Lost in Time: Returning to Places of the Heart

Only thirteen years had passed.  Returning to Korea to witness the 1988 Seoul Summer Olympics was no ordinary adventure. My good friend, Soon Chul, had picked us up at the airport and the drive to his apartment was an eye-opener. Mile after mile we saw huge apartment buildings, walls of lights narrating a story of almost inexplicable change. Personal cars, subways, video billboards, countless new bridges; the unmistakable signage of a vibrant, new middle class. The trip was already spell-binding and we hadn't even arrived at his apartment.

After thoroughly enjoying the Olympic Games held at dozens of newly constructed venues, we headed south by train to visit Daegu, the city I had lived in for nearly two years as an English instructor while in the Peace Corps.  My wife, Marsha, visiting Korea for the first time, escorted me to the campus and I happily gave her a tour of the place, pointing out the buildings which housed my classes, the dignified old administration building, the campus amphitheater, and the red brick building which housed my office on its second floor.

Standing outside my office building at
Keimyung Christian College in Daegu (1974)

Students walking toward the administrative building on campus

We wound our way down a short hill and came to the school's rear gate. I knew that just a short distance from there I'd be able to show Marsha my old neighborhood including everything from the local dry cleaners and little convenience store to, more importantly, the modest rooming house (yeogwan) where I lived for over a year and a half in a small room on the 2nd floor.

The courtyard of our Korean rooming house. Sign says "Yeo-gwan," Korean for inn.

We turned the corner and I was stunned. The old neighborhood was gone! In its place were new stores, buildings and paved roads. The entire neighborhood had been razed and replaced in the intervening 13 years since I had left Korea. I began to feel dizzy and lose my bearings. I sat down to regroup and to deal with the lump of emotions that was growing in my throat. There was no going home.

Trying to return to a place once called "home" can be an
emotional roller coaster.

Apparently, this was not a rare experience in Korea. A number of Korean friends and students have told me about similar experiences when they returned to their villages or old neighborhoods; this sense of home-loss dissonance accompanied by feelings of confusion, loss and disorientation.

This highly emotional experience is timely as this week marks the 50th anniversary of Peace Corps service in South Korea. The first batch of volunteers arrived here in Korea in September of 1966. That group was quickly followed by well over two-thousand other volunteers who served in Korea from 1966 through 1981. Each group was designated in numerical order preceded by the letter "K." My group, K-30, focused on English education at the university level. My nearly fifty colleagues served in universities scattered across the country.

This week many veteran Peace Corps Volunteers will be returning to this country for the first time since their days of service here. In all likelihood it will prove to be nothing less an amazing adventure; at once deeply personal and meaningful. I suspect for most it will also prove to be a breathtaking experience as well. Returning to familiar places and old haunts can be a challenging emotional roller coaster ride. To them I say, may all your journeys conclude in the safe embrace of warm memories knowing that your efforts here were indeed well done.

The Tim Horton Exemption

“It is naively assumed that the fact that the majority of people share certain ideas and feelings proves the validity of these ideas and feelings. Nothing could be further from the truth. Consensual validation as such has no bearing on reason or mental health.” 

Erich Fromm

Expats and travelers fill cafes and squeeze into restaurant booths around the world. Their tales and opinions saturate the air like heavy particles hovering over the Beijing skyline. The local culture is dissected and diagnosed by these physicians certified by their wanderlust and sanctioned by the consensus of the group and the evening's rites.

Here in Korea, we might overhear talk of Koreans' driving foibles, or the nature of Korean marital dynamics where women invariably become the family CFO and take forceful and unequivocal command of all monetary matters. You can sometimes hear talk of the local disregard for minding litter, the conversation invariably drifting off to Japan by way of comparison. "You can't so much find a cigarette butt on the streets of Japan," someone will say. And yes, likely too will be the mention of the eating of dogs, an ignominious cultural artifact that is rarely practiced these days.

On the other side we have the cultural defenders, the sympathizers who, having done their homework, herd most of the naysayers back into their culturally insensitive corrals. A Peace Corps document from the early 1970s served to remind newly arrived U.S. volunteers of the foolishness of their cultural missteps: "Korea is generally judged to be a less than developed nation. This judgment is based on many factors, but mainly those dealing with economic or materialist measurements. In the field of education, and from a Korean viewpoint, it might be difficult to accept a less developed label. If you had produced movable block printing in the 12th century, a written phonetic alphabet before Columbus discovered America, and had revered education with intensity of almost religious fervor, then you might not consider yourself less developed with regard to education."

Well, touche! And we will graciously ignore your culturally insensitive comment about Columbus "discovering"America.

Sometimes, we just need to give these cultural-dialectic, this back and forth criticism and defensiveness, a free pass; a "Get out of jail free" card like in the board game, Monopoly. Instead of vitriol, allow the prevailing westerlies to do their thing and blow the smog out of Beijing naturally.

The other night I went out to dinner with three Canadian friends. The food, drink and conversation were awesome. Somehow (am I guilty?), the conversation turned to Tim Hortons, the ubiquitous coffee and pastry franchise that adorns nearly every intersection across that grand country. Canadians forever sing the praises of their beloved "Timmy's." As an American, who has driven hundreds of miles and many hours, craving coffee and something, anything, to eat, and finally seeing a Tim Horton's on the horizon, well, it was an ugly experience. I could have been had so easily. But alas, the coffee was nearly undrinkable and the donuts, literally a cardboard substitute. Here, let some closet Canadians speak for themselves:
"They just built a Tim Hortons in the Midwestern town where I live and I would rather eat a box of donuts that I found on the side of the road than ever return there."
"Tim's could sell poop on a stick and out of Canada loyalty, Canadians would still buy." 

But I smiled and kept my opinion to myself. My Canadian friends were happily adrift in their reverie for their national symbol. Going to "Timmy's" was like a religious experience for them. It was then that I realized I had needed to take out my Get out of Jail Free Card and figuratively hand it over to my Canadian friends. Why trespass on their cultural delusion? Was I going to judge Canada as being a less developed nation because of their blind faith toward Tim Horton's? Certainly not. After all, they have maple syrup and national health-care, don't they? And besides, when our most popular exports are McDonalds and Donald Trump, I have good reason to keep my tongue.

The Old Korean Inn

Two zany ladies in their mid-thirties ran the place, an otherwise no-frills inn with five or six rooms

Nearly always smiling, the ladies of
my Korean inn

and an austere garden. Their antics created an oasis for me over the course of a year, down an otherwise unremarkable street about three blocks from my university.

I was greeted with a knock on my door early each morning. Ms. Han or Ms. Bae would bring my breakfast on a tray-usually rice in a metal bowl, soup, fish and several side dishes of vegetables or black beans along with some barley tea. Before I left for the day, they always would ask if I would be home for supper. 

My days there were strands of solace in place and time.  The world inside the heavy metal gate was warm and comforting. On cold days the heated floors drew me in like a toasty pouch. I washed at the outside faucet. Hot water was only a dream.

As with any stage, there was a cast of unusual characters. The cute little girl who brightened my day like a wild spring flower. Friends of Ms. Bae or Ms. Han who came to share gossip and play Korean card games. There were, of course, other guests too, though they brought an itinerant sense to the place, coming and going, fleeting glimpses of life at the inn.

The sign says "yo-gwan," Korean for inn. I washed
here, along with other guests.

In those days inns were almost everywhere in Korea. Their rooms were on one or two floors in layer cake fashion, or if older style, off wooden verandas that surrounded quiet gardens with tiny ponds. Shoes outside a door would trip your imagination about the guests inside and their stories.

Like the old Korean coffee shops and public baths, these inns have all but disappeared. They were the anchors of Korean neighborhoods, places of tradition and social sanctity. The winds of change have swept through Korean society leaving the likes of motels and Starbucks in their place.  My old inn? The inn, the street, the entire neighborhood, were razed by bulldozers years ago. Now only memories remain, entrusted to me and perhaps to a little girl with a smile.

Korea In the Side-View Mirror: Reflections of a Former Peace Corps Volunteer

It was pure serendipity. The acceptance letter from Washington arrived September 2nd 1973, smack on my birthday. Wherever I was assigned, I thought, I was surely meant to go. Less than 3-months later, I found myself on a very cold hillside, overlooking a lake on the outskirts of Daegu, South Korea's 3rd largest city. Fifty of us, naive and hopeful Peace Corps Volunteers, from nearly every corner of the U.S., were about to embark on a transformative 90-day training experience that included Korean language training, cross-cultural understanding, and teaching English as a second language.

With Korean friends at a local park, Spring 1975

After our swearing-in ceremony at the U.S. Embassy in Seoul, I was assigned to teach English at Keimyung College in Daegu. Korea in those days was a developing country; there was virtually no middle class, few private cars, our classrooms were either freezing cold or sweltering, and always poorly lit. But Korean students then were all on a mission--working hard to succeed in school and to learn English to help propel their country forward. Little did they know they were indeed participating in a historic economic miracle.

Life as a Peace Corps volunteer then was challenging. There were few expats, fewer phones, and if you sent a letter home, you'd be lucky to hear back in 4-6 weeks, if at all. Communication was face to face. You would make arrangements days in advance to meet at a specific time and place, write it down and keep your fingers crossed. Students clamored for time with you to practice their English and to find out as much as possible about the world outside Korea. It was, as the Peace Corps ad says, "The toughest job you will ever love."

Several of my students at Keimyung College in Daegu in 1974

When I left Korea in the mid-seventies I was certain I would never see it again. As the years passed, the recollections of my life in Korea crystallized into increasingly romanticized memories. They became nearer and dearer to me in my life's side-view mirror.

Caution: Memories Are Closer and More Powerful Than They Appear

I married, raised a family and enjoyed a career in human resource management, banking, teaching and consulting--all of which allowed me to travel internationally and to keep the wanderlust, first acquired during my Peace Corps days, well nourished. Much to my surprise, business took me back to Korea, first for the 1988 Summer Olympics in Seoul, and then on several trips to lead management seminars for Korean managers. Korea just kept calling me. Eventually, I answered.

Fast forward to 2011. Korea, now the 15th strongest economy in the world, welcomed me back as a professor of English. I have returned to the same metropolitan area I once lived in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I am now on the faculty of Yeungnam University, a vibrant, international campus with 27,000 students.

Current students enjoying a lighter moment before
the start of class. Yeungnam University, Fall 2014.

My Korean students today are the sons and daughters of those very spirited students I taught years ago. My two stints in Korea have become bookends on my life. Who says you can't go home again?

What's In a Name?

It seemed like an insignificant event at the time, as normal as licking a stamp and placing it in the corner of an envelope, or like leaving a bookmark on the last page you’ve read in a book. Little did I appreciate the gift and the meaning it would have in my life, as Professor Chae Joon-ki handed me the sheet of paper.

The professor had studied the names of each of the Peace Corps volunteers in our group in Korea. Using the letters and sounds from our first and last names in English, he tried to create a Korean name that would be a meaningful match.

Professor Chae Joon-ki in 1974

I was given the name Song Su Nam. As Korean tradition places the surname name first, my family name is Song, from the Chinese Song Dynasty. Su, means long, like the length of a river, or a life of many years. Nam, is Korean for namja or man. 

That's me, aka Song Su Nam, as a Peace Corps Volunteer (1975)

Since that cold, sunny, January day in 1974, my Korean second name has taken on special meaning for me. I've envisioned myself an old, wise man who lived in Korea during the days of the Song Dynasty, sometime between 960-1279.

Actually, I am quite proud of my original birth surname Schuit, which is purely Dutch for “boat.” That would have been the vehicle that transported my grandparents to America during the second decade of the 20^th century. The name was probably chosen in the early 1800’s as a result of a mandate from Napoleon who, as he conquered Europe, dictated last names as a sign of modernization. No doubt, my ancestors’ occupation had something to do with the sea.

My Korean name, however, has come to take on a bit of magic in its own right. Years ago I had my Korean name inscribed on a traditional Korean stamp (doh-jang). Until fairly recently, the outline of your name, in thick red ink, constituted your signature in all official transactions here.

My Korean name stamp

When referred to endearingly by Korean friends, the word “shi” is added verbally as a suffix, making my given Korean name, Su Nam shi, an expression of closeness and caring in a relationship.

Recently, I acted on a long standing, but unfulfilled intention to get a tattoo. In a tattoo parlor in the Gangnam District in Seoul, In-nyung, a lovely, quiet, young artist took me full circle. On my right leg, she drew the name given to me over forty years ago by Professor Chae. Long since retired from Kyungbuk National University, I was sad to learn that he passed away just a week or two after I got my tattoo.

My Korean name

A name, of course, can be more than just a “handle.” Sometimes, it’s a passport to an entirely different world.

Beyond Surviving--How To Thrive as an Expat ESL Teacher: 7 Tips for the Journey

The questions were unfailingly predictable: What’s your name? Where are

you from? What university did you graduate from? What was your major? They came in rapid succession. It was the start of my very first semester here in Korea and almost every student was asking me the same questions.

I gave my name, mentioned that I went to school in Boston and said that my hometown was New York. My major? American history. More than several students reacted in a similar manner:

“American history? How could that be a major? American history is only 200-years old. Korean history is 5000-years old. That’s a major!”

That observation was not lost on me. “Wow,” I said to myself, “there’s something to this.” It didn’t take long for a self-induced wave of humility to cascade through my body. My country wasn’t the center of the universe? I began to unravel some 22-years of misguided self-importance that had been grafted on to my world of presumptions.

American history major--right off the bus

Tip #1 Be humble.

No matter where you are from, it’s not likely you have 5,000 years of history backing you up. More than just ancient history, according to Daniel Tudor, author of Korea: The Impossible Country, South Koreans have produced the most impressive story of nation building in the 20th century. And besides, humility goes a long way here.

Tip #2 Learn the language.

You hop in a cab, patch together a few words of the native language, telling the driver where you want to go. Only thing is, you said you wanted to go to the train station. That’s where he took you. You meant to say, the local subway station. He’s confused. You’re frustrated. Make the time to study the local language--even if you’re exhausted from all the teaching you’re doing. Learning the language helps provide part of the necessary tool-kit for navigating life in your adopted country. Learning Korean opens the window to a better understanding of this incredible culture.

 

Korean Class: learning language, culture and making friends

Tip #3 Cultivate friendships with both Koreans and other expats.

Studying Korean, especially when done in traditional classroom fashion is a great place for meeting others. In my recent Korean language classes I was both the only American and the only professor.  Befriending the owner of a local coffee shop or dry cleaners may lead to a weekend hike in the woods. Joining an area club or organization (running, paintball, softball, or traveling) is a great way to make friends and enrich your expat experience.

Tip #4 Avoid thinking you can change the system.

By now you’ve heard all about the crazy drivers, the antiquated customs, the lousy weather, the seemingly ridiculous approaches to managing people. Guess what? Get a grip. It ain’t gonna change. And, more importantly, it’s not your culture.

Tip #5 Avoid Korea bashers.

Yes indeed, misery loves company. Finding flaws and faults can easily become contagious. “Red flag” this dynamic as soon as you notice it. Take two steps back. Find colleagues and friends who have a more balanced view of their experience here. Korea is not a perfect place, but it does offer a world of mostly pleasant surprises. For most people, even those who experience a few early “speed bumps,” Korea provides more than its share of spectacular memories.

Tip #6 Keep developing yourself professionally.

My current employer requires each faculty member to have an ongoing plan for professional development. You can do research, observe other teachers, attend conferences and write reaction papers, or give presentations to colleagues at regularly scheduled staff meetings. There’s a good message here: standing still professionally is not OK. There are many ways to become a better teacher--whether it’s through joining KOTESOL, becoming part of an acting troupe, taking traditional Korean art classes, or doing yoga.

Tip #7 Be an ambassador.

You didn’t join the Foreign Service when you decided to become an ESL educator. That’s true, but for better or worse, you are an ambassador. You represent your country in the eyes of your students, your Korean bosses and colleagues, and to Koreans at-large. Many people don’t welcome such an appellation bestowed on them without their consent. Totally understandable, but it comes with the turf. In fact, how you behave is not only a reflection on you, and your country, it is also a reflection on all foreigners who are guests here in Korea.

Recently, a fellow former Korean Peace Corps volunteer mentioned that he thought there was much evidence to suggest that a stint as an ESL teacher can be an invaluable “Part 1” in preparation for the adventure that is life. For others, an extended tenure as an ESL teacher can, as in any profession, lead to burnout. Tips for success aside, inertia can be an intoxicating trap.  Staying fresh, on top of your game, motivated, and most importantly, in service to your students, is a timeless and worthwhile challenge. Losing one’s humility may be like the canary in the coal mine—an indication that it may be time to check things out.