Lately, I forget that my students are just kids. I forget the way children think or the way children act when they're having a bad day. By God's grace, certain moments remind me that the maturity level and understanding of the faces in front of me are not at the college level and usually not the high school level.
Justin asked me a few weeks ago to begin a research project for students in my reading classes. The idea made me groan because I attempted to teach a research project during English Camp and failed miserably. (Really. It was sad.) But Justin insisted it was a good idea. The Treasures (reading) classes in the Hayang hogwan were conducting research. So could we. I waited until after Chusok to even think about it. I needed to make a plan to ensure that this project would be a less of an embarrassment.
Then, one day, I typed up a sort of project syllabus, including process steps for each week and a breakdown of points. As I began teaching the brainstorming process, my enthusiasm for the project really picked up. I decided to research the real Queen Sondok as an example for them to follow.
On the way out the door today, I fetched Patrick to translate their homework assignments because I could sense their attention span for English comprehension was fading, and I had a lot to convey yet. They were supposed to obtain a project binder by Monday's class and by Wednesday's, to come with the first ten points for their research notes in addition to their regular vocabulary assignment. Patrick kindly told me that it was a lot of work on top of their regular school work. His comment seemed obvious in hindsight. What was I thinking? I'd gotten ahead of myself.
During my office hours, I surfed Dave's ESL Cafe for a new game or activity to use, and I found a great, low-maintenance game based off Wheel of Fortune. In "Dice of Fortune," the teacher must assign a meaning to each number on a dice. The web post recommended "lose a turn" for 1 and 3, $200 for 2, $400 for 4, $600 for 6 and "bankrupt" for 5. I substituted won for dollars. With thirty minutes before class, I ran home to fetch my dice for the game, and on the way, I thought of a unique twist. Candy incorporation never failed me before, so I decided I should make dum-dums worth 1,000 won and dove chocolates worth 2,000 won. (Expensive candy, commented one little girl. Haha!) Students who earned enough money could then purchase a piece of candy with their winnings when it was their turn.
All you moms out there can surely see where I went wrong in my thinking. Ignorantly, I gathered little red bingo tokens for the money and "Go Fish" cards to denote students who lost a turn, and I introduced the "fun, new game." And it was fun for the first few rounds. Students laughed, counted tokens delightedly, squealed when issued a Go Fish card, and tried to rig the dice to land on a six. But I certainly didn't have the foresight or the understanding of a child to know what would come next. I didn't think about how hurt a ten-year-old might feel to keep rolling "lose a turn" or "bankruptcy" while his/her peers gained a stash of sugary treats. One girl put her head on her desk after repeated lost turns. I felt inside the way she looked--defeated. And dumbfounded. I gave all the kids a chocolate on the way out the door. How did I not see it coming? Candy is no small matter to a child.
Perhaps the most surprising moment of my day came rather casually. As we worked on acrostic poems of ourselves, WooSup, one of my brightest students, asked randomly, "Do you like Korea, teacher?"
I started to give a half-brain answer, distracted by my busy hands, "Ummm...Yea."
"I think you don't like it here, teacher," he said. WooSup popped his head in to say "hello" one day when I was visibly worn down and emotionally distraught.
"What makes you think that?" I asked, but my question was buried by the Korean ramblings of other students in the class. I quieted in reflection.
Was he right? Of course not! But how can you explain to a twelve-year-old the breadth of emotion a foreigner can feel? How could I explain, in words he'd understand, that I don't dislike Korea?
Maybe I could tell the twelve-year-old things that I like about his country: kimchi, potbingsu, strong work ethics, energy efficiency, bathroom slippers, riding the public transportation, weekends in Daegu, etc. Have I complained too much in his presence? Failed to mention these things? Spoken too fondly of home? Or just too often of home?
I may feel misunderstood, discouraged and lonely sometimes, but not because of Korea. Lonely. Loneliness as a foreigner is more than wanting someone to hang out with. Loneliness is feeling that not a soul around can understand, or wants to understand, why you are the way you are. Even if a soul could understand my language perfectly, that soul may not want to hear what I might feel inclined to say.
Would he understand if I said it's difficult to have your whole life change in a matter of days? And then later remember that the changes are semi-permanent? Would he understand it's hard to wake up months later, not recognizing the wallpaper and wishing your mother were downstairs? I sound weak.
I think Nick said once that it must have been lonely to be Jesus. To come down to earth, to dwell among humans, to truly be an alien...from a different planet, of a different race. I think he understood us, but he knew we could not understand him.
"Hear my prayer, O Lord, listen to my cry for help; be not deaf to my weeping. For I dwell with you as an alien, a stranger, as all my fathers were." Psalm 40: 12
Easily, comfortably, I discount God's ability to understand me. Above all, He understands the frustration of being misunderstood. Communication with God is even greater than cross-cultural. God is supra-cultural. His ways are so far different from ours that no human being can understand Him.
I'm sorry I can't understand what you have to say, God, but I pray you'll help me listen to what you have to say about what it's like at home--in heaven.
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