Sirens

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.

Immigration Man

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.”

My Hollywood Nightmare

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.