Why I love low level students …

In an activity with a new class of nine and ten year olds, where I was trying to understand what words they knew, the students all started saying the same word in Korean. I had absolutely no clue.

Eric started flapping his hands.

“Bird?”

The students shook their heads. They were excited. Their first class with the foreign teacher. They wanted to impress me. They kept saying the Korean word. They weren't about to give up. Then, suddenly, Max laid down on the chair and put his feet up in the air.

Max with feet in the air

This just confused me. “What?!”

I offered the board marker. Max came up to the board and started drawing an animal. Because he started with the head it looked like a cat … then he drew the wings.

“Oh! Bat!”

I laughed like mad when I realized why Max’s feet were in the air and showed them why I was laughing. Also, the bat was really cute!

“It’s a bat.” I repeated and I wrote “bat” on the board.

Best explanation of bat, ever.

A Smiling Waygook: The answer to all your problems

The weekends will often find me sitting in Starbucks. While there are many other, smaller coffee shops that have superior ambiance, where I am less likely to be disturbed by screaming children, for some reason I prefer the ever-changing, noisy crowd of people in Starbucks. Often I create my own atmosphere with my iPod, but occasionally, I enjoy the murmur of couples chatting intimately in Korean, the stray English that floats over to my table, and the laughter or cries of small children.

One crowded morning, as I sat reading, the frustrated cries of a young child jerked my thoughts away from the words on the page. Looking up, I noticed an incredibly cute little girl, probably around 3 years old, trying to get attention from her mother, who was busy with a younger sibling. I smiled and shook my head when I saw her mother immediately jump to attention and attempt to deal with her whining daughter.

The girl continued to whimper about something or other. I assumed it was about a pastry because of the gestures and blubbering accompanying the tears. Her mother talked to her a bit but returned to fussing over the younger sibling. Two children and not enough of mom to go around. The girl’s sobbing continued, varying in volume depending on how much attention she thought she was attracting. Huge crocodile tears streamed down her face, but she was fine. I looked back at my book, but continued to smirk because I understood.

This was not a girl in distress because she had hurt herself. Rather, she wanted attention and knew if she was loud enough, her mother would stop whatever she was doing and come running.

As she continued to throw a mini-tantrum, I saw out of the corner of my eye that her mother had finished with the younger sibling and crouched down to talk to her and give her a hug. The girls sobs continued, though a bit softer than before, so I looked up, again.

The girl saw me, paused for a split-second, then continued to sob and rub her eyes with her fists while staring at me. She was being silly, so I smiled at her.

Suddenly, the crying ceased.

The spigot turned off.

She gave me a half-smile.

Her mother, whose back was toward me was visibly taken aback. I’m sure she thought, “What the hell just happened?” Then the mother saw her daughter looking at something or someone, so she turned around. Obviously surprised to see a waygook (foreigner), she appeared a tad bewildered. We made slight bows to each other in understanding, though the astounded look did not leave her face.

I laughed to myself …

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Kimberly in Korea: Kimchi Teacher

Ever since I was little, I dreaded kids coming up with nicknames. My last name is Cochrane, and in second grade, when I was eight, a creative, young boy, named Roberto, (yes, I still remember who it was … and no … I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward him …) realized that Cochrane and cockroach start the same. That’s really all it takes I’ve discovered, that first syllable.

Roberto called me cockroach on the playground, and I got infuriated.

“Don’t call me cockroach!”

But it stuck.

From second grade until about middle school, when students stop calling each other harmless names, and start being a bit more vicious, I was known as “cockroach.”

Since then, I have learned one valuable lesson. The more extreme my reaction is, the more often whatever it is will happen. It’s apparently quite entertaining to others, even to my friends, when I get riled up.

For the first two months of teaching in Korea, no students came up with nicknames. They were shy and sweet. They tried their best to pronounce Kimberly, though they usually turned it into Kim-bu-lin, and I was often asked if it was a Korean name. Three syllables, Kim being one of them. It must be Korean.

Suddenly, one day, when I was introducing myself to a new student in a class I had had for a while, and the new student struggled to say my name, pausing a bit too long after Kim, perhaps, Jack (eight years old and clever, just like Roberto) blurted out, “Kim … chi … Kimchi! … Kimchi, teacher!!” And laughed.

All the students repeated, “Kimchi, teacher!”

I shook my head and laughed. What else could I do?

Honestly, being called kimchi, a beloved Korean side dish, is hardly as insulting as cockroach. So, perhaps that is the real reason my reaction changed, not because I have matured or become more tolerant.

Also, I had met another Kim, teaching English here, whose students called her kimchi, so I anticipated it. I expected it. Perhaps because she had introduced herself as Kim, her students came up with this nickname right at the beginning. I was surprised how long it took my students to call me kimchi.

While Jack quickly returned to calling me Kimberly, one student in Jack’s class, Michael, latched on to the nickname. At first he used to yell, nearly pointing and laughing, “Hello, KIMCHI teacher!” when he went by the teacher’s room. I simply responded, “Hi, Michael,” shaking my head and laughing as my co-teachers acted a bit surprised.

Michael has been calling me kimchi for about a month now, and I realized that today he said it as if it was my actual name. He is no longer searching for a reaction. Perhaps because I just accepted it and said, “Hello, Michael,” he now greets me daily, in the tone of something said out of habit, with, “Hello, Kimchi teacher.” And I respond, “Hi, Michael.”

I’m sure the real reason he uses it, is simply because it’s much easier to say than Kimberly. Regardless, each day being called “Kimchi, teacher,” by Michael, brings a smile to my face.

A tracking device that squeaks

Parents occasionally lose children and children parents. They get separated in stores and markets for various reasons. Usually the consumer goods and marketing surrounding parents and children pull them apart. So far this seems to be universal. Kids get lost, it happens. The difference between cultures seems to be how to prevent this … In Moscow, the solution seemed to be to leave children at home or hold their hand tightly. In the States, one solution is the ridiculous contraption of a child leash, which securely tethers a parent to their child via a “cute” backpack that the child wants to wear. In Korea, I have yet to see how most parents prevent losing children, but one solution made me laugh.

As I sat with the director of my school, eating fastfood/junk from Korea’s version of McDonald’s, Lotteria, waiting for my passport photos to develop, I heard a slightly obnoxious ‘squeaky, squeak, squeeak’. I thought, what in the world is that?! It sounded like someone had a dog toy and was just trying to be annoying with it. I looked up and saw a small boy bouncing on his shoes … ‘squeak, squeak’ with each step he took, this squeak occurred. I couldn’t help but giggle. At first I thought this must have been a cruel joke played by a family friend. Give the child some squeaky shoes to aggravate his parents. Then, as I talked to my director, and she made the comment that you sure wouldn’t lose your child that way, I realized she was right. What a hilarious tracking device.

The boy especially enjoyed the amused faces of people around him when they noticed he was making the noise. Looks of surprise, smiles, and laughter were the reaction, and he responded to this amusement accordingly by making louder squeaks, longer squeaks, and running around more than needed. While in some circumstances this noise would have caused much annoyance, the idea that this little kid squeaked with every step continued to make me laugh. Something tickled a funny bone, and I couldn’t help but laughing the entire time the child was around. What a great solution to keeping track of a wandering child. Though I guess the parent would need to be prepared to endure performances of squeaking!