Interesting and Interested

It has become far too familiar--that gnawing feeling I get in my gut when I realize that the person sitting across from me, the one I have been speaking with for the last twenty minutes or so, really couldn't care less about anything having to do with me or my world. You know it’s happening when you can’t get a word in edge-wise, or after you’ve listened to the other person ad infinitum and they don't even show a feigned interest in uttering one solitary question about you or your state of being.

Traveling to an island off the Korean coast recently, we were waiting for our flight at the local airport. Sitting in a quiet and nearly empty area we saw a man approaching us with an unmistakable missionary zeal in his step. Mr. Kim--his name we soon came to learn--was a man on a quest. He was interested in telling us about the well-worn book in his hand, his heralded professional career, his home on the island, his hobby, his grand-children, and so on. After 15 minutes or so it became apparent that we might be spending the rest of the afternoon with our new friend. Luckily, he was about to board the only other flight departing Daegu that afternoon.

Mr. Kim, proud man that he was, meant no harm. But neither was he one bit interested in us. In less that a quarter of an hour, I knew more about Mr. Kim than I do about any of my students, or most of my colleagues for that matter.  Simply speaking, Mr. Kim, was not interested—and of course, that is his prerogative.

But my preference--should anyone be interested--is to spend my precious interpersonal time with people who are both interesting and interested. Look, we’re living in a world where these things increasingly matter. In a recent Atlantic article, “Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?” Stephen Marche notes that “We never have been more detached from one another, or lonelier. In a world consumed by ever more novel modes of socializing, we have less and less actual society.”

From here on out, I’ll take my actual interpersonal encounters with a double shot of two-way conversation, a tablespoon of genuine empathy and a side of listening. I want to be in the presence of people who are both interesting and interested—to “meet me in the middle,” as James Taylor says in his song “Caroline I See You,” a place where together we can “melt like chocolate. “

                                                  Statue, Yeungnam University

                                              

Get Smart, Get Bilingual

By nature, I am impatient.  That condition does not help my efforts to learn (or in my case, re-learn) the Korean language. Because Korean is not related to English in the way that say Spanish, Italian or French are, romantically—so to speak—I am forced to re-frame all my perceptions of the world as I learn the language.  It is a rich and fascinating process, unfortunately made more challenging by the fact that my classes come late in the evenings.

Korean can be wonderfully ambiguous—no need to wrestle with the feminine or masculine—don’t worry, I am told, the person you are speaking with will figure out who you mean. On the other hand, when you are buying things like movie tickets, chickens, books, or say bottles of water--each has their own particular counting unit that must be attached to the type of item. I can only smile at these countless discoveries I make on this linguistic and cross-cultural journey.

That said, a recent article in The New York Times by Yudhjit Bhattacharjee, was especially eye-opening. The author claims that speaking a second language has many more benefits than the obvious value of navigating more fluidly across our global landscape. The findings are that being bilingual actually makes you smarter. The implications are, I think, far reaching.

Korea has a several decades-old national strategy to ensure that almost all their students learn to speak English in their public schools. Additionally, parents who can afford it--and many who can’t, but work longer and harder to pay the necessary tuition—send their kids to late afternoon through late evening private schools so that they can hone their English skills even further. The ultimate goal, truth be told, is to help ensure that their kids get top grades on college entrance exams and thus get accepted into a top tier Korean University.

Korean students were recently ranked first internationally on problem-solving skills--a good list to be first on. One has to wonder about the possible correlation between the country-wide initiative here to learn English and this national problem-solving competency. According to Bhattacharjee, “the bilingual experience improves the brain’s so-called executive function — a command system that directs the attention processes that we use for planning, solving problems and performing various other mentally demanding tasks.”

I know back in the U.S. we often talk about how we need to be better able to compete on the world stage. But, what would be a better way to prepare our children to be competent global citizens than to ensure that each child can speak at least one language other than English?  Korean, Chinese, Spanish, French—competence in that second language would surely be their best possible passport into the future. Collectively, we would be much smarter for it.

Young Korean students racing into the future

Link to New York Times Article 

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/18/opinion/sunday/the-benefits-of-bilingualism.html?_r=1&src=tp&smid=fb-share

Lay of The Land

"I did not know the exact route myself, but steered by the lay of the land..."

                                                            Henry David Thoreau

The Korean peninsula is an ocean of undulating mountains, not usually majestic but, like the rest of life here, almost always curiously alluring. In Korea I am child-like and wide-eyed, naked to the possibilities, oblivious to matters of necessity.

I chuckle at the smallest things: how everyone suddenly sports an umbrella at the slightest sign of rain; the way people cup their wrists with their other hand as a sign of respect when giving or receiving items from each other; the ubiquitous, polite calls of “welcome” and “goodbye” heard when entering or leaving almost any establishment.

But I don’t know the exact route here myself. I am an outsider, a “wei-gook-saram,” a foreigner. I navigate by the lay of the land. When I am not lost in thought, I will greet every one I pass by with a genuine “hello” in Korean. There is an almost universal reciprocation that marks each moment in time for me.

On campus young women are usually busy laughing and exchanging gay banter. Embracing couples are now commonplace, where they were once a rarity. Almost everyone seems to be carrying English language books. There is a collective sigh of relief emanating from the students here who have finally made it to college. Most have spent nearly every waking moment of their childhood fixated on studying, getting good grades, cramming, honing some new skill, improving their mathematical prowess, learning a new language. They have survived that test.

I am an observer; a student of life here. The light, the smells, the sounds—they are my guideposts. They dot my landscape. I steer my way by the lay of this land.

The Not So Ugly American

              "He wished he had inhabited more of his life, used it better, filled it further."

                    from "The Amateur Marriage," by Anne Tyler, author of "The Accidental Tourist"

                  

Many books and movies have prompted reflections on not only traveling, but how we tend to approach other cultures. On some levels how we engage other cultures is something of a Rorschach test; we project our values and assumptions onto a panoramic screen featuring our traveling experiences. As we travel we might ask ourselves: To what extent do we stay in our own personal "comfort zones" of language and customs that recreate "home?" Or conversely, do we stretch beyond the familiar into "learning zones," experiences that may cause us to feel insecure, unsure or downright uncomfortable during our sojourns? Yet by leaning into those spaces, and embracing the other culture, even in small ways, we create countless opportunities for learning and growing.

In "The Accidental Tourist," by Anne Tyler, the protagonist, Macon, navigates safely within the cocoon of rituals that comprise his comfort zone. His embrace of the cavalcade of people and cultures around him is encumbered by the heavy baggage of the unresolved, tragic and untimely death of his young son. Any meaningful engagement with local culture, on his part, is truly accidental.

For most of us, the term "ugly American" has come to have a pejorative meaning, a metaphor for insensitivity and arrogance on the part of Americans. Ironically, the main character in the novel by that name (Burdick and Lederer) was, in the eyes of the locals, a plain looking American, who rolled up his sleeves and respectfully engaged the native people of the fictitious Asian country, Sarkan. His behavior was anything but, what we would normally consider, arrogant.

Recently, I gave the Korean students in a writing and communications class I am teaching an assignment. I asked that they read my blog, Korean Bookends, select one posting, and send me an e-mail with their critical appraisal of the piece they chose. One bright young woman, Eun Hye, made reference to Antoine De Saint-Exupery's marvel, "The Little Prince," saying in her response...

"And if you don't mind, I want to share a quote from the 'Little Prince' as the fox speaks to the little prince...

 'To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…'"

Then she continued,

"Like this quote, Korea was a mere country to you when you were shocked in the packed and smelly bus on your first day. (If it wasn't, sorry for my hasty assumption.) But I think you didn't close your mind, and didn't establish any stereotype after the awkward situation in the bus. As a result, you made Korea as your friend, and now this country is unique to you. And that's maybe why you could not smell the odor of Kimchee; you got used to living in Korea and then, you came back to Korea."

"I personally have several places I tamed, and I was tamed by," she confided. "They can be just some small rural areas to many others. But to me, they are the places of my childhood, and my family's laughter. Thanks for reminding me of those places. And your stories made me look back on my life. Because I'm now around the same age as you were when you made your first visit to Korea.  I've lived my life mostly indoors, wondering about the outside world alone in my room. And lastly, thanks for being a friend of Korea. With not only this story, but also the "Bookends On a Lifetime," and the other 3 stories, I could feel your lifelong affection toward Korea. And I really think I am lucky to have you as my professor now."

I was both grateful and moved by Eun Hye's insights. Indeed, to tame and to be tamed during one's travels, to experience another culture as unique, without fear of losing one's own uniqueness, requires more than a modicum of courage. The reward, of course, is the world itself.

I Want to Hold Your Hand

Last night I took the subway to Daegu, from the city of Gyeongsan, where I live and work. Daegu is the province's most populated municipality by far. It had been some 24 years since I last walked the streets of this city.

For the students in my classes who claimed their hobby is "shopping," Daegu must be a fragrant flower indeed. The pedestrian-only streets are vibrant with Koreans young and old-- but mostly young. There is a pulse powered by lights and sounds. One hears the giggling of middle and high schoolers, the muted tones of lovers pressed together closely. There is no end to the stream of humanity, the glare of retailing, the shear energy of late afternoon gaining momentum as evening unfurls itself.

I notice two young men holding hands. My mind immediately flashes back to these same streets when I was in my 20's; my Korean friend grabbing my hand and embracing it tightly. I was overwhelmed, embarrassed. My heart starting racing uncontrollably.  My world of openness and cross-cultural sensitivity was trumped by my homophobia and still inchoate self-esteem. The totality of my awareness was focused on our hands, fueled by my fears.

Of course, this embrace was a statement of my friend's brotherly feelings for me. On the one hand, he was simply being Korean. On the other, we were both trespassing each other's cultural spaces. I was way out of my comfort zone and thus, had much to learn and reflect on. I still carry the lesson today as I walk the streets of Korea.

As the night wanes and I meander my way back to my apartment, I feel a deep sense of belonging. I am reminded why I love traveling and reaching, for those brass rings of humility--when I am able.

A Memory Stick And a Plan

I have spent a great amount of time in my career as a consultant and educator nursing my back and holding my breath. Where are the light switches in the hotel’s conference room? Will the screen come down when I push the button to begin my presentation? Picture, if you will, orange extension cords, covered with duct tape at critical intersections stretching north and south across meeting rooms. Someone in the audience, identifying themselves as an in-house safety guru, would inevitably give me feedback about the safety nightmare I was creating.

Many U.S. universities claim to be on the leading edge of high-tech innovation. Yet if you go into their classrooms they look pretty much like they did in 1973; lighting is poor, seating is uncomfortable and the state-of-the-art around classroom technology amounts to calling someone on the geek squad a week in advance to arrange for an LCD projector—but you’ll need to bring your own computer and any required cables and attachments. Of course, the night of your class you’d discover the guy got your message in a moment of distraction and forgot to set things up for your class. So forget the PowerPoint presentation or video you were hoping to share with your students and get ready to “tap dance.”

I say this because I had begun to think this was the way of the world. My life as an educator was about carrying and hauling and making countless low-tech teaching “diving catches” while living in a high tech world.

I recently stepped into classrooms at Yeungnam University where I am currently teaching in Korea. While I can’t yet be sure if this is universal across universities here, or even across this campus, each room is fitted with a huge electronic screen, a recessed networked computer, a sound system and a “wet board”--to replace the blackboard of past generations. Just last summer I was stymied while teaching in an accredited business school classroom in the States when I couldn’t find a piece of chalk to write on the blackboard. Here, at Yeungnam University, what I need to lead my class is a memory stick and a plan. My backpack and other paraphernalia remain in my office or home and, more appropriately, somewhere in the past.

K-Pop

Our bus from Seoul had emptied out at the East Daegu Station. The driver was taking a break somewhere outside in the grey chill. I noticed that the only other person on the bus was sitting directly in front of me--on the other side of the tall seatback. I struck up a conversation with Ms. Yoon, a recent college graduate. She was petite, all of perhaps 22 or 23. Her intermittent fingering of her cell phone didn't keep her from being quite friendly.

We were soon on our way again. The scenery between Daegu and the somewhat more provincial Gyeongsan was flowing alongside our conversation. She was a newly minted elementary school English teacher about to begin her teaching career. She was speaking nearly flawless, accent-free English.

She wasn't much older then my students at Yeungnam University are likely to be. I asked her what she and her friends were talking about these days--what mattered to them. She quickly responded, "K-pop"* (Gayo in Korean) saying that it was a new music genre that was very popular not only in Korea but abroad as well--Korean pop music. Then she added that the issues of the Korean economy and finding jobs were also on their minds. I asked Ms.Yoon if North Korea was worrying her. She smiled and said "No, not really."

Our bus arrived in Gyeongsan and we both waited outside for our rides. She had a small colorful suitcase and told me that she was just returning from a weeklong education seminar in Thailand.

Byeong, my host, greeted me warmly. I introduced him to Ms.Yoon and in departing, I wished her the best. My bags filled the trunk and back seat of his car. We spoke politely as he drove me to my apartment--my new home in Korea. We reflected on the Korean economy of his teenage years--when I was last teaching in Korea. It was as recent as the mid 1970's when both Koreas, north and south, had almost identical per capita annual incomes. Today, North Korea struggles with massive food shortages and an economy that has changed little since 1975. South Korea is now one of the world's leading economic powers and top exporters. I wonder if K-pop has found its way into the dark citadel that is North Korea.**

* http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K-pop
**http://38north.org/