(The following is a piece that was recently killed by a publication that I am known to submit to from time to time. They deemed it too offensive, which it very well may be, so God bless 'em and good luck. I have since given them a more palitable piece for them to run, which they, in turn, have gratefully accepted. But I am still left with this original ranty essay, one which I've sweated and toiled over like a Honduran day laborer, so... why not just throw it up on this old blog?)
If you would have told me ten years ago that I would be living in Busan, Korea, teaching English and doing all of the other crazy things I do, I would have asked you what flavor of meth you were shooting and then demanded a fix. But here I am and while it is weird, any real sense of exoticism was lost long ago. The bizarre has became mundane and Korea—as far from America as it is—is just a place I ended up; it’s my home now and that’s that. But every once in a while I am snapped out of this spell of normalcy, like the other day as I was walking out of the Yeonsan-dong subway station—an impressive,state-of-the-art facility. There, just meters from the exit, was a 90 year-old woman selling a bowl of lettuce, a pile of tree bark, and three dead squid. I was graphically reminded that I do live in Korea, and yes, it is weird.
But despite any weirdness, let me say this: If you are over 30, with no woman, a useless degree, and terrible employment prospects—this place is paradise. When I first got here I was given a decent job, a nice apartment, a hot girl, and a complete set of friends. It was as if right there, upon arrival, I was handed a bag containing a brand new life. For the first six months I used to literally have nightmares about returning home. There I’d be, back at SeaTac Airport, quivering before a nine foot tall immigration officer with horns and burning red eyes. He’d thrust a scaly claw in my face and bellow:
“YOU! BACK TO THE TEMP AGENCY!!!”
“Noooooooooo! Please… I don’t wanna work the Target warehouse… again.”
I loved it here. I had found my niche and reveled in my new found affluence and freedom. I was having the proverbial time of my life. But soon I became aware that not everyone shared my Korean joie de vivre. In fact many of the other expats I met openly hated living here, taking every opportunity to unleash a litany of complaints my way.
“They are so rude. They scowl and hock loogies in the elevators. Ewwww.”
“The other day I was elbowed on the subway by an old lady and she didn’t even say excuse me. Oh. My God.”
“Why can’t they speak English better? And they consider themselves a developed country? As if.”
“Our hagwon director is so sketchy. One mother complains and he’s always changing the curriculum – like last week we could play CD’s and now we can’t play CD’s and he’s always smoking in the back hall and he’s a liar and hates foreigners and we just can’t take it anymore… so… We’ve made up our minds. WE’RE GOING TO JAPAN. They’re nice in Japan. It’s not like here. Yeah, we’re definitely going to Japan.”
I was mystified. How could these people hate this lifestyle so much? Don’t they know how easy they have it? This is cake. Have they never actually worked an evil, terrible job? I certainly have.
Then it occurred to me: The people who come here and hate it are just people whose lives haven’t sucked enough back at home yet. They’re always young, fresh-faced kids with good credit and non- tragic futures. They’re fresh-off-the boat and squeaky clean, with mom’s congealed breast milk drying on their flip-flop adorned feet.
All these years later I still meet them and I ask, “What are your plans?” They tell me how they will finish their one and only year in Korea, take all that money they’ve saved and travel around Southeast Asia for nine months, perhaps even volunteer at an orphanage in Bangladesh. After that they will return home and enroll in law school or pursue that MBA and join the ranks of the young and successful.
Usually they reciprocate, asking me, What are your plans, Chris?” And what do I say to them? That I’ll… try not to get fired… that most likely I’ll visit Thailand during the winter for like the 7th time, where I’ll say "hi" to the three or four of the whores that I know on a first-name basis. After that I’ll return to Korea and phone in yet another semester of English conversation to half-dead junior colleges students… and if I’m lucky—if I’m really lucky—I’ll marry a trophy Korean wife (whose family despises me). We’ll move into Lotte Castle, where I’ll watch her quickly metastasis into a hateful, nagging ajumma, while I drown my sorrows in crates of C1 soju and feel my dreams get sucked from me faster than a fetus at a Planned Parenthood clinic.
The conversation usually ends there.
Yes, Korea is weird, but I love it anyway. Besides, where else am I gonna go?
If you would have told me ten years ago that I would be living in Busan, Korea, teaching English and doing all of the other crazy things I do, I would have asked you what flavor of meth you were shooting and then demanded a fix. But here I am and while it is weird, any real sense of exoticism was lost long ago. The bizarre has became mundane and Korea—as far from America as it is—is just a place I ended up; it’s my home now and that’s that. But every once in a while I am snapped out of this spell of normalcy, like the other day as I was walking out of the Yeonsan-dong subway station—an impressive,state-of-the-art facility. There, just meters from the exit, was a 90 year-old woman selling a bowl of lettuce, a pile of tree bark, and three dead squid. I was graphically reminded that I do live in Korea, and yes, it is weird.
But despite any weirdness, let me say this: If you are over 30, with no woman, a useless degree, and terrible employment prospects—this place is paradise. When I first got here I was given a decent job, a nice apartment, a hot girl, and a complete set of friends. It was as if right there, upon arrival, I was handed a bag containing a brand new life. For the first six months I used to literally have nightmares about returning home. There I’d be, back at SeaTac Airport, quivering before a nine foot tall immigration officer with horns and burning red eyes. He’d thrust a scaly claw in my face and bellow:
“YOU! BACK TO THE TEMP AGENCY!!!”
“Noooooooooo! Please… I don’t wanna work the Target warehouse… again.”
I loved it here. I had found my niche and reveled in my new found affluence and freedom. I was having the proverbial time of my life. But soon I became aware that not everyone shared my Korean joie de vivre. In fact many of the other expats I met openly hated living here, taking every opportunity to unleash a litany of complaints my way.
“They are so rude. They scowl and hock loogies in the elevators. Ewwww.”
“The other day I was elbowed on the subway by an old lady and she didn’t even say excuse me. Oh. My God.”
“Why can’t they speak English better? And they consider themselves a developed country? As if.”
“Our hagwon director is so sketchy. One mother complains and he’s always changing the curriculum – like last week we could play CD’s and now we can’t play CD’s and he’s always smoking in the back hall and he’s a liar and hates foreigners and we just can’t take it anymore… so… We’ve made up our minds. WE’RE GOING TO JAPAN. They’re nice in Japan. It’s not like here. Yeah, we’re definitely going to Japan.”
I was mystified. How could these people hate this lifestyle so much? Don’t they know how easy they have it? This is cake. Have they never actually worked an evil, terrible job? I certainly have.
Then it occurred to me: The people who come here and hate it are just people whose lives haven’t sucked enough back at home yet. They’re always young, fresh-faced kids with good credit and non- tragic futures. They’re fresh-off-the boat and squeaky clean, with mom’s congealed breast milk drying on their flip-flop adorned feet.
All these years later I still meet them and I ask, “What are your plans?” They tell me how they will finish their one and only year in Korea, take all that money they’ve saved and travel around Southeast Asia for nine months, perhaps even volunteer at an orphanage in Bangladesh. After that they will return home and enroll in law school or pursue that MBA and join the ranks of the young and successful.
Usually they reciprocate, asking me, What are your plans, Chris?” And what do I say to them? That I’ll… try not to get fired… that most likely I’ll visit Thailand during the winter for like the 7th time, where I’ll say "hi" to the three or four of the whores that I know on a first-name basis. After that I’ll return to Korea and phone in yet another semester of English conversation to half-dead junior colleges students… and if I’m lucky—if I’m really lucky—I’ll marry a trophy Korean wife (whose family despises me). We’ll move into Lotte Castle, where I’ll watch her quickly metastasis into a hateful, nagging ajumma, while I drown my sorrows in crates of C1 soju and feel my dreams get sucked from me faster than a fetus at a Planned Parenthood clinic.
The conversation usually ends there.
Yes, Korea is weird, but I love it anyway. Besides, where else am I gonna go?
Recent comments