

Who are the oppressed and who are the free? The virgins or the double-digit sex partners?

Either way, my Korean education continues. As a side note, I am starting to learn some basic Hangeul and it feels good!

Not with the Door Open Young Man

2009-01-07T08:46:00.002-05:00

I was having a conversation with a female Korean friend over lunch the yesterday. We shared some brown rice that I over steamed, Kuk (light soup) and several Panchan (side dishes). I thought this an excellent opportunity to dig into some social questions I had in my ‘whenever I get a chance’ section of the brain waiting for a willing informant on Korean culture. I was ready to seize the moment like the shark I can be at times.

But first we had some business to discuss. I was meeting a mutual person few know for language exchange later on that evening and needed to work out the details since she does translating via phone for us sometimes. Like most folks learning a foreign language, my exchange partner does better in person with understanding me where she can utilize facial expressions, energy, hand signals and lip reading to aid her comprehension of words and phrases. My friend asked, “Where do you want to meet her tonight, that same coffee shop you went to before you went to Malaysia again? You both liked it there.” We did, but caffeine at night is not something that is supportive of positive circadian rhythms for folks like me. So, with ignorance and naiveté as my guides I asked what I thought to be a reasonable question, “What about my apartment? I do not have a good table for us to work on but the floor would be fine.”

“No michael, she cannot do that.”

Wanting more information and an explanation, Curious George became my next guide into ignorance, “Why not?” Simple, direct and to the point.

“Michael, in Korean culture, a woman cannot be in a man’s apartment or room unless they are married or there is another woman present.”

Stunned and a little embarrassed, I proceeded with clarification to make certain I didn’t get things lost in translation, “You mean that you or her can never come to my place for dinner, to watch TV or drink tea without the other one present?” I was hopeful there was a communication problem.

“No. The only way is if we leave the door completely open so that your neighbors can see in.”

“You are kidding right?” Still hopeful but starting to fade.

“No, I am not kidding Michael! Korean women cannot go to a man’s room or he cannot come into ours until we are married.”

“So your boyfriend has never been to your room?” Reaching now, knowing they have been best friends for seven years and a couple for the last year.

“No.” I gulp and try not to let the Kimchi in my mouth choke me. I succeeded at that endeavor but am struggling to swallow with the deeper one.

“Really?” I had nothing else.

“Michael. We can’t be seen with a man on the floor of his room or on the couch without another woman present unless we leave the door open. People will think something is happening. And it is also for the girl’s safety too. Bad things happen to girls when they are left alone with guys with the door shut.” She hesitates reflectively, “Do women do this in America?”

I am able to answer without laughing at her, Koreans or American values and boundaries or the lack of them. I silently reflect on how many different women’s couches and assorted other sleeping arrangements I have been offered and accepted through The CouchSurfing Project in the last year. “Yes, all the time. It is very common now for men and women to even share apartments together as friends. We hang out together at each other’s places all the time and it is not a big thing for a guy or girl to just crash at the friend’s home if they are too tired to go home or something. It is very normal in America. I know that some married women will not be alone with a man that is not their husband down South but I think that is even becoming rare these days.”

“Really?” Her face looked like she just saw a ghost, maybe two.

“Is this about rumors and gossip?”

“Yes, a lot if it is about rumors and gossip. If people say the wrong things about a girl she may not be able to get married.” My turn to wear the ‘I just saw a ghost or two look’.

We finished lunch with more digestible topics like children, English, Hangeul and Kimchi. But is stuck with me all day! At night, after our language exchange session at the coffee shop, I asked my language partner who does not command the English language as well at this point about this conversation. It took nearly five tries to communicate the content enough for her to understand. Her reply put this whole thing to bed for me, errr, maybe not a good choice of words. “No Michael. A woman cannot do that Michael. I do not know why but it is never allowed.”

“So you or her will never be able to come to my place across the street from both of you and eat dinner or watch a movie with me and talk? Ever?”

“No Michael. I am sorry but we cannot do that. It is Korean culture. I do not know why but it is this way Michael.”

I shared with her the part of my earlier discussion about safety and gossip. “Yes, that must be why Michael.”

“This makes me sad.” I stopped there.

I am still sad a day later. Partially since I cannot hang out with my friends individually and I for the most part, do not like crowds larger than two people. That is the self-centered sadness. The greater ache is that of social norms that prevent love, friendship and relationships based on gossip and perceived or potential safety hazards. Have we not gotten past some of this yet? How can a college professor still not be able to keep male friendships and maintain her social and professional status? AAAHHHHHHH!

I am sad, very sad. I was happier standing in my cultural bliss of ignorance less than thirty-six hours ago.

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

2009-01-05T10:29:00.003-05:00

Malaysian Street Women or How Michael Again Proves his Cluelessness

I was out walking through downtown Georgetown on Penang Island in Malaysia. I had spent part of the afternoon in Batu Ferringhi on the beach. I was ready for some dinner after a semi-clean shower that at least was successful in cooling me off from the almost ninety degree day on December 29th. I left Night and Day Guesthouse an turned right towards Penang Avenue where I could find something interesting to eat. What with so many choices of Indian, Thai, Malay, Chinese and combination of all of the above, how could I go wrong right?

Well, I am Michael and there is always the distinct possibility of me taking a simple task and finding away to turn it into something, clears throat, ‘interesting’. This night was not except to that rule that I seem to live by.

I turned right at the street just before Penang Avenue and started towards the huge Malaysian version if a food court. In Malaysia, they have these large sometimes covered, sometimes not areas with table and chairs outdoors where you just roam around the squared off section and choose different foods from around the world prepared fresh and VERY CHEAPLY of anything from satay chicken on a stick to nasi (rice) with anything you want on it to Mee (yellow noodles in a bowl with chicken broth) covered with your favorite sauces, gravy, meats or vegetables. All the vendors are privately owned and operated by real people who eat what they cook for you too. Yo can eat three main courses from equal the amount of cultures all for about $5.00. I was just about to reach the entrance to this particular food court taking in the combination of curry, garlic and fish when an attractive and normally dressed young woman walks over and says “Hi” to me. She seemed friendly so I stopped and said, “hello” back to her. She had brown hair, about 5’ 5” tall average weight and a pretty but not extremely noticeable face. I believe she was Malay. She would look normal on line at the bank, grocery store or the food court. She had no heavy make-up or jewelry, no tight pants or deep cleavage. Just a regular girl in her twenties who while we were exchanging “hellos” she casually reached over and gently started rubbing my penis! Just like that! It took my about a minute to collect myself and reel in my now ecstatic hormones to excuse myself and start walking away while she was following me. I escaped by walking through the cemetery across the street without her following me. It is amazing how the potential threat of a ghost haunting a person can be a source of safety in certain situations.

I ate a nice dinner at an inside Indian restaurant and found myself very attracted to everything that did not come into this world with a penis. My senses were on high alert. The Tandoori Chicken and garlic Naan were delicious. I left feeling satiated at least food-wise. Time for a nice walk around downtown at night before I meet up with my friend Happy.

As I walked with increased sensitivity, I noticed there were certain women ‘stationed’ along the way. Growing up outside NYC I do have that kind of perception, if not slowed by distance and lack of interaction with that world. There was this very interesting and attractive in a late night B mo vie kind of way dark skinned Indian woman who had dyed part of her hair with crimson streaks. I’d by lying if I did not admit to more than passing acknowledgment. She was wearing simple clothes but her eyes were wild, very wild. Like cover of a romance novel type wild. Then there was the Malay woman in her late twenties, maybe early thirties wearing a nice red and yellow traditional Malay blouse with jeans. She was soft and gentle looking. She does not have any of that rough, beaten-down and beaten-up, used and abused look of NYC street women. I could see her passing the ‘mom test’ if I wanted to take her home for approval. She had these nice warm, caring eyes and her voice was equally as soft. The clue was her saying “Hi” to me three times and looking me up and down the third time. I flinched and scampered away.

I met up with my friend Happy later on and it turned out his car was parked directly in front of the dark-skinned Indian woman with the crimson striped hair. She approached us and then actually just opened the back door to the car and started to sit down, as if invited and welcome! Happy spoke to her in Malay and hew got out slowly. He turned the car on while telling me, “She is on drugs.” Little does he know how easily that part was for me to identify. She then opened the back door again and this time sat with confidence while he was forcefully telling her to get out. At this point she started shutting the door like she was here to stay. He became more forceful and louder; she hesitated but eventually stood half in and half out. I told him to pull away and he did and she got out without closing the door. Happy and I talked along the way about her, and street women.

I still have the impression that these women and their lack of outwardly distinctive presentation of self are so different than their American counterparts. I have to say; it made me cautious when interacting with women the rest of the trip. Not to the point where I felt inhibited, just mindful. This is such a stark contrast to living in Korea where I do not believe I have seen one prostitute in my about to be half year here.

In case I had somehow convinced myself that I have reached any level of higher knowledge or wisdom, my experiences observing and unintentionally interacting with these women has cleared up any false sense of spiritual development or enlightenment. The Teachings come in all shapes and forms. I am fortunate for the education in spite of myself.

Covered: A letter to two spiritual companions

2009-01-05T09:14:00.003-05:00

January 3, 2009

Dear B. and M. M.;

It came to me in meditation this morning to share with you some reflections and experiences I had on a trip I just returned from Malaysia on Friday. It may be quite long, so I invite you to read it when you have the time and a cup of hot tea.

When I was making arrangements to go to Kuala Lumpur and Penang, I was struggling with eh idea that I was going on a vacation to a tropical country. As you both know, we do not do vacations. But I had this strong sense I needed to do this. I told myself that it was to get healthy since I have been struggling with three separate colds since the weather has changed here in Korea. I needed something to justify my journey.

Upon arrival in KL, I was immediately struck by the Islamic influence everywhere. Women covered in robes with hoods and men often wearing caps. They looked so clear and focused. When I looked into their eyes respectfully, they were clear, focused and present. When passing women on the street, they avoided eye contact with all men and me. A statement of which surprised and humbled me. I veer my eyes towards too many women lustfully and pay a price for doing=g so.

The first time I was passing a Mosque, it was right after the call for Prayer. There were many Muslim men and women focused onto entering the Mosque on time and in the state of mind. It reminded me of the Cabbalistic Chassidim I have observed with the same intensity and focus. Their clothes were distinctly different from what they wear during the rest of their daily life. The men wore robes or clean white cotton pants with either white or a soft tan top. Everything looked so clean and cared for; sacred. The women wore dresses or robes and their colors were a little more diverse but still simple. The simplicity and focus left me feeling somehow out of place in my shorts and t-shirt as a not so casual observer. Knowing that they were sweeping floors, cleaning dishes, nursing children, cooking food, selling products and laughing with friends and family minutes before in their street clothes reached a part of me I do not let touched often. They are doing it, really doing it. The balance between sacred and mundane was evident in every movement and step. I wanted to watch them in prayer but felt like that was not Ok although their were others doing so, and the sign said it was permitted. Not for me though. I was however given inner permission to walk around the grounds and sit on another occasion on a white cement bench about fifty feet away. I experienced a need to wear robes, and head coverings like they do. I am aware this can be done energetically but the physical covering seems to help hold the energy and intention. I am sense we can do this through Reiki as well.

My limited real life exposure to Islamic culture and living had previously been from friends, acquaintances, Muslim literature class and the Teachers that have been given to me like Rumi, Attar, Jami, El-Ghaazzali and Hadrat Ali. They visit me in my dreams and in meditation. I have never walked with them in their lives and communities to witness sacred community like I did in Malaysia. There were Mosques separated by culture- Malay and Indian, and those were common and shared by all. I was fortunate to be walking in between two of them on New Years Eve during Call to Prayer. It was powerful I=t of feel the Call in my bones and belly so deeply. I did not know what they were saying but definitely felt what they were offering.

My experiences amongst these Muslim peoples were humbling. I remember having a somewhat similar commitment and dedication just a few years ago. I have swerved sometimes far and not so far from this place to stand ad miss it. Seeing it so commonly and without fanfare or ego was embarrassing and inspiring. I have received Teachings for the Sufis but had never really felt the Presence in the lineage of the Islamic Teachers till now. I am now connected tot hem in a way that was foreign or ignored. It is not that I will now become Muslim or start following Islamic practices. It is more about the intention, commitment and dedication that are what is with me at hoe in Korea. I need to be doing this stuff the way that I made the commitments to do when I came in tot his life. This just getting by business needs to end. Time to step up and stand the way I have been trained and allow the Higher Self to be in charge again. My sense is that the forgiveness will come through renewed commitment and focus. The attention to detail that these focus practiced was also humbling and created a pinch of shame inside me. I know better than to be so involved I the world as I have been and will continue to be until I give up the need to stroke and stimulate the ego. That is my part. That is what I am responsible for.

On a personal note, the people and food in Malaysia was excellent. I was treated kindly, respectfully by the Malay, Chinese and Indian people alike. The food was incredible and very inexpensive. I am grateful to be home but already miss being there. I hope this message was not too long but felt moved to write it and share it with the two if you, and maybe others as well.

Peace and love,
michael

Who are these women and what are they doing on my TV screen?

2009-01-05T09:08:00.004-05:00

Who are these women and why are they on my TV screen?

I have been putting off writing this piece for almost six months now. Wow has it really been six months since I landed here in Korea? Almost.

I have struggled with observing the way Korean TV portrays women in commercials. They remind me of the stuff that was on TV in the states in the fifties and early sixties when women were dressed in expensive, perfect clothes to vacuum their living rooms with the hair perfectly set in a bun, make-up that most models would drool over and smiling from ear to ear like they are being romanced by Antonio Banderas AND Sean Connery on a solo vacation in Madrid. They all have that glazed over I love being a dutiful housewife look. It just grosses me out sometimes. I kept thinking at some point I would find some kind of acceptance or something but I have become even more intolerant as time has gone by. I didn’t want to write this from such a judgmental, insensitive perspective but tonight it ached to see a woman smiling in her perfectly clean soft white cotton dress, skin without a blemish, hair that does not move, smiling orgasmically at the exterminator killing the cockroaches behind the fridgerator while her two angelic children stand on each side of her with arms around each either. Eeeeeeww! Somehow I found the cockroaches more acceptable than the woman herself. Who would want to marry such a woman?

This is the standard portrayal of the Korean woman on TV commercials; The Stepford Wives meet Kim Eun Cheong (not a real name). They have other life or aspirations but a clean house, cute children, happy husband and a perfect smile that has no color or expression of Self. They live a martyr’s life in their kitchen and laundry room dressed in their white cotton and silk dresses that appear to have never been breathed on precious to that moment. Men are rarely present in TV commercials, it is strange their lack of visibility. Was June Cleaver even this perfect? At least Carol Brady had a housekeeper when looking like she had never touched a dish, mud stain or a child’s vomit. We could count on Olivia Walton to be dirty, you know live up there on Blue Ridge Mountain with all that survival stuff going on before they went to bed at night with their absurd goodnight ritual:
“Ben: Goodnight Mama.
Olivia: Goodnight Ben. Goodnight Jim Bob.
Jim Bob: 'Night Mama, 'night Erin.
Erin: 'Night Jim Bob, 'night Grandpa.
Grandpa: 'Night Erin, goodnight Jason.
Jason: Goodnight Grandpa, goodnight Daddy.
John: Goodnight Jason, goodnight Elizabeth.
Elizabeth: Goodnight Daddy. Goodnight John-Boy.
John-Boy is standing outside listening to the voices. He answers quietly: Goodnight everybody, - I love you.”

The thing that irks me the most about these commercials is the fact that for the most part, Korean moms are simple, grounded and wonderfully imperfect people. It is what I like most about them; they are regular folks who do their best dressed in clothes that make sense for the tasks of their day. They bare no resemblance to these women who have a post-sex contentment over their Hauzen washer’s tiny bubbles filling their home to the ceiling with bubbles. It would make more sense in the states where moms often wear make-up, fix their hair and change their clothes five times a day to look good for the other mother's who live down the street and pick up their children after soccer practice but this is Korea and moms really are not like that here.

Why does this still exist in 2009?
Who buys into this crap?

I only have thing left to say:
“Good night Jim Bob.”

Dryer

2008-12-14T08:37:00.002-05:00

When I first walked through Ssang-yongdong in mid-July, I noticed clothing racks in windows from the apartments of the higher levels of these large white cement buildings. I recall thinking; “I think that is so cool that folks don’t use their dryers during the summer to save electricity. What a great conservationist lifestyle.” That was until I made my way into a few different apartments and observed that they do not have dryers. Hummm. Interesting how some of the buildings actually support the environment like this. My small building is one of them. We have a washer on each floor that is used by about six or seven tenants each.

By late summer, I was getting the feeling that it was not just a building specific thing to not have dryers. So, being Curious George, the next time I went to E-Mart and Lotte Mart; I looked briefly at the major appliances to see if they actually sold dryers. They do. BUT, there are about ten washers to one dryer available for purchase.

See, in Korea, apartments are made with this little area of whatever width the apartment is as an extension of the living room or studio that is closest to the window for placing your clothes on a dryer rack to dry. They do not use clothes dryers. Really. They do not use clothes dryers. They wash their clothes in these really cool efficient washers that look more like a huge bucket than a washer. It has small agitators, and no, I am not talking about George Bush or his friends, I mean the little fins that protrude from the base of the washer to help shake things up. Everything about the technology and design is simple, very simple. In fact, there is a button that you can push and the washer will shake for about ten seconds to determine which water level is necessary and what cycle it will run at. It then displays how long it will take on a red LED and begins it’s filling of the machine with water. One does not have to figure anything out, the machine does it all for you. If you are one of those controlling types that need to fuss and be in charge of everything in your life, there are buttons for you to set the cycles and water level yourself. Otherwise, push the red button and come back in 50 minutes to empty your clothes out of the washer to bring your damp clothes to your little ‘balcony’ to dry. Done. Minimal natural resources are used and simple, real simple. Korean technology is aimed at simplicity. American technology is aimed at lack of simplicity, the more you spend, the more buttons and gadgets there are to operate and repair when they break. Simplicity.

My space does not have one of those little ‘balconies’. I have had to get a little more creative. I hang a clothesline across my space when I need to dry clothes and hang shorts and pants on little hooks that are stuck to the ceiling for other stuff. Big things I hang outside my large south-facing window to dry quicker. I love it! It so much fun each time figuring how to find a way to get everything dry without interfering with my life. I have not bought a drying rack yet; I don't like them or the way the look. So, being an American, I have found a way to take technology that simplifies and complicate it. Thank God shoelaces do not have any electrical appliances for me to complicate. More importantly, I have found a way to leave the world of “I need my clothes dry now!” to “My clothes will be dry when they dry” and get added moisture in my room during winter nights as a bonus. I started not using dryers for the most part about a decade ago. I am glad that the option has been taken from me completely.

What would your life look like without a dryer?

My First Korean Language Lesson

2008-12-04T11:05:00.003-05:00

I was a little nervous meeting with my co-teacher’s sister for the first time. Actually, I was nervous about her meeting with me for the first time. My co-teacher, Miji, in English, Ashley, has told me that her sister is “scary” (scared) about meeting me since she is shy about speaking in English to foreigners. I was conscious of bringing out my gentle self, not the bulldog that typically steps, rolls and tramples over everything in its path.

“Hello Michael, This is my sister Christina.” Looks at sister with excitement, “This is Michael.”

“Hi Christina, what a nice name!”

“Oh, uh, Hi.”

That was out beginning. I did not expect much more based on the foreshadowing by said sister. We hemmed and hawed about where to sit and talk and ended up at the KTX high-speed train station about two kilometers away for reasons I am not sure I could find a way to make sense of in written word. We sat down in the Dunkin Donuts in the far left corner away from all other humans. I let her choose the table and seating arrangements to support her lack of comfort. I sipped on my mocha latte and she sipped on whatever hot coffee beverage she ordered plus the green tea rice cake that was brought to the table about three minutes of anxious non-conversation later. I think to myself, OK if this is going to happen, I need to take the leap and just start asking her questions. I wanted to offer her the opportunity to demonstrate to herself she can do the language sharing that her sister set up for us. Her sister was sitting at a nearby table with one of our professional co-workers Sam to provide adult supervision to the scared little children, Michael and Christina.. Where to start, Oh! I can use help with pronunciation of HanGul. This will give her some footing and me a chance to correct my bad use of the language before I create habits.

We went through the Korean alphabet and she was very patient and firm in her attempt to provide me with quality Korean accents, a good thing since Koreans are not used to foreigners speaking their language and have not developed skills in deciphering incorrect pronunciation the way native English speakers have needed to. Often when I pronounce a word with my American accent in HanGul, I receive a blank stare with no response to provide me with a drip of confidence to move forward and try again. They just do not have enough opportunities to discern the difference in speech to make up for my mistakes. It is my problem not theirs and grateful my language exchange partner is motivated to support me learning the correct way and not just a close facsimile. Often language is drastically different than horseshoes and hand grenades, close has no value. The difference between rust and lust are drastic but sound the same to an Asian native.

Example: ‘I am feeling lust’, to be mistaken as ‘I am feeling rust’ on a first date would make things go much differently. Or, ‘Look at the horse’ is much different than ‘Look at the whores’.

So we went through the alphabet and then tackled some basic words like hello and goodbye, which I already knew but did not want to break her rhythm. Then we moved to phrases like “I am leaving” and “I am sorry”, and the ever important for a teacher in an elementary school, “Please leave”.

Without her noticing, we slid into some English basics even though she has a large English vocabulary but cannot speak much. She is a college professor and reads English textbooks but has no one to speak it with but her sister. Her being the older sister, she is not going to learn English from Miji. She warmed and we had fun. I showed her how to let an English native know you don’t understand what they are saying in both casual and formal conversation. Things I never thought about previously.

Example: In conversation with an Englishman on a train in Seoul she could say, “I do not understand what you said.” But, speaking to the CEO of Marriot Hotels, she is a hotel management professor, she may say something like, “I am sorry, can you please repeat that slowly. I didn’t understand everything you said.”

We shared our cell phone numbers and made some arrangements for next Thursday night. She even leaned forward a few times and without realizing, she was getting comfortable with me and our exchange. She is a kind, intelligent and patient woman- the perfect person to teach me HanGul and to share what I can to help her in her dealings with native English speakers confidently. I am excited to meet with her again, learn a little more HanGul and make a new friend. As has been my experience previously, most exchanges and transactions happen on many levels, I see the possibilities of continuing that trend with my new language partner Christina.

ka yo. (I am leaving now.)

A Local Korean Hospital

2008-11-04T10:41:00.003-05:00

It was a Saturday afternoon, the weather in Korea is definitely cooling but it was bright and sunny. I hated it. I felt miserable and wanted to go out and play. I have feet, a bike, mountains and sidewalks waiting for me but not today. I have the common cold. I had it last month as well, two colds in one year a record of sorts for me. I am in a new land and my body is reacting to changes. Last month I chose acupuncture and herbal medicine prepared by the herbalist at the Oriental Medical Center a few blocks away. It worked out great. This time I chose to go and get an injection at the local small hospital a block from the oriental medical clinic. I want to feel well quickly, I have some things I need to do, besides, and I wanted to have the experience.

I walk into a large lobby with about fifty people of all ages sitting on cushioned red benches with a big screen TV set mounted on the wall to the left with some sit com that folks seemed to enjoy. I see at the far end an information desk, I walk there slowly and cautiously not knowing the protocol and knowing that the language barrier is about to express itself again. I feel sick and do not feel up to it, too bad. I approach the desk and we exchange the simplest of English conversation including me pretending to cough, pointing and exaggerating my throat inflammation and showing my sinuses dripping. I have become a method actor here in Korea as matter of circumstance. They take my alien registration card; type some stuff in the computer and point for me to sit down while speaking in Korean as a matter of habit. I sit at the other end by the door; it feels like I can hide better there. Fifteen minutes later I get waved into a doctor’s office, he speaks minimal English and I repeat my Broadway performance of a sick man about to die from something awful. He smiles. He tells me after a brief examination, “You have the common cold.” I reply without reaction, “I know.”

“We give you injection ----- ---- ---- and three days. OK?”

“Yes, OK.” Assuming that he meant I would either get some medicine for three days or come back in three days. I do not know what he said in between injection and three days even after he repeated it twice. I respected him and his time, it is not his fault I do not speak Korean. A nurse shuffles me to another room and tells me, “Take your pants down for injection.” It then occurs to me the injection will be in my butt and not my arm. I have not had an injection in my butt in probably thirty-five years. I panic briefly but then pull them down behind a red and white striped curtain. Why the curtain if she is going to see my butt naked anyway? She re-enters the little space and rubs something wet and cold I assume to be alcohol on my butt and then rubs around for a second. Somewhere during that, she injected me. I did not feel it or even know she was dong it yet. Magic. I go out to pay and find it costs the equivalent of $7.00! I am shocked. I pay and leave not believing I went to a hospital, was diagnosed, injected and left in less than thirty minutes and it cost about $7.00. I picked up some groceries- oranges, tangerines, lemons, ginger root and other goodies to support my system and head home. Fruit cost more than the hospital visit. I feel better about an hour later.

It is now Tuesday night. I am still sick, maybe worse. It lasted shortly and I have a clogged up nose, coughing and yuckiness. I decide after dinner I will return and see if I was supposed to come back after three days or not. I walk in and nobody is in the whole waiting area. I approach the desk again as I did the other day but now there are different folks and need to do the Hollywood thing again. They are not amused. They bring another woman out, a nurse who speaks English. She is kind and helpful. After they figure out the intake nurse the other day decided to cut my last name in half, she brings me to the doctor’s office and joins us to help with language issues. She does great. We figure out that I was supposed to be taking medicine for the last three days and they gave me a prescription. I tell them, “I did not know if I was given a prescription or not and asked at the desk if I was done. And they said ‘Yes’, so I left. I am sorry. “No. We are sorry. They should have told you”, the doctor says with the nurse nodding her head yes. You can get another injection and we give you prescription for three days. If you still sick, please come back see me. OK?”

This time I understand totally. “Yes OK. Thank you very much.”

I am ushered to the other room and again pull my pants down to get the injection in my butt but she turns me around to do the other side. She says while smiling, “Now you have balance.” I laugh and before I know it she is done. “Pull up your pants and I take you to get prescription filled.”

“No I can do it myself. Thank you.”

“There is nobody here. I can help you.”

I let her lead me to the desk to pay before we leave. This time it is only $5.10. I think they gave me a discount because of confusion over prescription. She then leads me out the door to the little pharmacy around the corner. We enter and she hands the prescription to the young lady and says something to her. They bow. She turns back to me, “I work from 8:00-midnight if you ever need anything.”

“Thank you very much. Hopefully I will not see you again.” She says, “Good-bye” bows and leaves. I return the bow. My prescription was filled about two minutes later. The pharmacist said “Take after meals three times day.”

“OK. How much?” I make gesture of money exchanging hands. It was the equivalent of $3.10 for tablets and syrup for three days. I leave to go home smiling with my little pharmacy bag.

Things sure are different here. The presidential election has started in America. I already voted absentee.

Blindness

2008-10-26T09:51:00.002-04:00

As the weather in South Korea starts to turn, so have the leaves. I have been looking forward to this more this year than past. I wanted to see what it looks like here in autumn. It has arrived. Red, burnt orange, orange, yellow, ochre, green and light green fill the streets of Cheonan. Today, being a sometimes-sunny sometimes-cloudy day, I wanted to get out on Tang San Mountain with camera and hiking shoes to enjoy the day. I did not leave my room till about 3:30, which was fine. It is getting dark near 6:00 so I would have plenty of time to explore and take pictures of the trees and whatever else caught my fancy. I got some great shots of the top of the white cement apartment buildings foreshadowing all the mountains in the background that surround the city of Cheonan. I had not seen this view before since it was the first time I made it to this trail. This one was more vigorous of an incline and had better unobstructed views of the city.

After about 45 minutes, I decided to take my first off the main path trail. I knew I had time before dark and know my way around this part of the city well enough that wherever I ended up, I would be OK. Along the way, I asked my Higher Self to be in charge and giude me where I needed to be, I trusted that and felt the support. I got lost and it took about a 1-½ hours to make it to the other main trail I typically hike on. No big deal.

I saw there was a set of steps with a sign marking to be only 0.2 km to the end. The steps seemed to go forever but I had been in the middle of the woods by myself in search of solitude long enough. I thought some time walking on the street would be nice. I started towards the top step and there was a woman by herself on the top step. She was wearing a green shirt with a lighter green shawl around her neck and shoulders. Her pants were black and she had semi-long black hair. Everybody in Korea has black hair. She was standing on the top stop in the exact middle twirling and rubbing her hands on a red leaf that looked similar but with less edges than an oak tree would produce. I paused for a second before entering, not wanting to disturb her intense experience with the leaf. She seemed so focused and single-minded. About a minute later, I decided to slowly walk around her without breaking her moment. I started down what looked like more than a hundred wood and dirt steps with a sharp incline slowly. I typically do not have good balance on steps for some reason. I focused my energy to my feet and my balance improved. As soon as I started walking, the woman in the green shirt started right behind me, like right behind me. I felt a little nervous, since I am not accustomed to folks walking right on my tail in the woods, especially down steps. I slowed to let her pass but she didn’t. I stopped, stood to the right side and motioned for her to pass gently; she stopped right behind me and wouldn’t look at me. I started again, walked about seven or eight steps and stopped again. She stopped directly behind me and I again motioned for her to pass. Again she did not, but this time she stomped her foot on the ground loudly. Still no eye contact or acknowledgement. I felt uncomfortable at this point. What social/cultural boundary have I broken? Is it not proper for women to pass man on steps? Is she afraid of walking in front of me? While finishing this third question, I approached a small bench inches off the trail on the right for folks to rest while trying to make it to the top due to the sharp incline. These trails have many older folks enjoying them and a bench is a good thing. For me, it was Blessing at this moment. I stopped, and sat on the bench’s left side with my backpack still on, since I planned on only staying there till the woman in the green sweater passed and created some distance for me. She stood right in front of me and stomped again. Her expression was blank but intense. I looked up and her eyes were closed. She looked like she was forcefully praying or something similar. I could feel her frustration and did not know what to do. I sat there still leaning back against my black pack. She started stomping more and did it several times, maybe eight or nine. She became more forceful and firm in her stomping each time. Her energy was strong and willful. She needed me to do something but could not tell me or was not willing to do so. I sat. A minute later she started walking. She walked slowly and I looked in another direction to not be rude. About ten steps later, she started stomping again on a large white rock at a curve in the step-path. She looked downright angry at this point. I was scared. I did not know what to do but sit. While she was stomping on the white rock, an elder couple with hats on passed her coming up the hill. Another couple, going down, passed her and then she started walking again. I felt a sigh of relief.

I waited about five minutes seated there on the bench to give her some space. I recalled she never let go of that red leaf in her right hand the whole time. I man and his son plopped down next to me, we exchanged pleasant glances. Then it hit me. It was not a social/cultural issue, the woman was blind. She could not see and would listen for the steps of those in front of her to find her way down the to the bottom safely. She was not standing at the top step to be with her red leaf; she needed a guide to make it down safely. She was not avoiding eye contact, she could not see me! My blindness was the problem, not hers. A sharp pain ran through my gut. What a jerk I am. I felt shame and embarrassment. I asked my Higher Self to send me where I needed to go and I was directed to lead her down Tang San Mountain safely. I failed and was somewhat rude along the way. I prayed for forgiveness, stared to cry on the bench next to the man and his son. They could not tell. I prayed for her. How could I do such a thing? What is wrong with me?

I got up to head down the trail. I walked down the steps faster than normal. I wanted to do something, anything but be alone with my shame. I am such a fool. When I made it to the bottom. There was a small park with a playground. A couple of moms and kids were playing. There was a woman sitting on a bench to the right. I looked and it was not her. I did a mental check to make sure I remembered what she was wearing correctly- green shirt with a light green shawl and black pants. No, she was not there. I walked towards the sidewalk I saw about fifty feet ahead. I looked both left and right, across the street and in every direction. She was nowhere to be found. I started in the direction that I thought would bring me home since I did not recognize the streets or area that was around me. About fifteen feet to my left and there she was. How did I not see her when I looked? She was stopped with the red leaf in her hand. She stood as if she was taking inventory of her situation, so was I. She paused then started walking in the direction towards me very slowly. She appeared cautious in her steps. As I passed her on her left, I softly said, “ I am sorry” knowing she would not understand the words but possibly the sentiment and energy behind the words. I sensed her focus was elsewhere and hearing some babble in another language by some guy was not high on her priority list at that moment. I started walking again; tears were again building up inside me. I am so blind. I know nothing. I think I do but I do not. Blindness, total blindness. I looked back and she was walking on the yellow grooved tiles that mark the center of Korean sidewalks for folks visually impaired. Her strain and focus was intense. I prayed for her. I prayed for me that I may learn how to see. I prayed and held back tears the entire hour or so it took me to get back my neighborhood. Along the way, a few different groups of young kids did the “Hello” routine with the foreigner. Typically I enjoy their enthusiasm and excitement. Today I was too full of shame but I played along because that it was the foreigner does with kids, play along. I stopped at ‘815’ grocery store to pick up some stuff for dinner. The bright lights and activity startled me. I brushed away my feelings and did what I needed to do. I left with my backpack stuffed with chicken, curry, eggplant and cucumbers. One block till home and still blind. “I was blind, but now I see” runs through my head with its soft, warm melody. Grace, that is what I need.

Mother Theresa was once asked, “Why you pray so much?”

“Because I need it. I don’t pray enough. I should pray more so I could be of greater service. I need it, that is why I pray.”

I need to pray more. I am blind and need to learn how to see.

Sirens

2008-10-24T11:14:00.001-04:00

I am baffled, completely. I have been here in Cheonan, South Korea for three and half months and I have only heard three sirens during that period. I live about three hundred yards from the local police station. You would think I would hear them fancy sirens they have go off just to test them, like they do with fire trucks in the USA.

Siren #1: In August, no September, no it was August I was taking a bus to Incheon-Seoul Airport for a flight to Japan, while trying to fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion of going to bed after midnight and waking at 4:445a.m. to meditate, catch two buses and make it to the airport on time; I heard my first Korean siren. It caught me off guard due to my groggy state and the never before heard sound of a Korean ambulance. It passed us in a hurry on Highway 1 in a buzz and flash. I fell asleep a moment later.

Siren #2: A September evening walk through Ssang-yongdong on an atypically warm night but still cool enough to enjoy the occasional breeze and fresh air without sweat to get in the way. I crossed Ssang-yongdong 2 towards the park I have a thing for, especially at night. It is an open area with pretty red, green, yellow and burnt orange tiled floor and benches along the perimeter in two semi-circles and a circular bench-like place to rest and enjoy the trees, grass and seafood restaurant across the skinny street. I can see the stars and clouds anytime I go there. I have painted there on Sunday afternoons to enjoy sun, air and well, painting. This night I was still passing Highvill apartments across from the better Paris Baguette in my neighborhood when I heard my first Korean police siren. It startled me. The sound was foreign and piercing. Almost nightly I walk past the police station twice on my way out and in from a walk wondering what a police siren sounds like here. The first time caught me by surprise somehow. I must be the inner anticipation of sitting on the circular bench-like thing staring at stars and nothing. I stopped when I heard it moving closer, quickly and forcefully. And there it was, a police car with blue and red lights and a siren. I gawked at it like I do the first time I see a barely covered young woman in a bikini every spring like I have never seen a woman before. I forgot where I was going when I was done gawking and the police car was out of my visual proximity. Bikinis, yum!

Siren #3: I was walking home from school and had just passed the police station. The police car went less than a block before finding whatever it was looking for. I saw no urgency or criminals or anything. Just a siren and a cop car driving a half block and the two tall thin male officers dressed in tan uniforms leaving the vehicle and standing by the patrol car looking at something. Nothing happened that I can see but they stayed there for a at least the two minutes I watched from the corner where the silly looking blown up sign in front of the cell phone store is across the street. I hate those blow-up signs I see around here at cell phone places. Sometimes I feel like popping them when I walk by. A product of growing up as a boy in America, the deep need to destroy thing because I can. They don’t do that here for some reason. I left to get home and take my nightly 15-20 minute Reiki nap on the floor before dinner.

I am baffled. Why does a city with a half million people all living so close together not need police sirens for crimes or crisis situations? How are there no fires? Doesn’t anybody ever need to go to the hospital with an emergency? I do not get it. How is this possible? I live two blocks from the police station and work across the street from it with my classroom staring directly at its front door with my windows open every day. Where are the emergencies and crisis? Baffled, simply baffled.

Tang San Mountain Tonight

2008-10-22T11:32:00.003-04:00

I put on my new waterproof windbreaker I received via a delivery guy last week for the first time. I had already de-factoried it last week with a nice wash and ten hours in the sun hanging out my window and the smell is fresh air not plastic and chemicals. This made me smile casually. I stepped outside my, door and my neighbor across the hall was returning to her place and said “HI. How are you?” She meant it. We met a few times previously. She can speak English and is an English teacher at a hag won (institute) here in Cheonan. “Good! I am going out for a nice walk.”

Her face looked puzzled. “But it is raining outside.”

“I know. I said I was going for a walk, I didn’t say it made sense.”

She smiled warmly, “It should be good. Bye-Bye.”

“Yes it should, thanks. Bye-Bye.” And down the marble brown and tan steps to the exit door and the stone and cement walkway in front of our building. It is barely raining, one of my favorite walking environments, especially with the temperature in the lower sixties and dark. This kind of weather seems to always facilitate reflection and sensory awareness that I typically do not have at my access. I walked up the little hill across the street with the green and white concrete tiles to the main drag in my neighborhood. My neighborhood. Wow, I really live here now. I am no longer rock star nor Martian. I have achieved both neighbor and alien residentship. I am an alien. Many of my family members and friends have wondered if I was an alien for as long as I can remember. They have proof now in the shape of an ID card in my black Eagle Creek wallet.

There are less folks out on the streets than usual. This makes me happy. Tonight I brought my iPod and headphones seeking private time in public; hiding in plain sight. I do not put on my headphones yet. I want to feel the rain and hear the water and smell the freshness before I go inside the tangled web called my brain. Maybe I should take a shot at walking up Tang San Mountain. How muddy and slippery could it be? I have now passed Young Am Chatam Hokyo (elementary school) where I am an English teacher. I like teaching at a public school. The sense of hominess that is present supports me being me and them being them. Yeah, I will take a short walk up Tang San tonight. How bad can it be? I have my cell phone if it gets too bad. Crossing Ssang-yangdong 2 and heading towards the back of Highvill apartments where the trailhead begins. I hesitate at the trailhead, fear is ugly and ruthless. I take my first cautious steps up the steps to the dirt trail. I see three young guys walking down talking casually. They are not alarmed or cautious; I will be safe. They are the last humans I see on the mountain tonight. A rare contrast to the fifty or so I typically see at ten at night on a weeknight. I am grateful I will get rain, mountain, dirt and space while listening to the bugs and insects make their chirping and buzzing sounds. They are different than what I know them to sound like back in the states, more buzzing than I can remember. The dirt is soft but not slippery, which makes for a nice gentle walk. I slow down to breath in the smell of green, wet. It is its own smell without name or identification but certainly fragrant and embracing all who care to give in to its loving sweetness. The drops on my head are small; I take my hood off. I want to miss nothing tonight. Wet, the smell of greenness wet, the wet soft soil and the sounds of those who live here on the mountain. Tonight is my night here since others chose to stay indoors tonight. I feel bad that folks run for cover at any sign of inclement weather, it is such a treat on nights like tonight. Then I again smile that hidden gesture of knowing a secret that you won’t share; the secret is life is good and I am on the mountain by myself. The motion-sensor lights on the path tickle me every time they go off and on, I feel like I am walking through a scene in some movie from a time in the future or on planet Q or something. Time to turn around; I have enjoyed the walk and the mountain, no reason to get greedy. Besides, I want to listen to Vas and it seems like sacrilege to put on my headphones and iPod at a moment and place like this. Maybe even blasphemy.

I reach the bottom and enter the sidewalk with ochre, green and burnt red tiles and start up the hill to the right. I walk while searching for Vas on my iPod. They rocked me last night on my bike ride and I want to relive that again tonight in slow-mo by foot. I pass a couple who gaze at me, I feel shame at now being one of the people I judge walking in public with headphones and shutting off the world. I am back on Sang-yongdong 2 and turn left towards home. The fresh air pulls my head to the right and I notice the signs for Boar English Academy and HanKook University for Foreign Studies with its green, yellow and white sign. I approach the first of two Paris Baguette bakeries on my short walk home. The have a new Korean wheat and buckwheat cornmeal bread I tried tonight for the first timer, it was good with my jinn Ramen and Curried chicken over a vegetable salad I had for dinner tonight. I am back at Young Am Chatam Hokyo. I look up at where my classroom is. There it is, third floor on the corner facing the police station across the street. I am not ready to go home yet. I want to sit somewhere dry and appreciate the night air and mist. I remember there is a small shelter near the soccer field across the door I enter and leave daily, since my slippers are in a cubbyhole there for me to wear every day at work. I love wearing slippers at work; it should be an international law that every school in the world bans shoes worn by anyone. I imagine a lot less violence and disrespect. I plop down under the shelter on the top step of the left hand side. It feels nice. Fresh, clean, alive. I relax for just a few minutes. I am pleased and satiated; I do not want to be greedy tonight. Take what I need and leave the rest for others. Life is good.

I leave school grounds through the gate and turn right. I pass the other Paris Baguette and Nong Hyup Bank where the Korean government sends my paychecks and takes out money to pay for the delicious lunches provided at school, and I wire money to the states to pay some old balances left from six months without pay. The American dollar’s crash has cost me about four hundred dollars on Friday due to exchange rates having dropped almost 30% in the three months I’ve been here. Should I go left up the hill by the park next to Mama’s Touch Chicken or the usual way? The usual way. It occurs to me stronger and louder than earlier tonight. This is my neighborhood. I live here. This is my home! I am a neighbor again. People know me. They cannot speak with me and do not know my name, but they know me. We have exchanged bows and smiles- connection. Warmth and respect do not need words.

Tonight I will write about tonight. I have written intentional lies my last three pieces. Time to return to me, the real me. Tonight is about me. Well, not really, it is about us. Our lives, our dreams and our moments together and separate. We breathe, we eat and we love and then we cry. This is who we are. This is my home. I live here. I am a neighbor again. I can offer my home to Couch Surfers again. I have a home. I see it, there it is right in front of me now. I think I will go inside, turn on my MacBook, continue to listen to Vas and type till I am done.

I am done.

My New Korean Bike

2008-10-15T10:34:00.003-04:00

A silver frame with some cerulean blue mixed in. The seat is grey and the rack on the back is sliver with grey fenders underneath front and back. It is Korean made and new. It arrived today in a box at the school I work at by delivery. The bike cost an equivalent of about $55.00 dollars and the delivery fee about $6.00, it is the first brand-new bike I have owned since age ten when I had a Black Ghost sting-ray with a sissy bar in back, it was a five speed and I loved it till I crashed it going down a hill and landed in the hospital with five stitches in my right knee. The scar is still there. I have a new bike.

This is significant for many reasons; the one that moved me to start filling this blank page is that somewhere in the mid-late nineties, I made a personal commitment to stop buying new. This commitment has included everything in my life except food, plant seeds and underwear. I have been pretty vigil about this for the most part with a few alternative choices while traveling around in my van for five months this past year that added some new, simple tan leather shoes and a pair of Keen hiking shoes I found at a privately owned camping store for $30.00 at 80% off. I wore them bike riding tonight. My commitment was about recycling more than anything. Economy factored in since most of the last fifteen years has been one of part-time jobs or long-term retreats without income, to say money was not part of the equation would be misleading. I have found ways to wear clothes that were either purchased at thrift shops or dumpster diving to support my professional, spiritual and athletic lifestyle successfully. The few books that I felt the need to own a copy of came from half.com, garage sales and more dumpster diving. Furniture has only been found through sidewalk dumping and an occasional garage sale. That has ended now since residing in South Korea. Koreans do not do used, period.

There are no thrift shops, vintage clothing stores, e-bay equivalent and only two days a year are reserved for garage sales, yes two very specific days, otherwise it is illegal. Koreans do not believe in taking ownership of other peoples belongings. I have asked why and received peculiar looks as if I was asking to have sex in a public place with a stranger in the snow or something. They do not do used. I assume that they pass on items to each other among friends and family since Koreans typically are frugal, practical, simple and ecological by nature. My gut tells me they do not know why they do not buy used stuff really. My gut also tells me this is one of the many Buddhist traditional thinking concepts passed on so long folks do not know its origin or purpose, kind of like wearing underwear, which really have no purpose, nor do top sheets in bedding. The reason I think it is Buddhist is that I believe they do not want to take on somebody else's negative energy, imprint or Karma. This has always been a great challenge for me and my Teacher has several times questioned my choices on such matters. Used items, regardless of what they are or why we buy them, carry the imprint of those before us. A used bed carries all the sex, lust, dreams, nightmares, isolation and fears that have may have been part of the previous owners world. And the reverse is true as well; the love, joy, sharing, connection, fantasies and mutual-orgasms that may have taken place between the sheets carry an imprint too. What about a couch? Have there been arguing, fights, seduction, television, violence or desperation in its history? Furniture like homes and walls have histories, these histories can speak to us directly or not so directly but their voices will be heard. So the challenge has been to discern before purchasing if my energy and their history can be well matched or not. I have walked away from great and free items that rationally would be perfect for me but through inner discernment about possible contrasts in energetic tendencies. I have bought used clothes that I gave away after one wearing since they didn't feel right on my body or field.

Here in Korea that does not matter, the choice has been wiped from my range of possibilities. I am both grateful and disappointed in this process. I always feel better when I make the decision, not when the Universe does it for me, which is not a complete truth either but another tale for another day.

I enjoyed taking my bike for a test ride tonight. It is a small bike, really too small for my body. As someone who has used bicycles as his main source of transportation since 1995, comfort on a bike is important to me. But it is fine for the next nine months, if I feel guided to stay here longer; I will share this bike with someone else and get a better one that fits me. It felt good sweating enough to know about it and letting the wind flow across my face and cheeks. Seeing my neighborhood with new eyes that are moving faster than walking but slow enough to swallow my environment that buses cannot produce. I love bike riding, it is such a nice and peaceful way to move about through the world.

In 1996 in Bloomington, IN, USA, I was a guest at a meeting of The Simple Living Group. They were discussing how cyclists tend to be kinder and gentler than motorists on the road. My experiences echoed their theory on friendly bike riders. I shared a story that then made my nickname “Smile Michael” from that day forward among this group of folks that became friends of mine. There was this guy who owed a local rare and used bookstore on the square in the center of town. He had great books at semi-fair prices but he is a miserable, unhappy, elitist who made the energy and the experience of shopping in his store downright awful. I stopped going there but used to pass him every morning while riding my bike to work while he walked to his store with that same “I’m an intellectual, arrogant book worm who knows more about literature than you do you stupid un-cultured fool look”. I said “Hello” to him and smiled every morning without even an acknowledgement for almost two years five times a week. One day he nodded back to me. A few months later, he said, “Hi” and almost smiled; the closest he came to an actual smile in my six years in Bloomington. My work was done. Another town, another bike ride.

I have a brand new shiny silver and blue bike, I cannot wait to see what new adventures it will bring me!

Hope is in The Eyes

2008-10-13T12:13:00.002-04:00

Eyes. Eyes are where I see hope and inspiration. Words often feel like a bridge but not the actual thing itself. Eyes tell the true story for me.

Lately I have had the opportunity to stare into the eyes of many young and beautiful children that can't communicate beyond "Hello" and "Goodbye" with me due to language barriers. It is such a powerful experience to share love, gratitude and connection through eye contact, bowing and holding hands or hugging. It really shreds away all the other stuff that often gets in the way.

Soft eyes that are not filled with propaganda and the illusion of needing more and better also have inspired me lately. The bulk of the youth here in South Korea are wholesome, even innocent in many ways. It is not as much that they are naive; it is more actual wholesome instincts that are cultivated through their families, communities, schools and culture as a whole. They would rather be hugged, smile and laugh than be cool, tough and walk around pouting to get their way. They genuinely want to be happy and share it with others. If I was a better author, I would be able to describe it more accurately. They are trusted and respected, and honor that respect with respecting others and trusting others.

An example would be that in a city of half million that I live in, all the florists in the neighborhood leave their most expensive plants out at night without locks and security. Kids are out till 10:00, 11:00 at night without supervision and nobody stares at them like they are bad and ready to do something wrong, and they don't. Young children below ten years old are out at night walking around, playing and running errands for their parents. Teenage girls walk home from their English, science and math academies after ten at night by themselves without fear and paranoia in their eyes. I have eaten in restaurants that the owner and only employee leave while you are eating to make a delivery without fear of being robbed or anything, they just smile on their way out and do their thing. You are respected regardless of who you are.

This all gives me hope. There is another way besides fear, power, sex and personal ambition. This gives me hope.

As a side note, not necessarily for his stance on issues or the fact that he is Black, but Obama gives me hope as well.

Peace and Hope,
michael

Returning to Well

2008-10-10T10:25:00.002-04:00

After about a week of feeling stuffed, exhausted and drained from taking an anti-biotic for the first time since the mid-nineties, it was time to get well again. My co-worker insisted I get an injection before I get worse. Out of lack of energy to argue, I agreed. We called our manager and she said my insurance can be used anywhere and that I should definitely get an injection. My inner resistance to THAT kind of treatment was suppressed due to not knowing how or what to do otherwise here in Cheonan. I don’t speak the language and nobody I really know is involved in the kinds of treatment I would naturally choose. I would go before work the next morning; I was about to enter the world of western medicine that I left behind more than fifteen years ago in the middle of South Korea.

I went to bed late, my typical method of resistance that extends the day to avoid tomorrow. I slept later than was helpful, which reduced morning meditation and Reiki. Certainly more evidence of inner resistance when I need to support my system greater. It was beautiful outside and I started heading in the direction my co-worker who lives across the street from me said I could find a hospital for my injection. When I arrived at the corner I was directed to, I looked for the hospital and only saw a children’s hospital. I searched the area around the corner and saw a sign written in both HanGul and English: Oriental Medical Clinic. I smirked and walked in the building trying to figure out which floor to go to since I could not read the information on the elevator. I walked back outside and looked up at the green and white sign and counted the floors- one, two, three. It is on the third floor. I made a point of memorizing the name in HanGul to find it once I made it to the second floor. I can read HanGul; I just don’t know what anything means yet. I entered the elevator with a handful of other people. There were two young schoolgirls dressed in uniforms that giggled and put their hands over their mouth at seeing a foreigner on the elevator. How do they think we made it to the top floor of the World Trade Center without elevators?

The elevator doors opened, I turned left, no, I turned right and there was the same kind of white and green sign with the same words and an arrow. I followed the arrow and when I turned the corner, I could smell the sweet and pungent fragrance of ginseng, schizandra and a host of other Asian herbal remedies filling my clogged nostrils with an aroma that woke up my whole system. This I understand.

I opened the two glass doors with a twisted wooden branch as door handle and made note that like homes, restaurants and schools: medical clinic are also shoeless. A pleasing sight to add to the aroma that welcomed me to the clinic. I approached the desk cautiously knowing the hard part was about to arise, speaking to the receptionists who probably speak no English. I was correct, they both froze when I spoke and looked away as if they were hoping I would magically disappear or become fluent in HanGul when they turned their heads back. I didn’t. I pointed, my latest skill, to my throat and made a coughing sound, they acknowledged somewhat and pointed for me to sit down in the waiting area. A few nurses walked by and covered their mouths while they giggled at the foreigner trying to receive treatment without communication. I immediately felt shame and compassion for all the Latinos I dismissed as customers due to language in the mid-eighties when working for Radio Shack as a Retail Sales Manager. Karma has a good memory; it lasts from lifetime to lifetime and certainly remembers 1985.

About fifteen minutes later I was guided by a nurse dressed in pink by my shirt sleeve towards the back area to a gold curtain which the nurse pointed for me to get up on the small carpeted table and lie down, I did. When I wasn’t doing it properly, instead of returning to the pointing method, she just moved me to where she wanted me the way that nurses do. A few minutes later, a woman, I assumed the clinician of whatever form of treatment they do, entered the little curtained off area and said, “Hello”.

English!

She asked me several question about my symptoms including typical Asian treatment concerns like, “How are your bowel movements?” “Are you sleeping OK?” “Have you had an diarrhea?” Have you been eating well?” This conversation was taking place while she was pressing her hands into various points around my digestive system. Each time I made a face or sound, she pressed again deeper and asked, “Which hurts more this or this?” She then asked, “Have you ever had acupuncture before?

“Yes. Chinese acupuncture in America.”

“Have you ever taken any herbal (with the “h” pronounced) remedies?”

“Yes, many including ginseng.”

“Do you like ginseng? Does it make your stronger?”

“I do like ginseng. It gives me more energy but sometimes I get shaky from it.”

“Are you allergic to anything” She pointed to her arms and makes motion to illustrate hives, “Hives?”

“I cannot take alcohol, and my mother, father and brother are allergic to penicillin.” It did not seem necessary to say they were allergic to penicillin since they are not alive anymore. “I have never had any, since they told me I would be allergic too.”

“Korean acupuncture is more painful than Chinese. This point on the bottom of your foot will hurt, please take a deep breathe.” I did but it still sent a sharp pain through my right foot and ankle, which lasted only five seconds. “I give you three day supply of herbs for you to take, come back at 6:00p.m. since it takes three hours to make. You come back Thursday see me. OK?”

“Yes, I get off work at 6:00. I can do that.”

“OK. Twenty minute, needles. Just rest. OK?”

“Yes.” And she was gone. It was only a matter of minutes before I could feel the little twitches and pulsing of the energy shifting and moving throughout my system. It felt good to be placing my well being in the hands of someone like her doing something like this. After a week of anti-biotic (anti-life) and cough medicine, it felt good to be treated in a familiar manner again.

That was Tuesday morning, it is now Friday night and I feel the best I have since the day I stepped off the plane in Incheon-Seoul Airport on July 15th. My body feels healthy again and my cough and sinus congestion are almost completely gone. It took sickness for me to notice my body was not operating optimally. As usual, when looking for the hospital to take an injection I did not want, I wandered blindly till I found what I really needed, as usual, in spite of myself. The Universe sure is efficient!

Who was the last person you spoke with?

2008-10-03T10:58:00.003-04:00

The last person, I spoke to was actually a whole family. There is a Korean family that I have become friends with and visit their home to help their son with his English studies. They took me out to dinner tonight to show me some traditional Korean food and culture, and to share their appreciation for my relationship with their son, Mikey. He is a great kid and he reminds me of myself when I was his age. He will not go down the same road as me as he gets older. He has a family and environment that supports him and his way of being.

We had a wonderful meal, warm, friendly conversation and shared laughter and cultural exchange. On the way home, the mom said, "I feel very comfortable with you Michael". It meant a lot to me. They are good folks and I enjoy and respect them all. It is interesting to me how sometimes we have to go 8,000 miles from our home to find where we belong.

I am glad the last folks that i spoke to were such incredible people that i think so highly of and had the opportunity to share time, a meal and conversation with them.

YAY for good people!

moms and little custodians

2008-10-01T08:52:00.002-04:00

As I walk down the stairs from the third floor to the first, I am struck with seeing something I have not seen before in a public school, kids with mops and brooms cleaning the steps. Little elementary school kids laughing and playing while cleaning and washing the steps. Humm. Interesting, I think to myself.

One day later, I go down these same steps again to the cafeteria to enjoy some nice fresh squid soup with rice and a side menu that includes Kimchi, sesame greens and fresh dark purple seedless grapes. But there they are again, but today, it is three girls instead of three boys laughing and playing while sweeping and washing the steps. I wonder what they did to get in trouble, they all look so wholesome and their eyes are so clear and true?

Two months later I can answer that question: nothing. In Korea, there are no staffs of custodians that come around and clean up the messes the kids make all day. There is an overnight watchman who does a little but the custodians are the students themselves with some mothers volunteering every now and then. The kids clean and wash the bathroom floors after school. They sweep around the desks in the classrooms. They wash the windows on the outside doors. They really do everything but clean the toilets themselves. The interesting part about this is they have fun doing it. It is not a scene filled with moaning and groaning kids that make things dirtier just to never get asked to do it again. They laugh and play and giggle the whole time. I have not seen a miserable kid while cleaning yet. That doesn’t mean they want to do it or even enjoy doing it. It just means they have fun since they have to do it anyway. There are certainly areas of the school I work in that are not as clean as the staff of six custodians at the school I used to work at in Wisconsin. But does it really matter?

These kids are participating in a meaningful way and take responsibility for their school along the way. It is not surprising at all that they do not make as much mess of the school since they clean it. Go figure? I have reflected on whether it is this way out for economic reasons or for keeping things family-like and teaching valuable lessons during the experience? They don’t wear shoes in public schools like home. They eat delicious well-balanced meals like they do at home. Why not participate in the upkeep of the school like I imagine they do at home? It would seem to be a logical choice for a school principle to make. So the bathrooms are clean but don’t sparkle. The floors don’t shine and the windows have some streaks. This seems to be small price to pay for youth learning that part of life is cleaning up and doing your part. Kids here are not treated as helpless beings that need their mommies and daddies to take care of them and wait on them 24/7. They are little real people. My gut tells me it used to be this way in other parts of the world not too fat back in our shared history. I wonder why we abandoned this way of life? Why do we expect so little from children? Is making their bed and brushing their teeth really all they are capable of? Evidence here says differently. Is this just another consequence of affluence? Kids are so accustomed to everybody doing everything for them that they become the helpless little creatures we treat them as?

Maybe one of theses days I’ll pick up that mop and do my part. Probably not tomorrow.

Bowing: An Energetic Transaction

2008-09-27T12:08:00.003-04:00

On my first morning here in Korea, I entered a local “deli” to buy something quick to eat before starting work. I had arrived in my room around 1:00a.m. and did not go to sleep till nearly 3:30, with a wake up time of about 8:30a.m. The “deli” is not what I would typically call a deli but do not know the correct name for it. The woman prepares and sells different kinds of Kimchi and stews, hot and ready to go. I did not know what I was thinking when I walked in the door of her place, she bowed and said some kind of formal greeting that I know now as “Annyeong-haseyo”, good morning/afternoon/evening. But the bow is what caught me in my tracks. I had been given the information that many Koreans still bow before I left the states. I was a little excited but did not really grasp what bowing really is till that morning of little sleep after a twenty-four hour flight and a long ride from the airport to my new place in Cheonan. She bowed as casually as someone who has done so without thinking thousands of times. She did not know how strengthening and affirming that common gesture was for me. I knew I had reached my destination and was in the right place. My trip to Korea was where I supposed to be.

For the last two months I have reflected many times on what actually happens during the process of bowing that is so powerful. Is it the honoring of another person’s Self? The honoring of the Self? Is it the conscious decision that whatever we may be doing at that moment, the decision to be focused and present right now is all that matters, because there is a human being in front of me and that requires my complete attention. We are acknowledging each other, and I sense our ancestors and histories as well. Very few people do half-hearted bows here. They do half-hearted all kinds of other things, but bowing is different. Even entering the E-Mart or Lotte-Mart, the Korean equivalents of Wal-Mart and K-Mart, there is a person inside the door that bows to every single person that enters and leaves. I do not understand how, but they mean it and are genuine every time to every person, even to the foreigner who wears a backpack and has this stuff growing on his face all the time.

Where does the bow come from? I do not mean mean its history, although I will assume it is a Chinese tradition initially. I am referencing the actual energy of the bow itself. It is too powerful for each one of us regular people to muster up the kind of energetic exchange that a bow transmits hundreds of times a day. It is like a shot if Reiki, Qi Gong, Prayer and a loving hug from your best friend and grandmother all in one, without touching or saying a word- Taiqi in its purest form.

I get to share bows with all three of the women that serve lunch in the school cafeteria daily. All of the clerks, stockers and employees at the grocery store by my home almost daily. I enter the cell phone place on my way home just to share a bow with the guy who owns the shop where I purchased my cell phone, because his bows go right through me and fill my spine every time without exception. It is worth the two steps to his shop to receive his warm smile and bow. When walking the halls at school, most of the kids and all the teachers share a bow with me; it does not get old for them or me. Each time, the exchange is present and refreshing to me, the Real me. It is hard to be miserable, angry or resentful when bows are plentiful to ruin my negativity, like it or not. I have been aware of what a challenge it is to hold onto whatever self-centered or selfish thoughts and emotions I am clinging to while being immersed in bowing. Bowing is in my spiritual lineage and blood. I think if we were able to trace DNA to see who has the bowing gene, I would be profiled as such. It is who I am, it just took a long plane ride to find this out.

Two specific bows stand out to me at this moment. The first being my initial introduction and hello to a Reiki Teaching Master I met in Kyoto, Japan. He came up the steps of the subway station in his black monastic attire and bowed before saying hello. I felt him, the Reiki lineage and our Inner Connection at that moment. Our shared history finally had the opportunity to greet each other in physical form. The acknowledgment that this particular bow shared is still part of my dreams at night and Reiki sessions in the morning. In that bow, my connection to Mikao Usui, the man who rediscovered Reiki and the Reiki lineage was immediately strengthened and fortified. I am grateful for this bow and our meeting. I know we will share another bow someday.

My other favorite bow happens Monday through Friday. One of the women that shares office space with me and I, do a mini bow while she is sitting at her desk every day when I enter the space. Her smile and warmth tickle my core and remind me why I am a teacher and what being a teacher means. I find her attractive on many levels and since there are some language barriers, bowing is the time we connect and acknowledge each other. I wish bowing could be the method of getting to know women for me in all attractions; it is honest, pure, respectful and loving. The other stuff that trends to cloud my attractions to women dissipate in that brief second we share. I want to expand that statement to include all relations, male, female, friends or otherwise.

And I thought bowing was just for spiritual rituals and old folks.

Boobs, butts, bellies and thighs

2008-09-25T11:06:00.002-04:00

The first time I walked through Ssang-yongdong on that Tuesday night while it was still light out, I was struck by the amount of thigh on display in conservative Korea. High-heeled silver sandals with straps around the ankles provide the platform for the exhibition. The exhibition includes the silky-soft skin that is natural to most Koreans. In fact, I have a friend in the states that the affectionate nickname that I use with her is Silky Pants, she calls me Jerk Face. As I try not to be obvious or rude, my gaze slowly follows her calves all the way up to the thighs and right to her butt, literally. Her shorts can’t be but an inch bigger than the skimpy bikini bottoms that American white girls wear to anywhere they can get away with. I get that funny tingle that only lust hormones can produce as I bashfully walk past her and her almost blue denim shorts, I say almost since they barely qualify as “shorts”. Images of hippie chicks in the sixties when I was growing up trying to piss off their parents come to mind. The next woman I am approaching down the hill on the sidewalk on this unbearable hot 92 degree humid evening, is wearing white sandals with the same four inch heals and straps around her ankles. Her silky smooth skin also is on display way up to her blue denim mini skirt that conjures up more images of sixties chicks pissing off their daddy’s. As I now have enough time to lift my head up after this startling visual treat, her t-shirt goes all the way up to her neck, down to the edges of the bottom of her blue denim mini-skirt and the shirt has semi-long sleeves on this hot day in Korea.

I reminisce about earlier this summer in several college towns on the east coast of the states and how much cleavage was bulging out of push-up bras and bikini tops. There are more breasts showing on the American female than the actual breasts of the Korean woman. They do not show boobs, shoulders or bellies here, like ever. The Korean female’s upper body is not on display in public but their legs and butts put the twenty dollar hookers outside Port Authority in NYC to shame, especially with the heals that bring me back to my younger years in bars with half and whole naked women with dollar bills tucked into their g-strings. The g-string is the predecessor to the thong for those of you too young to know there was once a world before thongs that underwear went over your butt instead of inside. With the exception of those who got paid to wear them or trying to spice up their personal life every now and then. Yes, Korean women like to show their legs and butts, but no upper body, and they will never leave their homes without a bra or undershirt on, nipples are outlawed here.

Besides the obvious reason of being a guy who really appreciates the female form, what has caught my attention about these social mores is that on late night TV, woman show their boos all the time and the TV stations blur out any butts or pubic hair. So in real life, boobs and bellies are a no-no, on TV, butts and pubic hair is a no-no. In both, Korean women rarely wear anything that fits snug, alters or lifts their boobs. It appears that Korean female celebrities are very comfortable with showing themselves topless in movies and TV, whereas American female celebrities have to be mindful of what they show and how it will effect future casting, while they walk around with their boobs on display to the legal limit whenever possible with underwear of any form a commodity.

Why is it that we have such curious contrasting and maybe even contradictory social programming about what and where it is OK and not OK to expose the naked body? There seems to be no rhyme or reason that I can see. I initially thought that it might be related to the fact that western women typically have larger breasts than Korean women. After seeing them topless on TV all the time but not bottomless, my theory gets thrown out the window. We certainly are an interesting species. The fact that we wear clothes at all is somewhat bizarre, but the peculiar patterns that determine how that justifies which and when we expose any or all parts of our bodies is absolutely a mystery to me. I doubt I will solve this mystery tonight, tomorrow, or the next night. In the meantime, I will keep my eyes on things that are not as stimulating to the those senses and focus on things that are stimulating some the other senses like trees, mountains, patterned sidewalks of green, red and yellow and all the incredible little places to eat that line every road I can find with sights, smells and tastes that thrill even an objectifying male like myself.

Bread and Walking

2008-09-19T11:40:00.003-04:00

10:45p.m. I promised myself I would go for a walk tonight. I have not done so since I returned from Busan on Tuesday night, it is now Friday. I motivate myself through putting a practical spin on my walk; I will stop at KB Bank, take out some money and pay some bills with the ATM machine. Yes, pay bills with the ATM machine. They don't use checks in Korea. You either pay in person, online or by bank transfer, which can be done at any bank on any ATM instantaneously. It is fun and I like paying bills this way, at least while it is a sixty-five degree night in Cheonan. Winter may be another story.

After taking care of my financial transactions, I asked my Higher Self which way to walk. I crossed Ssang-yongdong gil 3 to the other side and walked along the three-lane road that goes through Cheonan to Asan and all points south. As I walked down the red, ochre and forest green sidewalk in my $4.00 soft brown plastic sandals I bought from the Walgreen’s in Williamsburg, VA, USA; I received a rush of gratitude for the gift of walking. It seems irrelevant how I feel, when I put on my sandals at night and walk these streets I feel better, alive. My connection to Self and the world around me increases almost immediately. Even though it is approaching 11:00p.m., families are still out walking and playing badminton in parks together. Young kids and mothers hit the birdie back and forth while dads play with older children. They do not have the same need for children having routines at night including bedtimes. It is nice out, so they go out and be a family together.

As I pass the wonderful plant shop were I picked up two little desk plants and a large floor plant of a variety I have not seen before a couple of weeks ago; I see the blue, white and red lights of the Paris Baguette on the left corner I was approaching. I love that bakeries are often open till midnight for street wanderers like me. I step up the ramp and inside the brightly lit shop. The owner says “Aneoyounghi-gaseo”, good-bye, to the customer leaving and warmly greets me in perfect English, “Hello”. I smile and return the greeting. I search through the sweet breads and almost submit to the cream filled sweet potato bread but remind myself I do not want sweet bread. I want a bread to eat with meals over the weekend, mainly, a killer vegetable and potato omelet, a Sunday morning ritual of mine. I see the corn bread with actual corn in it that I enjoyed last week but then glance to the right and see the Korean version of nine-grain bread. American nine-grain bread is brown and dense, which is something I miss dearly. Korean nine-grain bread is white bread with grains in it for flavor, not texture, substance or health. Yes, the nine-grain bread is tonight’s bread. I pay the 1,700 won, $1.70 for the half a loaf and refuse the bag when offered knowing I live only a few blocks away and really do not need it.

I cross during the red light after watching the young guy do it and slow down to take in the night. On my right are three long benches that are really comment blocks with wooden planks on top to sit for a moment. While looking up at the cement apartment buildings surrounding me, I feel moved to practice some sitting Qi Gong. I have been lax in my Qi Gong practice and gladly jumped at the opportunity. Three meditations later and a full belly of Qi, I decided that some walking Qi Gong would be a nice way to complete my evening walk. I find Body Breathing exercises revitalizing and rejuvenating. This was no exception. Feeling renewed as i came upon the elementary school I am an English teacher for amazingly cute, enthusiastic and frustrating young kids. I have noticed how much I enjoy walking through the property when not working, the sense of connection and community tend to produce warm and yummy feelings within the head, mind and belly. I pass the market I shop at and then the aromatherapy store next to my home where I purchased some lavender lotion and liquid soap last Friday night.

I cross the street and down the mini hill that has a green and white tiled sidewalk and road, and there is my building with two apartments with lights on in the front side of the building. I live on the side above the alley where the restaurant chops their vegetables and garlic. Up the two short sets of ceramic stairs and home. I put the key in the lock and the motion-sensored light turns on. I step in and let my light brown sandals slide off my feet and smile again in appreciation of my home, both the physical space I live in and this place called Korea.

How do you know?

2008-09-18T10:06:00.004-04:00

Before I came to Korea, some of my friends were intent on me “finding a good one to take home with me”. As offensive as this is to me and the women of Korea as a whole, it doesn’t mean since I have been here I have not reflected on the beauty, kindness, simplicity and grounded nature of many of the women I have encountered during my short time of more than two months. In fact, the comments made before I hopped on the Airbus to spend nearly eight thousand miles in the air may be the thing that has kept me from exploring some options. Well, that is not exactly true.

Here in central Asia, men and women do not wear wedding rings. They do not actually display anything that would alert a would be pursuant that the individual they are about to initiate courting rituals with is already married. Based on the fact that most adult Koreans do not just flirt with strangers who think they are attractive, there really is not a simple way to explore potential options.

I have reflected on what it would be like to be in your late twenties and single, which is the not the norm, and try to figure out whom you can and cannot pursue honorably. Unlike the west, married women do not get their kicks out of flirting while married to prove to themselves they are still attractive. Married women here are rarely focused on their ability to look “hot”. So, how do you know?

Again, this is not like the States where asking someone out casually is common or even acceptable. When men and women reach the neighborhood of thirty, the family places pressure on them to find a mate, even more so for women than men, which of course is not surprising. When dating someone who has reached that age range, the expectation is that you are dating for potential marriage partners. This increases the pressure for all involved, male and female.

I am older and there are really not any women at or near my age that are not married, so the whole ring thing is not a big deal for me since they would all have rings if that were a social norm. But this does not mean those in the thirties I do not look at as we peruse through the cabbage or mandarin oranges in the local market together. I look at their shopping carriage and see items that indicate family: baby products, cleaning supplies, junk food and quantities too large for an individual. In Korea, there are not women who are single with children, it just doesn’t happen. I do not know how prevalent abortion is here. There is a large Catholic influence and generally people hold more traditional values than many western cultures do. I make the leap that they are not available without giving it another thought. Besides, I do not know how or what are the courting practices here except that often families still arrange marriages. Oh yeah, and I do not speak HanGul yet.

Leaving all the personal details aside, how would one know anyway?
How would you know?

sarcasm enters stage left and right

2008-09-17T11:40:00.002-04:00

Like the South Beach Diet for those who think “thin is in”, the low-casm diet, sarcasm that is, has stripped off pounds of negativity so quickly I forgot what I looked like with the extra weight. But like all fad diets, the low-casm diet imploded when faced with a free crème Berlet or Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream from Michael’s Frozen Custard in Wisconsin. In this case, the desert of choice was keeping company with those who value sarcasm above all other forms of communication- English-speaking white people.

This weekend I was visiting a friend in Busan, South Korea during the national holiday Chusak. It is the Korean version of Thanksgiving that includes visiting and honoring ancestors passed. This weekend, I certainly honored ghosts of sarcasm passed when giving the opportunity. I was amazed at just how effortlessly it flowed out of mouth like waffles and vanilla ice cream dripping out the corners on an eighty-degree night in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. Yes, sarcasm is back.

I had no idea how foolish I was in believing the progress in letting go of the darkest form of humor had nothing to do with me or any miraculous leap in spiritual development. It was simply a case of not having accessible anyone who speaks enough English to understand sarcasm if I chose to express it. No growth, no step up in commitment, no crossing of the Threshold- just no vehicle to harness the hidden and suppressed hate, anger and resentment in disguise known as sarcasm. If you are trying to shed sarcasm from your daily diet; I can offer the quickest low-casm diet on the market- move to a country where no one speaks your language and it will fall away like The Atkins Diet with the same results until the source of the problem returns; then every inch of unnecessary cellulite regrows itself and looks less appealing than it did when it was part of your natural disposition. I now know what I look like without sarcasm; warm, soft, gentle, open; and putting on the same old tattered coat will never feel as comfortable or acceptable again.

It is time to let go of these extra pounds of weight that I no longer need to survive or navigate my way through the world. Goodbye sarcasm, I bid you farewell. I am sure when I am not paying attention, I will embrace you like an old friend who still owes me the six hundred dollars he borrowed from in 1989 when his father died and I helped pay his family’s mortgage so they would not have to find a new home.

Hello warmth and vulnerability. I want to introduce myself; my name is Michael and I have looked forward to meeting you for many years. I hope we become close friends.

Immigration Man

2008-09-10T13:17:00.003-04:00

Standing online amongst nearly one hundred people, mostly Korean but many from other nations squeezing between the writing tables and the three desks of the immigration officers I started hearing David Crosby and Graham Nash singing in my head, “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today, Can I stay another day?” Yes, please let me in, or in my case, please let me stay another day, Mr. Immigration Man. I will definitely toe the line, I swear, really.

The feeling of someone that you will speak with for a matter of minutes having such control over your immediate future is un-nerving, even stressful for me. I am Ok with God in charge or me living with the illusion of being in charge but not a man I do not know who speaks broken English and whose job it is to make sure certain kinds of people are not allowed to stay in Korea. Will I make the grade? Do I look the part of the good American or the evil American? If you ask the three officers in Osaka last week that stopped me and threatened to take me to jail, I guess I do fit the image of the evil American. A terrorist. Me, a terrorist. In between hugging hundreds of young Korean boys and girls of every day and being the one that the whole school says “Hello” to down every hallway, toilet and cafeteria? The one who flew almost 8,000 miles to get here and made it through the scrutiny of many levels and layers of Korean government and Ministry of education? The one who felt guilty for only praying and meditating for about 55 minutes this morning before rushing to the Immigration Office to participate in the madness of folks scurrying in all directions to fill out forms, buy proof of payment stamps and look “safe” while feeling very unsafe? Terrorist?

When there was only three people ahead of me in line, it occurred to me that the first man I would be dealing with was the guy who gave me long and hard stares when I was accompanied by my Korean co-worker to get my visa extended till I went to Japan to get my E-2 work visa. Yes, he will remember me applying for my tourist visa and applying for an alien registration card now. I need to get everything in order to not raise any suspicion. I flatten my application form so it does not look messy. I open my passport to the page of the work visa, so he doesn’t look at the extension from the tourist visa. My two passport size and type pictures are in my hand ready to be attached, along with my proof of payment stamp. Everything is ready. “Please let me in, Immigration Man, I won't toe your line today. Let me in”.

My turn. I smile politely and hand him my paperwork. He shuffles through them and his face wrinkles. He did not do this for others. What did I do wrong? Does he remember me? “Are you here by yourself?” He asks.

I answer slowly and sheepishly, “Yes. Is that not OK?”

He looks down dejected, “Yes, that is OK.” A minute later after shuffling through them again, he looks up, “Do you have any other documents?”

“Yes, what do you need? I have them right here.” I point to my large tan envelope tattered from all the places it has traveled in the last two months.

“Do you have medical examination form?”

“Yes, I am sorry I forgot.” I quickly scrounge through my papers looking for the medical exam form from the hospital I picked up yesterday that I cannot read in HanGul. I do not know what it says I do or do not have. Phew! I found it! “Here it is.” I hand it to him.

He briefly inspects it and then asks, “Do you have a Guarantor of Employment?”

“What is that?”

“It lets us know you have been guaranteed a job here in South Korea.”

“Oh. I gave that to the officer in Japan when applying for me E-2 visa. Do I need it?”

“Yes.” He looks down and frowns again. I can feel the pit in my stomach swelling. “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today. Let me in.”

“Can we call your employer?”

I freak for a second. I do not know the Principle’s phone number or name for that matter. “Can we call my manager?”

“Yes.” I hand him her business card from my wallet. He then reaches into his pocket for his cell phone. I lift my finger and say, “Please use mine” as I hand him my phone. He accepts it with a smile.

They talk and argue in Korean for almost twenty minutes with the stares from the long line behind creeping up and down my spine and back slicing me to pieces. What are they saying? It is my life and I have no clue what they are talking about. Helpless, hopeless and every other –less watching him become more and more frustrated with her on the phone. Hs voice and facial expression are becoming tenser by the minute. He then hangs up out of nowhere and hands me the phone. He gets up and speaks to another officer who then stares at me and looks me up and down. The piercing is now both back and front. I had less scorn and scrutiny as a homeless man sleeping in my van for the five months previous to Korea. He returns to his desk and asks for my phone again.

He calls her back and they speak a little more calmly this time. Three minutes later he is off the phone and hands it back to me. He says while looking directly at me, “Get delivery certification and bring it back to me.”

“Does it come in the mail?”

“No. You get it over there” and he points towards the window, or is it the last desk, or Seoul? The East Indian man behind me tells me, “You just go to the last desk and she will show you what you need.”

“Thank you Sir”, I say to him and leave the line to get this delivery thing that I have no idea what is, how long it takes or how much it costs. I was second on line there and a nice woman helped me fill the form out. “That is four thousand won sir”

Four thousand won. I do not think I have that much on me. I look through my wallet. Three one thousand won bills. I fumble around in my pocket to see how much in coins I have. Exactly one thousand! I hand her the four thousand won and lower my head in embarrassment. She rubber-stamps the form and hands it to me. “Please bring this back to the man at the other line.”

“Thank you.” And I walk back over there and stand on the side so he can see me. “Let me in, Immigration Man, I won’t toe your line today.” This song used to have such a different meaning to me before today.

He sees me and reaches out for me to hand him the form. He adds it to the others and places a clasp on them, folds them along with my passport and places them on the far end of his desk in a different place then everyone else’s paperwork. I stand there waiting for his cue on what to do next. His cell phone rings, he takes it out of his pocket and walks away. Ten minutes later he returns to his desk and starts back with the pregnant couple from India. Several minutes later I interrupt and ask, “Is there anything else I need to do? Or am I done?”

He smiles and laughs gently, “Oh. You are done. Thank you.”

I walk away towards the door not really knowing what happened and whether it was good or bad.

“Please let me in,
Immigration Man.
I won’t toe your line today,
I can’t see it anyway.
Won’t you let me in Mr. Immigration Man?
Can I cross the line and pray?
I can stay another day.”

Finding My Path

2008-09-06T12:05:00.000-04:00

I have walked these streets of Cheonan for more than six weeks now. Originally through only Young Am dong, since that is where there are so many stores and restaurants in my section of the city. I ventured further towards the Lotte Mart in my second week, finding clothes to wear to work, mops, cleaning supplies, neat pillows to sleep and meditate on (www.jayeonsum.com) that smell like a mix of sandalwood and cardamom with an orange/ochre cover and finally the immense food section with guys on loud microphones yelling about specials in Korean that just echo through my brain while sifting through Kimchi, bean curd, seeded dark red grapes, mandarin oranges, frozen Mondu (steamed dumpling with either Kimchi or meat) and mini shrimp that cost less than the equivalent of $2.00 for one serving. Ironic for a guy who promotes the refusal to support major chain likes Wal-mart, k-mart or any other damn mart.

After my trip to Seoson, I returned committed to finding a real place to walk, a path with real live trees and grass and dirt. Living in an urban environment that is fully developed with concrete everywhere was beginning to take its toll on me. I ventured out into Ssang-yongdong and its massive white concrete apartment buildings with sidewalks of yellow, mauve and green with a middle row raised for those who cannot see to stay on the path forward.

My evening walks have been a Blessing for me in their sense of feeling part of a community amongst the families, couples and folks walking, talking and relaxing on these beautiful summer nights here in Korea. I found a really cool park with moms playing badminton with their kids. Teens shooting hoops on a Saturday night and laughing about something and nothing. The exercise equipment made for outdoor strengthening and stretching filled with families and kids playing and doing their thing. Folks walking slowly riverside enjoying life, love and the steady stream flowing through life and Cheonan. I enjoyed this walk so much I did it three nights in a row and one resulted in a fun conversation with a man who spoke good English and invited me to his home to hang out near midnight. We ate garlic potato chips and he asked me if I wanted to watch Korean XXX movies. It took a minute for my brain to filter through his Korean accent of English learned in Australia to realize he was talking about porn, when my face flushed and turned red before saying, “No thank you” shyly.

But still, no path of nature.

Until tonight. I ate a massively delicious meal at this local place that folks sit on the floor on little gold or olive green pads stacked under the table. I have eaten here twice before with my coworker and the lady promised she would remember what I liked so when I came in myself she could serve it to me. She did, along with five side dishes including excellent Kimchi, sweetened onions, mung beans, pickled green beans with sesame seeds and roasted eggplant; these were just the free side dishes. The meal itself was a stew with lots of black pepper, sesame leaves, chili paste and pork bones over white rice. Heaven for 5,000 won, or five bucks in the U.S. While eating my meal as were the three men across from me, the owner/cook/cashier/server turned into delivery driver on motorcycle and left the restaurant to deliver a meal with four customers comfortably enjoying their meals with no fear of theft or anything else. She returned moments later smiling and laughing like she always does.

I left and ran into one of my favorite kids that I teach English to with her younger brother and mom. She loves playing with me almost as much as I do with her. Her mom was nice, genuine and spoke good English. I left them and headed in another direction for further exploration of Ssang-yongdong. I weaved through the winding roads of one of the apartment complexes to find a nice walkway with a sign pointing towards something that I could read the letters and pronounce but was clueless of the meaning. I followed the arrows like a good little boy who eats his vegetables. And there it was, a dirt path- real dirt complete with dirt. I was so excited I almost trampled on an elderly man passing by as I entered the trail to somewhere. There were grass, trees, bushes and dirt- old friends I have dearly missed; maybe more than friends and family back home. I could smell the dirt and greenness of nature, smiling and smiling, maybe even giggling. It being after 10:00 at night, it was dark hiking up the hill on the dirt path in my four-dollar brown sandals from CVS. No problem, even for a guy like me with a light deficiency in both eyes. Koreans line these paths with lights that are triggered by motion. As I climbed the hill, every fifty feet or so another series of lights magically lead the way for me. More giggles, one leading me to thanking God for me finally finding a place to walk, hide, reflect, write and feel Real whenever I need it, day or night just a few blocks from my home. I walked for about a mile without reaching the apex. More smiling at the thought that tomorrow I can do this with camera in backpack when light and bright and see Cheonan from above.

I have found my path. I needed this. As usual, I found it while wandering through life and Ssang-yongdong aimlessly in spite of myself. Grace is a beautiful thing.

My Hollywood Nightmare

2008-09-05T09:29:00.003-04:00

It was nearly eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit in the Namba District of Osaka, Japan. My black backpack was stuffed with my camera, MacBook, iPod, writing book and the book I am studying Korean lazily. It weighed a lot since I had been walking around to stall time before picking up my passport and accepted E-2 work visa from the Republic of Korea as an English teacher. I had waited for this day since the day I departed the Northwest Airlines airbus six weeks ago to become a legal resident for one year as a teacher.

Last night I had a nightmare that I would be walking down the street and for no reason, a band of Japanese police officers would grab me from all angles, question me in Japanese which I do not speak, detain and keep me like all those awful movies showed at 3:00a.m. on cable of American’s lives ripped to shreds in a foreign land for no reason except country of birth. The nightmare included being beaten, raped and starved to the point of malnutrition. Yes the nightmare pierced through my belly and kept me awake for at least half the night. No visa, no flight back to Korea at 5:00p.m. and no teaching English to incredibly loving and wonderful elementary school students at Cheonanyoungam Elementary School. Life over. Till I awoke in the morning and I was sleeping on a bed in a youth hostel in Kyoto with the sun shining through the plastic window. I was not in jail but safe and apprehensively preparing for my day of travel and finally attaining my E-2 working visa. I ate breakfast at the Zen Café; the German potato salad was not very German or really potato salad, just boiled potatoes. Everything else was a little better- mediocre. The train and subway rides back to Osaka were boring and uneventful. I then walked around Namba searching for a place to eat lunch after acquiring my visa from the Korean Embassy to make sure I had a decent meal before the train ride to Kansia Airport departing to Incheon, South Korea. The plan was perfect including one more meal of fresh Japanese Sushi, a perfect plan.

Perfect till a warm “Hello” to the two Japanese police officers stations outside the Korean Embassy where I will enter at 1:30 to pick up my E- visa. Perfect till the first young officer approached me at the corner about forty feet away out of breath with his right hand placed firmly on his black pistol and his mouth and nose covered with a white pollution mask. He asked me something in Japanese, I answered by asking him, “Do you speak any English?” Before he could answer, another officer approached with urgency and got directly in front of me and looked me in the eyes and asked in broken English, “Passport?”

That is when the nightmare began. See, my visa was sitting comfortably on the desk in the air-conditioned office of the visa officer on the second floor of the Korean Embassy forty feet away. He just stared, not having any idea what I just said to him. The stare is what produced my panic, any response would have signaled at least a hint of understanding. Nothing, Nada, Zilch. Just a blank stare that began to increase intensity when he again asked, “Passport?” This time it was less of a question and more of a directive. I took a deep breath and was extremely conscious of speaking slow, even and soft- my freedom was now in serious question. I reached to take my pack off my back and a third officer approached and stopped me with fear and intensity in his eyes that were open wide. I stopped without flinching or reacting suddenly. He asked again for my passport and I again tried to explain that it was at the Korean Embassy knowing what little they understood was being communicated by an American that keeps bringing up the Korean Embassy; a two for one of Japans two greatest targets of prejudice and hate.

They then demanded to see some identification. I reached slowly for my wallet and showed them my Wisconsin drivers license, which only added to their concern. I was giving them an American drivers license when I said I live in South Korea. “Open your bag!”

I slowly released my backpack off my shoulders onto the cement sidewalk full of pedestrians walking by. I was too scared to see if they were watching or not but I could feel their stares rolling off my back. I slid the zipper of the largest compartment open and took out my MacBook covered in a pillowcase that I purchased from an old Tibetan couple at a twelve-day Teaching with the Dalai Llama in August of 1999. Then my little purple, orange, black and red knit bag that I found on the sidewalk in Madison, WI a few years ago with my iPod, cords and my black cannon S5 IS camera that shot over 500 pictures in the previous three days in Japan. My yellow, brown and ochre writing pad that is almost full of pages written this summer. The book I am learning how to read and speak Korean. And finally, my soft, clear plastic Nalgene bottle that I have drank from every day since the spring of 1995 full of tap water from the youth hostel I stayed in the night before in Kyoto. Still no expression.

The medium pocket with my small pad I carry for notes and drawings for language barrier emergencies was of no help with Japanese police. Then I saw the e-ticket for my flights to and from Incheon-Seoul airport and Kansai, “Maybe this will help”. I showed it to them excitedly until they pointed out to each other that I came from Seoul. “You came from Korea? I thought you were an American! Where is your passport!”

The officer with the white mask covering his nose and mouth from pollution spoke to one of the other officers and then looked at me and said, “We take you to police station now!” I cold feel my freedom evaporating- no E-2 visa, no flight back to Incheon-Seoul and no life in Korea or elsewhere. I motioned with my fingers for them to walk with me to the Korean Embassy to get my passport. “We take you to police station now!”

I took a deep breathe, I remembered what has worked in most life situations since I was first trained and attuned in January of 1996 in my cherry wood paneled loft out in the country. Reiki! I took another deep breath and invited Reiki into the space for a few seconds, maybe ten. Then the strangest thing happened. They all just walked away. No internal conversation, no “I am sorry for bothering you”, no “OK, you can go now”. They just independently walked away in three different directions as if nothing happened.

I was standing there on the street corner with my black pack on the ground opened by myself. I picked up my pack, slipped it on my back and walked the forty feet to the Korean Embassy. I walked up the stairs to the right passed one of the officers who just violated me and my space to the automatic glass sliding doors to enter the Korean Embassy. Up the stairs to the visa issuing officer. It was now 1:28, I was two minutes early. I sat on one of the available seats and held back my tears on the outside but on the inside, I was drenched. I survived my Hollywood nightmare in Namba, Japan.

My number was called, “13” and I was issued my E-2 visa. I shared my experiences with the officer who appeared genuinely bothered. I returned down the steps out the door past the two officers guarding the Embassy and to the sushi bar around the corner I discovered earlier for my last opportunity for fresh sushi in Japan. It was an incredible meal! I paid my bill and headed towards Namba station to take the train to Kansai International Airport.

I never thought in my life that a Korean Embassy in Japan would be such a welcome sight to an American from North Jersey just outside of NYC. For me, it was the end of the nightmare and the beginning of my trip home safely to Cheonan.

Please Leave your Shoes at the Door

2008-08-21T10:29:00.003-04:00

I enter the door of Cheonanyoungam elementary school for the first time after sleeping just a few hours from my journey that lasted more than twenty-four hours. I am exhausted and anxious about the new opportunity that awaits me on the other side of the double glass doors to this large brick building an entire block long. Just three steps in and my new manager stops me and points to my shoes. Then directs me to the cubbyholes where the slippers for guests are kept and instructs me to take mine off and replace them with the slippers that have Korean writing along the top. I internally smirk at the idea that I brought with me a good pair of shoes just to be professional at work and I will never where them in the building during my one year commitment here as an esl teacher.

For many years, I have practiced the Buddhist tradition of taking off footwear before entering the home. The physical and mental decision to leave the outside world outside has been valuable and supportive to me in my spiritual development. During my two weeks of notice before coming to Korea, I had forgotten that detail and was not aware that in Korea, public schools are treated like homes and no shoes are worn in the building.

As cumbersome as it can be when leaving for lunch or something to switch back and forth between shoes and slippers, I enjoy working in slippers. I like teaching in slippers and the feeling of warmth and family that it creates. Besides, they are much more comfortable and relaxing to stand all day teaching. I bought my own pair to keep at the school and the vice-principal who is very worried how a man who is single will survive alone in Korea has given me my very own cubbyhole near the middle entrance to keep my slippers in.

When parents or even construction-type workers enter the building, they either bring their own slippers or wear the guest pairs available to anyone. It brings me great joy to see men gutting and putting together the two new computer rooms and the new English teachers office in a form of slippers. Quite different than the heavy work boots that men wear when working in the USA. It reminds me of a piece on 60 Minutes I watched five years ago after a football game about mowing the lawn and gender. The reporter explained how men wear heavy work boots when mowing the lawn with clothes built for protection from something dangerous. He then showed brief videos of women mowing the lawn in pretty sundresses and sandals with summer hats and fashionable sunglasses. His point was that men see any kind if outdoor work as an expression of their manhood and women try to find a way to enjoy experiences when possible (and get a “tan”) and see no reason to put on their “battle fatigues” to mow the lawn. This is the image I maintain in my head about the contrast of intention and mentality of men that are Korean and American. One is proving the size of his penis while the other is proving that being a man includes caring about children and the sense of home.

This is one of the ways that Koreans make schools feel like an extension of home to children. There is no feeling if sterility, austerity or power from the teachers to the students. The kids offer too much respect for that to happen, even if a teacher thought that it might be helpful. Kids do not give teachers the finger, curse at them, sit in the back of the class with hands folded sulking or storm out of the room dramatically. A child would not do this because it is not what you do to teachers AND it would be embarrassing to act that way in front of your friends. It would demonstrate traits that children do not appreciate, so to act that way would cause them to be friendless and lose respect from their teacher and parents. Here, losing respect is a big deal and something that children work very hard to avoid. They want to be thought of as smart, hard working and caring, anything less is a reason for a child to cry out of internal shame.

I enjoy living and working in a land where slippers are worn in homes and schools, and a sense of home is more important than a sense of self-importance among principals, teachers, parents and kids.

Korean Expectations

2008-08-20T09:07:00.003-04:00

Be Nice, always
Be Happy, always
Be Respectful, always
Be Healthy, always
Be Yourself, always
Be Genuine, always
Be Smart, always
Be your Best, always
Be a Family Representative, always
Be part of Life, always
Be Open, always
Be Honest, always
Be Joy, always
Be Gratitude, always
Be Educated, always
Be Humble, always
Be, always

August Nights In Cheonan

2008-08-19T10:09:00.002-04:00

It is a cool night for August in Cheonan. The humidity is still present, I can tell by the moisture in my apartment from the shirts, socks, underwear and slacks hanging to dry. We have not had many nights like this in the five weeks I have been here. I take advantage of the break in the heat and venture out for an evening walk with a stomach full of tofu, potatoes and carrots sautéed over green cabbage and a large fresh vegetables salad with sunflower seeds on top. The oil and vinegar dressing I made reminds of home, my mother.

I walk out the front door of the Darae House where I live across the stone and cement walkway to the street cattycornered from the Blue Café still trying to seduce me in its doors unsuccessfully. I pass the Cozy Café again peering in and wondering if it is really a café, or is it another code word for bar. Everything else on Ssang-yongdong gil is restaurants with Korean names I cannot yet understand but can read without any comprehension. I turn right up the slight incline to the main street in the Ssang-yongdong neighborhood before I get to the Police station with policemen always outside smoking cigarettes, since they seem to have little else to do. I have been here five weeks and have not seen or heard anything producing evidence of crime in this mid-sized city of a half million people. Next to the station is a lighted park with some cement seats and a basketball court with teenage boys shooting hoops. A boy of about 6’2” is playing against two boys and beating them badly, he has skills and knows it. I cross the street and see many families and young people playing soccer, basketball, badminton and just hanging around the dirt and gravel lot of Cheonanyoungam elementary school where I am a teacher. I smile knowing that fun, family and community continue there long after I go home. I like this school and the family-based feeling it manifests. I continue around the corner to an area of the neighborhood I have not ventured to yet except by #14 bus to downtown Cheonan.

They have nice wide sidewalks made for comfortable walking for families and relaxation. Koreans love to enjoy a casual walk after dinner till late at night. They are out most nights as individuals with iPods, couples holding hands, teens walking home from English academies and families being families. I notice the soft, gentle pace of all the walkers, none have on designated walking outfits, none are with equipment to lose weight, and none are running in tight Lycra displaying their bodies. They are walking for walking sake. They look happy with smiles on their faces evidencing the simplicity of an activity of peace, community and health. It is refreshing walking on these rose, yellow and green tiled cement walkways without observing people jogging in complete misery desperate to lose another three pounds. No misery walking in Korea. Walking is for health, not appearance.

After a mile or so, I mean about fifteen hundred kilometers, (I couldn’t resist); I walk up an incline to little park with benchs and a center resting area. I sit and stare at the clouds hovering above; they are white, soft and mostly still. The gentle breeze is not enough to get them moving, so I can see and take time to watch. A young girl of about eight or nine runs up the hill excited, quickly looks at me and sits across from me to look at the foreigner. She is careful to not be rude- her glances are brief and non-direct. Since she is young, I know she can speak some English, I assume that is why she is here in the first place. Young kids love to practice their limited English on foreigners.

I say, “Hello”.
She smiles, containing her excitement and replies, “Hi!” She looks away to not seem eager or disrespectful to an adult, especially a foreigner. A moment later, she gets up, says, “Good-bye”, glances at me briefly and runs down the hill and across the thin side street. She is back a few minutes later while I am still staring and appreciating the clouds and the trees. I say, “Hello” again to make her feel welcome. Kids here cannot wait to say “Hello” to anyone who will let them. I am a willing participant at any opportunity I can get. Who would not want to be the focus of these beautiful, excited smiles?
I get up to leave, and say “Good-bye” again.
She says, “Bye Bye”.
I ask, “How are you?”
“I am fine” she responds in perfect English as if she has done so every day of her life.
“Nice to meet you” I say knowing they are all taught to say this.
“Nice to meet you too.” She bows, as do I. I walk away smiling from ear to ear, she is beaming next to her little brother.

The walk back to my space is full of breathing in the night air, noticing young kids out walking, talking and riding bikes after ten at night and feeling Blessed to be here in Korea. I reflect for a moment on how I will ever be able to return to a land without bowing, casual walking, friendliness, cops too bored to do anything but smoke cigarettes and families enjoying the night without regard for the hour embracing now and this moment. I have a flinch of shame over how many nights I have been too lazy or distracted to make my evening walk here in Cheonan to remember life and why it is so special. I stop at Tous les Jous and buy their last baguette for the night for the equivalent of $1.50. I walk with it in my right hand past folks sitting on the floor of the restaurant on my right just before I turn towards my street. Again, I peer in the windows of the Cozy Café without discerning any more than the other ten times I have tried and failed. This was a great walk. I walk up the steps to the second floor, entering my apartment and clothes hanging on my hand made indoor clothesline. It is good to be home and actually have a home.

American TV Reruns in Korea

2008-08-13T11:39:00.001-04:00

It is amusing to see which American TV shows turn up on Korean Digital cable. The other night I saw Windfall, which did not make it through its first season in America but is shown nightly in Korea with subtitles. Dexter, whatever that show is about, is also on nightly, as well as How I Met Your Mother. I have not seen any of these shows in the USA and do not feel all that motivated to watch them here. The one that I was totally surprised to see here was a show that only lasted a few episodes on CW named Hidden Palms. I wonder if Koreans think that they are watching the best of American TV or are they aware that they are getting many throw away series that can only recoup their investments by selling them to unknowing subscribers elsewhere. Or am I the fool that thinks that these subscribers are blind. Maybe they know that they have an audience market here that was not successful in the U.S. Is there really a market for Windfall and Hidden Palms subtitled here in Korea?

With there being several questionable reruns here, shows that have been very successful in America like Greys Anatomy, 30 Rock and Boston Legal are also shown regularly on some of the Fox affiliates in Korea. Fox is the sole American Network that has several prominent cable channels in Korea. Almost all of the English TV shows from America are on one of the Fox affiliates, somehow I feel like a hypocrite by watching anything connected to Fox TV but I too enjoy a distraction from time to time, TV is one of them. Along with plenty of comedy, drama, drama, drama and reality TV, Korea includes some programming for those with finer tastes interested in Korean history and culture will not be disappointed, as long as they speak HanGul. If not, Arirang is the English option that will demonstrate Korea for tourists and foreigners alike.

Oh yeah, one more thing, digital cable costs less here than basic cable in the U.S. and the service is more personal, they even schedule around your needs in about one day notice and the installation is done by people who treat their customers with respect- there is no “you are lucky we came” attitude here. Just another example of traditional culture surviving in the modern world. The installer will bow at your door and take of their shoes, replace them with their own slippers and ask you if they can come in. Welcome to Korea.

A Korean Resaurant

2008-08-12T10:06:00.002-04:00

“Annyeong-haseyo”

You will always hear this when you enter a Korean restaurant. It is the greeting for Good Morning/Afternoon/Evening, and they mean it. They will shout this out from the kitchen if they hear somebody enter. There is not a clinical or air of western austerity, just a warm welcome, a bow and a tray with little metal cups and a 1 liter glass bottle of water from the tap you can pour yourself at your leisure. Often the cook, host, owner and wait staff is all the same person.

If you choose a traditional restaurant, you will see a rack at the door when you enter to take your shoes off before entering the dining room. There will be a slight elevation to distinguish the entrance for the dining room; they don’t waste space on hallways and things like that, everything is used. Some nicer restaurants will have slippers for you to wear while dining, if not bare feet or socks will do fine. Traditional seating is on the floor, again, nicer places will offer you flat cushions to sit on if you desire. It is fun seeing mothers with children and businesspeople dressed professional all seated on the floor enjoying their meals.

The utensils, metal chopsticks and a soup spoons, are typically in a little box with a clear glass lid where you can take your eating utensils for yourself, along with a napkin holder with napkins that resemble tissues more than napkins in their thickness and size, nothing is wasted. The floor typically will have a thin piled rug for each table and a real wooden table in a rectangular shape. It is not unusual for strangers to share the same table, nothing is wasted and everybody is family.

If you do not speak or read HanGul, ordering can be tricky, even traumatic at times. If you stare and look stupid long enough they will just bring you something traditional and smile warmly. They know foreigners do not typically eat food as spicy as theirs, so they will bring you a milder dish. There is no judgment for foreigners lack of knowledge, they feel worse about it than the customer because they really want you to feel comfortable and at home. Quickly they will scurry away to bring the order to the kitchen and return with another tray full of “side dishes” that are to be shared by everyone directly from the dishes they come in. There are no separate plates/bowls for each person with the exception of receiving a small cup of a broth-like soup similar to Miso soup to cleanse the palette before the meal, nothing is wasted. It is fun to share food; it breeds warmth, conversation and closeness while enjoying the meal. The side dishes typically will include a small dish of Kimchi and another small dish of pickled yellow radish sliced thinly, those are the two most common. You may also find various forms of cooked greens with sesame or some other delicious sauce; small strips of seasoned pork, a flavored ground and textured bean paste or substance, or other pickled vegetables. It all comes free with your meal, as does the broth-like soup. While you are picking on the side dishes, your main meal will be served. Most meals are made to be eaten individually but some are for more than one person and to be shared like all the other foods on the table. If you are struggling with chopsticks, they gladly will bring you a fork without laughing or being insulted, they understand and accept differences. Most meals come with a small bowl of rice in a metal bowl with a metal lid that can be taking on and off to keep the rice warm, or noodles. There are rarely breads with a meal. One of the most enjoyable features of Korean food is that meals have compatible foods that go with each other for taste, digestion and nutrition, all is on balance with each other. The exception is the Korean versions of fast food like fried or BBQ chicken. Most meals are based with a sauce of either red pepper, which is very spicy and hot, or a bean paste, except for meals that are stews, which can be anything that tastes and belongs together. The juicy stews are such good meals and you will never leave without being full and satisfied with your body happy and smiling.

One area where my ego is out of balance is related to the consumption of food, specifically, quantity. I have always eaten more than small families and when I was younger I thought that was something to be proud of like drinking more beer than others, which I also did as well when younger. Korean meals are made to leave you feeling full and satisfied. They are not based on leaving you still unsatiated so you will order desert, they want you pleased and full. It is very difficult to finish all the food on the table, very difficult. It is expected you will leave some of your side dishes or rice uneaten, it is not considered offensive to the cook, they want you to be full and complete when you leave. Many restaurants will offer you a small cup of green tea or coffee flavored like some kind of latte-type thing for free when you are done.

At most local neighborhood establishments, you will eat all that I mentioned made to perfection for the equivalent of between $4-7, yes, you read that correctly, less than eight dollars is the typical meal outside of Seoul, and not much more in Seoul. They do not change the prices or quantities for lunch and dinner; you get the same good value and quantity every time you eat. One other thing, they do not change their menus often and typically only have one or two “specials” which are not really specials since they are part of the printed menu on the wall. Special means a little bit more expensive, like the equivalent of two dollars and includes more ingredients.

As someone who has been a professional cook and finds cooking to be one of my favorite activities, it is hard to choose not to go out to eat, since it is such good food, warm atmosphere and cheaper than preparing your own meals. Like if McDonalds starting making real food by real people that was healthier than what you can make at home but in a delightful atmosphere. Hard to get motivated to go to the store and put together a meal when you can walk a block in any direction and have ten choices to eat, much like most NYC neighborhoods but cheaper than home, better quality and taste. There is no tipping as an added charge, and they include taxes in the price of the meal. It really costs what it says it costs. They don’t need a tip to serve you well; they do it because that is what you do here. If all else sucked for me in Korea, which is doesn’t, I would stay here for the food till I learned how to make all the dishes traditionally. The food and atmosphere is worth the trip all by itself.

On the way out, “Anyeonghi-gaseo” goodbye, and another bow while you are putting your shoes back on your feet smiling from a great meal and good people. Welcome to Korea.

Couch Surfing In South Korea

2008-08-11T09:27:00.003-04:00

One of the most positive and fruitful experiences I have had on the Internet was finding out about and becoming an active member of The CouchSurfing Project.

The CouchSurfing Project is a non-profit organization that has grown to over 675,000 members hosting each other throughout the world when traveling. Members of the community will host you in their homes for no charge and welcome you to your current destination. “Surfers”, the name for those whom are traveling, may find themselves sleeping on a big bed in a private room, or an office with a fold-up cot, a library with a futon, a living room with a couch and sometimes even an air mattress or the floor of a den. The hosts profile will describe exactly what they can offer you, so you know in advance what to expect of and if the accommodations are acceptable to your needs. Most of the Couchsurfers homes I have stayed in have welcomed and offered me to eat or use whatever I need in their space, others express clearly what they are or not comfortable with.

There are some community members who may not be able to or willing offer housing, but do offer to meet for a coffee or drink, and help you feel welcome and safe on the road. This is also a very positive experience for those who want to support travelers but, are not in a position to offer their homes. The sense of meeting community members while traveling is very comforting when traveling to a place I have not been before. Often they will help you find places or services you are looking for and/or show you around to the sights and experiences that a travel guide may not know about or be able to provide for you.

The relationships that I have established that were born through my CouchSurfing experiences are ones I will maintain for as long as possible. I have met and interacted with some quite amazing people and we shared our lives, pain and joys with each other- to me, that is the foundation of community; a rare commodity while traveling.

Since landing in South Korea, I have sent emails to meet other CouchSurfers locally. They have been both native Koreans and folks living here from elsewhere. I am glad to say that the small but motivated CouchSurfing community here in South Korea is thriving and alive. If you are looking to visit or move to South Korea and want to become part of a community of folks trying to bring the world a little closer and safer together, I invite you to explore and become a member of The CouchSurfing Project. The web address is http://www.couchsurfing.com

If you want any help with or someone to connect with, my username is michaelsits. I encourage you to contact me if you feel moved, and Happy Surfing!

Rediscovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

2008-08-10T08:06:00.001-04:00

Discovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

I spent part of my afternoon at Deoksugung Palace and the Korean National Museum of Art after escaping Itaewon and all the American tourists buying Puma or Nike sneakers, Gap shorts and Levis jeans in Seoul, South Korea. I have never understood why Americans fly all over the world to go shopping for things they can purchase at their local mall. It is not like America doesn’t have enough malls, although I am not a very good American tourist, I must have missed the class on how to be a quality American tourist no matter where you go.

The Palace was elegant, homey, fun and stirred some old memories from different times and places from before I was michael. I have been here before; not as who I am today in this body. It’s nice to visit home away from home every now and then. My heart felt full of times when I lived more focused and committed than I do today. There was no remorse for the steps I have taken backwards, it was more about remembering who I am, and what and where I have come from as a human and as a Presence.

As invigorating as the Palace experience was for me, the art museum reached deeper. It never occurred to me while riding the yellow, orange, brown and blues lines downtown that I would end up at a Korean art museum exhibiting Latin American art in downtown Seoul. I giggled internally when walking up the steps and could feel the smirk on my face.

The exhibit rocked. Each viewing room and its theme touched a different part of me. The first room full of work expressing The Revolution connected with The Revolutionary in me that is never too far from the surface. Diego Rivera’s work got me the most fired-up with his passion and use of colors and texture that soothe and stir simultaneously.

The exhibit on mixing of cultures and races with black, brown and every shade of woman in between with their varied bodies, fashion, joy and pain reminded me of how long women have struggled for recognition and respect.

The final two rooms exhibited work focused on cultural and individual identity. Of course, this is when I felt most connected with the artists and the brushstrokes and heart strokes of their lives as people. Folks seemed to be moved by Frida Cahlo’s pieces the most, me, it was the force of Wilfredo Lam, Alexandro Xul Solar and Roberto Matta Echaurren.

Apparently I needed a dose of Latin American culture while visiting Seoul. I am grateful to have experienced such beauty and passion here next to City Hall in Seoul.

Two Old Friends

2008-08-08T11:52:00.000-04:00

Earlier today while waiting for the Orange #3 line subway to downtown Seoul, I observed something that has stayed with me all day.

A gentleman of at least sixty-five years of age was patiently, relaxing seated on a slatted wooden bench next to two women far enough away to probably not be traveling together. He had that soft comfortable face that demonstrates successful life; one that has obtained success economically, socially and lovingly. His eyes were focused in a non-focused manner. He looked like he could sit there all day in his off-white cotton pants and white shirt with thin stripes were those of a man who can buy anything but doesn’t need to impress anyone any more.

All of a sudden, his expression changed to elation with his brown eyes wide, cheeks full and warm smile exuding joy. He immediately stood up as he sees a friend walking towards him. They both looked so happy and surprised to see each other. I didn’t need to speak the language or understand HanGul to recognize that.

His friend was dressed similarly with thicker stripes on his shirt and slightly darker pants. They both looked like what happens when life works.

The thin striped man gestured for his friend to sit next to him on the bench. The energy and exchanges of words, smiles and warmth filled me up, as it did even more so to both of them beaming for all to see in Suseo station. They mad me want to be old, to have experienced enough peaks and valleys to know they are neither peaks nor valleys, and just keep on walking.

It provides such hope to me to witness men sharing these kinds of moments together. The moments were extended when it turned out they were both going to the same place, or just decided to after talking. I sat next to them to continue to soak up the appreciation of these two old friends that bumped into each other while waiting for the Orange #3 line going towards Dahwia. I didn’t go that far. I followed the advice of everyone I spoke to that said I should go to Itaewon, “Where all the foreigners are”. My gut told me that foreigners meant white tourists shopping and looking for American culture in the heart of Seoul, South Korea. My suspicion was correct, they were all buying Puma, Nike, Louis Vetonne and Levis all the way in Seoul, instead of their local mall. I wished I had listened to my gut and avoided Itaewon altogether and sat next to the two old men and landed wherever they landed.

The richness of their eye contact, soft cheeks, warm words, voice tomes and energy is still with me eight hours later on that same orange #3 line headed back to the suburbs of Bandung. These memories have made this ride almost as enjoyable as the one sitting next to the two old friends riding the orange #3 this afternoon.

7,800 Miles?

2008-08-06T11:15:00.002-04:00

Dunkin Donuts, KFC, MacDonalds, Apple Mall, Starbucks, Krispy Kreme, Cafe Latte, suburban clones, OMG, etc.
Isn't this what i left home to get away from?

Augsut 7, 2008- Seoul (Bandung), South Korea

The Korean Haircut

2008-08-05T10:22:00.002-04:00

Looking in hair salon and barbershop windows like a stalker in search of his prey, I roamed the streets of Ssang-yangdong neighborhood for a place to get a haircut. No, not the place with the hairdressers in fake brown hair. I’ll pass on the salon with the sign stating their cheapest haircut is 29,000 won, equal to about $29.00 US dollars. I keep looking and staring in windows. As I pass the Lotte Mart on the right across from the Baskin Robbins Ice Cream shop, I see a sign for 4,000 won in the large glass window of a hair place. Of course, it must be 4,000 won for some specific service that is additional to the haircut itself, maybe shampoo or a shave?

I step up the single step to enter their front door and an older man wearing black slacks and a button down shirt comes from the back of the shop and greets me and says, “Do you want a haircut?” in perfect English! What a relief.

I ask, “How much?”

He replies promptly, “Are you a member?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been here before?”

I knew there was a catch or something to the 4,000-won haircut. “No.”

“OK. It is 4,000 won. Do you want a haircut?”

“Yes.”

He points to a seat on the couch on the other side of a coffee table covered with scattered newspapers that have been read and reread throughout the day, or week. “Sit down.”

I sit following orders. I scan the newspapers in HanGul and see a picture of a baseball player. It must be the sports section. I pick it up and remember I cannot read HanGul yet. I put it back down and sit patiently staring at nothing.

Less than five minutes go by and he walks over and says, “OK.” And points to an open station in front of a young woman wearing a nice comfortable black dress with short black hair simple but stylish.

I get up and start to sit and he points to a little plastic covered series of men’s pictures to demonstrate styles of men’s haircuts. They are all cuts made for Asian hair, not my thick, heavy Italian hair. I get nervous thinking of having to pick one that will not be successful for me. He recognizes my confusion and asks, “Do you se a style you want?”

“I would like the same I have but shorter” pointing to my head. As if he didn’t know wear my hair was.

“OK” He then has a brief conversation with the woman about to cut my hair in HanGul and she starts right in while he is still carrying on a conversation with me. “Where are you from?”

“New Jersey, I mean America, right outside of New York City.”

“Good.” He nods his head in affirmation of something and walks away. She is cutting away like a trained technician. In America, it seems there is more of a need for making the customer feel special, cared for. They are not technicians as much as service providers. She was a technician.

At one point about five minutes later, she said something in one word that I did not understand that I think was q question. I just nodded my head yes and hoped I did not just give her permission to shave my head. She continued cutting.

The rest of the haircut was in silence. I have never had a silent haircut before. I am not sure I have even ever had a haircut when I was not flirted with as part of the “service” whether woman or gay man cutting my hair. I closed my eyes and relaxed. One of the benefits of very poor vision is the lack of ability to see your hair being cut. When you put on your glasses after completion, it doesn’t matter if you like it or not; it is already cut.

When I was in my early twenties, I tried wearing hard contacts for a little while. During those few months of dry eyes and always being tired with headaches; I got a haircut at a neighborhood salon by a killer babe with long brownish-black hair, a dangerous body and a soft smile. I saw every chop and clip of my hair falling away for the first time in my life and it was horrific. I stopped wearing haircuts and made a promise to myself I would never wear glasses, contacts or anything else while receiving a haircut again. I have kept my promise so far.

She said something in a short phrase and looked at me for a response. I assumed she was asking me if I liked it or wanted it shorter. I pointed to my glasses with a smile and when she handed them to me gently, I put them on and looked. I liked the cut, simple and short. She is a technician. The man came over and asked, “Is it OK?”

“Yes. Perfect.”

He nods and walked away. She cleaned me up including this really cool wide vacuum hose that took all the little hairs off my scalp and head in just ten seconds! She finishes and nodded at me.

I got up, put my glasses back on and went to see the man at the small black counter near the front door. I asked, “Should I give her a tip?” Since there is no tipping at restaurants, I thought it was a fair question.

He laughed a little and said warmly, “No.” Then a minute later, he added, “If you want to give her 1,000 won that would be OK” I did. The total for my haircut was 5,000-won including tip! This is about $5 US dollars. No flirting or conversations about celebrities while being flirted with and an occasional breast rub against the back of the neck for extra service but she was a technician I and I got a 5,000 won haircut. Things certainly are different here. A haircut costs less than the tip in America. And, I did not have to hear the latest about Britney, Lindsay, Angelina’s new baby or Paris being naked

Kids Running Free

2008-08-04T11:38:00.002-04:00

It is nearly 10:00p.m. I am walking home from the grocery store after picking up some soy milk with a picture of a soybean on the outside, red leaf lettuce, ripe bananas and Korean Tofu. I spent the day in downtown Cheonan for the first time by myself. I braved the bus system without any Korean language skills and was successful in my round trip. Of course, along the way I thought, “I must be going the wrong way” at least five times each way. At least the attractive woman with the subtle, warm fragrance eased my fears on the return trip. Yes, I made it safely both ways, walked around downtown, had some Kimpop as a snack in an urban park with concrete, tile and marble foundation and a really neat water fountain that raised and lowered its multiple sprouts. For dinner I enjoyed a Korean table “barbeque” of marinated chicken with peppers, onions and very spicy. It was fun eating it with the leaf lettuce they provided along with the Kimchi, pickled radish and a salad of green cabbage with sweet kiwi yoghurt dressing on top.

It has cooled tonight and the fresh air feels real nice on my skin after a hot scorching day. There are kids walking around in small groups and as individuals. They look happy, safe and free. It is approaching 10:00p.m. and kids are out by themselves on the streets. This would be unheard of back in America. Kids and parents have been programmed to believe all children are unsafe by themselves anywhere, anytime, especially at night in an urban environment. Not here in Cheonan. Kids who barely reach my waist are out food shopping for their families, eating Korean pizza, laughing and playing. There are many girls dressed in their uniforms with grey skirts and white button-down shirts from the private English schools they attend at night. Boys dressed similarly with business casual pants and white dress shirts enjoying the nighttime after their studies eating ice cream on a stick from the convenience store Buy the way. I see one of the students at the school I teach. He is on his blue bike and comes up next to me with his face excited and points, “Teacher!” I pat him on the head, smile and say slowly so he will understand, “Hello. How are you doing?” He is so excited to see his English teacher form America he forgets what those words mean and just says, “Hello” the default setting whenever they don’t know what to say to a native English speaker. I smile at his joy in being able to say anything to me. He waves goodbye, turns his bike in the direction it was originally facing and says “Bye, Bye” in the exact tone and cadence that I used when dong our practice in class the other day.

I enjoy seeing the kids out at night walking around doing their thing. They don’t seem afraid or even think they should be afraid, which is the thing that warms my heart the most. They have not yet been brainwashed into believing they are a target and therefore should run and hide at home or be monitored by their parents or some other paid person 24/7. Not here in Cheonan, maybe in Seoul, but not here in Cheonan- yet. When will the West convince them that kids should be watched every minute of every day and that they are helpless and in danger. That being a kid means you are not capable of much except going to school and helping with making chocolate chip cookies and brownies. These kids are trusted and respected, and they have respect for the parents, teachers (most of the time) and adults in general.
No, not here in Cheonan. Kids here roam the streets at night and play basketball or badminton. At least, not yet.
August 4, 2008

A Land Without Lifting and Separating

2008-08-03T09:05:00.002-04:00

It is refreshing to walk down the street and see women’s bodies, well, look like women’s bodies. Since Victoria’s Secret came out with the first Miracle Bra, lifting and separating have become the way of the American female. This is even true with girls in middle school who are still part of the itty-bitty-titty-committee and, therefore, nothing to actually lift or separate. Here in Cheonan, South Korea, I do not think I have seen more than a handful of women who think they need to make the breasts look like something other than a human female and her natural beauty. And by the way, Victoria’s Secret isn’t really a secret, men liking sexy lingerie on the women they love existed way before “Victoria” and her air-brushed models that haven’t eaten since the late eighties shared her “secret” with us.

I have also seen very few women who feel obligated to make sure we see their bra every time they leave the house. It is a fashion and style that I find unattractive and have since it first become popular among the late night bar scene girls about a dozen years ago. I think Madonna was the one responsible for starting this trend but am not certain. Whether it is male or female, I really do not want to see your underwear, even if it is a pink, silk thong. I think being the only person who sees someone’s underwear is half the fun of seeing it. It being public viewing somehow reduces this sense of a private and intimate experience.

The third form of fashion that has come to my attention is the polarity of choices of exposure to the sun in America and here in South Korea. Cute little white girls dedicate their whole summer to “getting a tan”. It is a full-time job that pretty much nullifies any other daytime commitments for many a white college girl. Here in the east, women go to even greater lengths to NOT let their skin change color. In fact, many walk a way around with a special form of umbrella specifically made for shielding a woman from the sun. Woman who are a little older use a different method of limiting exposure of the sun and its rays. They were these neat sun visors that are similar to what many tennis players wear, except it extends out much further blocking exposure to the whole face, not just the eyes.

I have enjoyed observing the differences between cultures and what they see as attractive and what they go to great lengths to avoid. It may be just the novelty of something new and different, but so far, being in a culture where sexuality is not flaunted as openly is refreshing and helpful in supporting me becoming the man I know I am to be. I cannot imagine how much easier it must be for the women.

Korean Cafeteria Food for Kids

2008-08-01T13:14:00.001-04:00

My first day at the elementary school I was about to become an English teacher for the next year, was quite overwhelming. I arrived at my new room a little after midnight after leaving Newark, NJ, USA at 9:28a.m. the day before. The cabdriver they had pick me up at the airport brought me directly to my room from Incheon International Airport. The ride took about 80 minutes which I think I fell asleep briefly from the excitement twice. He could not find my room when we got here but eventually he was able to find it. A well-dressed, attractive young woman employee from the nightclub down street helped him. I thought it was interesting that my initiation to Korea was founded on a nightclub girl who looked at me slyly like she already had dibs on me. So far, I have not stepped foot in that club to hunt her down.

As I opened the door to my room to walk in, the taxi driver who spoke minimal English immediately stopped me and pointed to my shoes and the lowered space by the door for me to take them off before entering. I forgot! There was a hand written note informing me that my manger will be by at 11:00a.m. to take me to school. By the time I showered, shaved and unpacked a few things, it was near 3:00a.m. My small studio apartment has a main room with a metal sink, and counter next to the double gas burners across from the half-sized fridge. There is a desk for me to work at and a tiny mounted table to eat at with two chairs with yellow metal backs and soft cushions for my butt. The bathroom has everything necessary but no actual tub or separate area for the shower. It is just another part of the bathroom in general.

After just a few hours of sleep, I woke due to the heat and noise of the city. I crawled out of bed, exhausted but even hungrier than tired. I wandered around the neighborhood full of small shops, private English schools and many places to eat until I gave up trying to figure out what anything is before ordering. I purchased a nice little portion of greens in a red chili sauce from a take-out place with a mother in daughter inside preparing the food and quickly went home to eat before meeting my new manager that the note stated I should not be late. The food was hot, spicy and delicious and forecasted what kind of foods I would be eating accurately.

She showed up on time, smiled half-heartedly and asked, “Are you ready to go?’ as if I had a choice.

I said quickly and professionally, “Yes, just let me get my stuff. How far do we have to go?”

“Just a few blocks, the school is very close”. Four and a half blocks to be exact, directly across from the police department and a small park with a basketball court. Upon arriving at the school, my manger directed me to a series of “Cubby-holes” and lifted the third one from the right on the top row and said, “You can take your shoes off and use the visitor slippers for today.” I put on a pair of soft, comfortable brown slippers with Korean writing on the outside. Like she did at my room, she hurried me along to meet my co-worker in the after-school homework program. Which I did, along with the principle, vice-principle and the school’s English teacher. I did not recall any of their names or anything else. Fortunately, I was saved by my favorite words in life spoken from my new manger, “Are you hungry?” Those magic words that solve everything in life for me.

The school cafeteria was full of bustling kids grabbing trays with little metal dividers built-in and large canisters stuffed with metal chopsticks and soupspoons. I watched and followed what everybody else was doing. When we got to the front of the line, my tray was filled with large quantities of Kim chi, white rice, a yellow fruit sliced thinly and a seafood soup and a compartment with a pile of spaghetti. My first real meal in Korea included spaghetti with a tomato sauce, pretty funny for an Italian guy from New Jersey, USA. Everything was delicious, even the Korean-Italian spaghetti.

I have eaten at our school cafeteria since then. Every meal consists of rice, Kim chi, a vegetable or fruit, fresh soup and something else. It is interesting to me that these elementary school children eat a more balanced and healthy meal then almost the entirety of American adults, forget about the kids. They make the food fresh every morning with the clanging if huge pts and pans with the women in the kitchen hurriedly preparing actual real food for these kids every day. There are no other choices except the one meal like there is in America, they all finish their meals and smile while eating, laughing and talking with their friends. There is no fighting, casing trouble or anything else. They are too busy enjoying their meal. Outside of the amazed stares at “the foreigner”, they eat, laugh and talk. What a great recipe for children learning and growing mentally, physically and spiritually.

Let’s do a quick nutrition analysis of Korean versus American school cafeteria food:
Frozen generic seafood sticks ------- fresh squid, crab and clam soup
Frozen fried chicken -------------------fresh chicken soup with a chicken leg in every bowl
White iceberg lettuce with a few slivers of carrot and a pale tomato------ Fresh Kim chi
Minute-made rice--------- actual rice
Canned and processed Campbell’s soups----------fresh sop complete with vegetables and chicken, pork or seafood made daily

It is hard for me to imagine why American schools feed children the food they do. Who came up with theory that kids will only eat food bad for them that is completely de-natured? What are we doing to our children?

Greater Value Than Money

2008-08-01T10:05:00.000-04:00

As an American that grew up thirty miles from NYC, money has always had high importance in my life. Both my parents were children during the great Depression and never quite accepted times of affluence or at least economic comfort in their lives. I inherited their fears and sense of scarcity in general but more specifically, food and money. I was raised to be financial successful as a means of measuring my manhood since money is the currency that acquires women, the ultimate prize and stature of a man. The value of money and the women attached to its attainment were al I was groomed for as a young man. It took forty-seven years and a seven thousand mile airplane flight for me to see there is actually something of greater value than money. A good umbrella.

It rains often and heavy here in South Korea. There are times it is a complete downpour for hours and hours. There has only been one day since I have arrived that at least a quarter of the day wasn’t raining hard. I have never been an umbrella kind of guy. I was the tough it out like a man sort of rain dweller. That has changed. I have a good umbrella by my side whenever I set foot outside the apartment building I live in. I can hear the pitter patter of the raindrops on the roof as I write this. It is soothing and disruptive at the same time. The noise feels very comforting to me as if a gentle reminder that nature is nature. This kind of voice whispering to me, “You are not in charge or control and never will be.” is such a relief to me. The force of the downfalls can be unsettling in the exact same way, a reminder that nature is nature and will do as he pleases when she pleases to whatever extent she pleases. I tried to be cool my first couple of days walking about without and umbrella but after totally soaking my purple t-shirt to the point where it became heavy to wear, I accepted I am not bigger nor bolder than nature herself. I humbly spent 12,000 Won to purchase a nice strong but simple plaid green, black and red umbrella that I have only left behind at one restaurant and my classroom at school twice so far. As with many other adjustments, like putting on the air conditioner for a few hours so my clothes will dry before I go to work on Monday, I am have learned why and what value a good umbrella is here on the peninsula of South Korea.

A White Guy with Blue Eyes and Long Brown Hair

2008-08-01T09:50:00.000-04:00

An amazing mural painted on the front of a camel colored building with soft stucco exterior. The warm blue sky, the gentle desert sand of the earth, animals peacefully grazing and roaming and then there ion the middle of downtown Cheonan is a white guy with blue eyes and long brown hair holding a staff. On top of the building in central Korea is a pointed structure also of camel color stucco where sits a large neon red Cross on top for all to see. What is this white guy with blue eyes and long brown hair doing next to the small take-out with white noodle soups of tomato, garlic and fresh seafood across from the restaurant where customers take off their shoes upon entering and sitting on the floor in slippers with their legs crossed while dining?

How did he get white here in the land of yellow and light brown? How did a man for the Middle East acquire pale skin and blue eyes to begin with? I am not a historian but were white people with blue eyes in existence yet?

Hearing the unmistakable flat, monotoned hymns in any language could only be that composed by white Protestant here in a city of almost a half million with probably les than fifty non-Asians while in meditation this morning made my heart sink. The ache if oppression and imperialism pierced through y veins and poisoned my blood.

Just like the day when I realized WHY Black Americans are so attached to Christianity and the Church. And why so many Muslim Americans have to take low-skill, low-income jobs that allow them the opportunity to honor their spiritual commitment of regular Prayer throughout the day. As the Jews that had to close their family business when malls and shopping centers made Saturday, the Seventh Day, a shopping day and they had to decide between God of the Bible that says, “You will keep the Seventh day Holy” or go out of business. Finally, the irony of Catholic missionaries brainwashing Africans into believing their idols of Crosses, Jesus and Mary would “save” them and the idols they worshipped happily and peacefully for thousands of years would send them to hell. This ache I know well, I fell it in my belly and I cringe.

I wonder how many people have taken the time to learn any of the languages of the Bible in Hebrew or any Aramaic language to receive the Teachings before white Kings, Queens, Czars and Emperors reframed them to meet their personal needs for power and domination? I wonder if the white guy with blue eyes and long brown hair laughs or cries when He hears us “quote the Gospel” according to King James and NIV? My money is on tears and many of them but possibly laughter while witnessing us use His Love, Healing and Teachings for everything that is not Love, Healing and Teaching amusing Himself “Funny white people, they just don’t get it.” He may question Himself, “Don’t they know back then the language didn’t have vowels in writing till modern day and that was to keep the Teachings fresh and not allow them stagnation.”

And in the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth”, could have been written as follows, “In the beginning, and God is creating Heaven and Earth?’ just as easily. Why do they keep quoting only one possibility?” “If they are going to quote me all the time, you would think it would be important enough for them to learn my language to make sure they are actually quoting me!” This puts a whole new spin on the whole Seven Days, especially since Christians celebrate the Sabbath on the first day, not the seventh day, like the Bible says.

Which commandment in the Bible directs us to rape, pillage, loot, oppress, brainwash, own and take over people as a “mission”?

Oh my dear Friend, The White Guy with Blue Eyes and Long Brown Hair, what have we done to You?
Your Love and Your Teachings?
How did we move from, “the Meek shall inherit the Earth” to the arrogant shall rule it?

What have we done to You my Friend, what have we done?

July 20, 2008- Cheonan, Choongchung-namdo, South Korea

Martian or Rock Star?

2008-08-01T09:49:00.000-04:00

He walks down the street and everybody stares. Not the stare they give the homeless guy or the woman dressed soliciting attention; this is a stare that stops people in their path. They look, hold their children’s hands who start to run towards him to get a closer look. Small children hide behind their mothers for safety but curiously peek around the back of her legs to explore while shielded by her body. Teenagers point and giggle in their formal uniforms of grey and white from school even as late as 9:30 at night. One little child walked up and rubbed his hairy arms just to see what an arm “like that” felt like disappointed that it felt like a regular arm. Yes, these are my first days on the streets in downtown Cheonan, South Korea.

When eating lunch in the cafeteria of the school I teach English at, students trip and drop their trays startled by the sight of a foreigner. Groups of youth all over the neighborhood see me walking by and all yell out “Hello!” and laugh hysterically. I wonder if this is what it was like for another Michael with the last name Jackson when at the peek pf his popularity; received a strange mix of celebrity status including: curiosity and circus clown. Personally, I think I resemble the latter the most closely but what do I know, I am the foreigner walking the streets without police protection or escort. It is possible after two days of not shaving, I may have more facial hair than this city of nearly a half million residents. It is possible that my short dark hair may have more natural wave to it than this city of nearly a half million residents. It is probable that I have more hair on my light brown arms than the entire city of nearly a half million residents. It is a fact that I came here to become somewhat anonymous and end up drawing more attention than any single person walking down the street casually and certainly more than I have at any time in my life.

All the kids want to play with and say “Hello” to Michael, the foreigner. In my short time here that has included many miles of walking and roaming the streets, I have seen one other non-Asian in public and have seen another white person through the window across from my efficiency apartment. Two non-Asians among several thousand native Koreans, Japanese and Chinese. Growing up outside NYC where every nation in the world that has access to an airplane has representatives wandering the streets, seeing so many folks of similar hair, eyes, and skin color with fashion that to my untrained eyes lacks much diversity is quite an eye-opener, literally. Due to my lack of distance vision, I have learned how to distinguish people in life through discerning hair, eye and skin color that has no value here. They ALL know who I am. I think I could walk around without clothes on and draw less attention, as long as naked I resemble the residents more closely.

It feels awkward to be stared at so frequently and unabashed. Anyone who knows me is aware I desire attention, but it is only attention on my terms that fills that need for me. I do not accept attention that I did not facilitate very gracefully. Seeing several thousand people a day and predominantly being stared at by most of them has stirred my sense of public comfort. I am aware of what I wear, how I eat, what I purchase at the grocery store, bowing and how I say,” Annyoeng-haseyo” the greeting equivalent of Good morning/afternoon/evening. Most of all, I am extremely mindful of not confirming their assumption that all Americans are rude, disrespectful and arrogant, I am still working on the third one. I eat very slowly and carefully in public with the metal chopsticks that Koreans use. I do not want to use the wrong utensils for the wrong foods. It is expected that one uses the spoon for soups, stews and rice, and chopsticks for everything else. I used my chopsticks to eat rice the first week here and was corrected yesterday with a look of disapproval. I am still learning what, how and when to bow and how low for each person. There are guidelines that are not always real clear. I love bowing. It feels so good to me. I feel such connection and heritage when doing so. I feel respected, acknowledged and honored every time. I believe i will have a hard time returning to a world without bowing when and if I choose to do so. I dress more conservative than I typically do and maybe even a little more like an adult than I have in recent years. I notice if I am buying only western style food at the grocery store and quickly grab something native that I have no idea what it is since I cannot read the labels but know I will like it anyway. Although I doubt I will replace cereal as my standard breakfast food before work in the morning. Seeing Post brand cereals in Korean with flavors I never saw before I also find amusing.

Side note: I can no longer imagine a world that does not include Kinchi on a daily basis after only ten days.

Being treated as a rock star where everybody wants you to walk through the door first because “he” is here among us I hope will wear off soon. Again, I came partially to shed some old patterns of attention-seeking and stroking of the ego. Ironic no? Fortunately, clerks in the both the local grocery stores I shop at treat me fairly rudely since I can’t read the writing on the scales to print out labels in advance of purchasing produce, it is good to be reminded that I am not larger than life or even equal to them.

It is funny how the Universe works; anonymity and humility were two of my primary motivations for living in a land where my methods of navigating through life would be ineffective and altered. Here I am the most noticed person everywhere I go- good, bad or indifferent- part Martian, part Rock Star.

Go Get You a Good One

2008-08-01T09:41:00.000-04:00

Being Offended

In the last two weeks while sharing with others that I will be going to Korea for one year to teach English, I have gotten a surprising response form several people. More than those that I have not received this response from.

“Korea. Wow that should be cool. You can go and get yourself a nice Korean girl to bring back with you.”

At first, I thought this was funny, or at least an attempt to be funny. It is not funny any more. I do not know if the implication is that I need to go elsewhere to find women or that Korean women want American men so much it will be a breeze to acquire one, even for someone like me. I do not know which version offends me more.

Starting with the humor directed at me, I am not going to Korea to “find me a nice one to bring home that will cook and clean for me”. I don’t need anyone to cook or clean for me, I love doing both. I do not need a slave. I do not need to go elsewhere to find me a good woman, I don’t think. I am not with a woman due to being in the wrong country or culture. I am not with a woman for many reasons and I am offended that folks seem so convinced I need one to be happy or survive. We do not all walk the same journey in this life, till now; mine has not included a woman to be a life partner and companion. It is not that I do not want one; it is just not my highest priority or what has manifested.

The other theory of Korean women waiting for “American men like you to take them away from all that” is just downright gross to me. Why do these people think Korean women are waiting around to be “saved” by American men? We don’t seem to be doing such a great job with our own women, what makes anybody think we are such a premium that they are willing to leave their homes, family and culture just to be with an American man? This is what I hate about being American. It is embarrassing how arrogant and egocentric we are. To think we are the pinnacle of everybody else’s dreams and desires are so foolish and blind. It is why a guy like George W. Bush can become President. I wonder if we will ever accept that we are not “it” to the whole world. In fact, many folks are disgusted in us and what we do and how we life. At times, I am one of them. I do not need to save any Korean woman or any woman from her world. I do not posses any magical powers that any other man does not posses, especially not just being born in the USA as the sole characteristic that makes me a good catch.

I am offended, deeply. One of the reasons I wanted to spend a year out of the country in a culture drastically different that the one I have lived my whole life is to se the world through a different set of lens. A lens that does not see me or us as the center. A world where we trumps me. A world where family and community take precedent over personal ambition and goals. A world where it is not assumed that I will always know what is best for everyone else because it worked for me, or at least it is what I have done, successful or not.

Sitting on a soft purple seat in Narita Airport I Tokyo waiting for my flight to Seoul surrounded by predominantly Asian folks, I am ready to leap, to learn and to grow. I don’t think any one of them is sitting here thinking, “I hope that American man will save me from my poor Asian life”. There is apart of me that does not want to meet any women in my year in Korea just to give all these folks the finger for their arrogance and self-righteousness. Or, maybe one of them will “save me from all that” and I will stay here. I am here to learn and experience news things. My hope is that humility and respect are two of them.
July 14, 2008: Tokyo, Japan