So, I haven't written in a while

I have no excuses but this: I have been devouring the Game of Thrones series, and I tend to adapt my writing style and subject to the author I currently read. I don't particularly wish to write like Brotimes Martin--mostly, because I don't want to write about gratuitous saucy time when I know my mother reads this.

Alright, so I wrote this poem a while back. The cast of the Vagina Monologues did a photo shoot in March, and my friend asked me about my photo. I told him that we had to dress like our Vagina Warrior. He asked what that meant, and I honestly had no response for him. So, as I am wont to do, I sat down with some Sara Bareilles and wrote out exactly who my Vagina Warrior is, and how I allow her to participate in this absurd life that I call my own. I have a recording of me performing it, but my delivery could use a little work. Perhaps, I will work on that.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy it.

sea glass

My vagina warrior lived inside of me

pressed down and sodden

like the dregs of yesterday’s coffee grounds.

On a ship in a glass bottle,

I admired her—

             A piece of decoration.

The beliefs of not good

             enough

                                        and

not beautiful

             enough

chain her to the mast,

splayed her, restrained her

in a way that rendered her

             helpless

             defenseless     and

             naked

to the onslaught of

wave after wave of perfection—

             perception.

She will never be

             tall.

She will never be

             thin.

She will never be

             beautiful.

My vagina warrior fought these

             shackles.

She rallied the

             force of her arms,

the

             power of her legs

and the cuffs opened

not with a

             Click,

but with the

             Unadulterated

             Wild

sound of the oppressed.

Enough

The sonic sound shattered the glass.

She refused my

             submissions

my

             control

my

             standards.

She defied definition.

She created discomfort

to make me feel.

             something      anything

She turned to me,

not with rage

but with

             pity--

because I’d kowtowed to

rules     and     opinions    and

             external pressures

changed my self to fit into

society’s

glass bottle—broken

though it may be—

with its missing pieces

and jagged edges

meant to cut me

and keep me from feeling

             whole.

Its shards scattered among the

rubble.

There is no way to glue it back together—

             whole

My vagina warrior stepped inside of

me,

kissed my edges smooth,

and together we became

             sea glass,

living wholly and beautifully as

             One.

So, that just happened

Settle into a cozy armchair with a nightcap or a slightly less comfortable, albeit more practical desk chair with a mimosa. Or, frankly, do whatever you want. But, it will be infinitely better with a drink of some sort. If you are one of those people who are better than me, rife with morals and what not, good on you! You can drink some orange juice or coffee.

Anyway, tangent. Didn’t mean to be so bossy. You can read this post however you want.

 

Imma fill you in on the past twenty four hours of this roller coaster I call my existence. I have been told I am a terrible story teller in that I start at one end and forget to get to the point in a timely manner. But, I will try really hard this time.

 

Here we go. Whee!

 

Every Wednesday night, I have Girl’s Night with a stone-cold pack of weirdos. Yesterday, it was about 5 pm and The Girls still hadn’t figured out what we were going to do, where we were going to go, or what mischief we would find. We knew it had to be epic, because one of them is leaving next week. Big giant sad panda.

 

So, we decided on going to the best Mexican restaurant in Busan. Our meeting time was 8:34. No joke. I left my apartment in plenty of time to get there. However, as I was walking towards the subway, my Hal-mo-ni (grandmother) friend dropped her bags in surprise, stopped me, and folded me into one of the best hugs ever. She reached into her grocery bag, took out one yoghurt, and gave the other four to me. She said, “Gift to you and friends.” Then, we spent the next ten minutes exchanging information. The majority of that time, she distinguished baek-chil-ho (107) and cheon-chil-ho (1007) as my apartment number. She was very specific that I needed to know “CHEON-CHEON- CHEON-CHIL-HO! One-thousand-seven.” As we said goodbye, she hugged me again, held me at arms’ length and said, “I love you. You need grandmother in Korea? Me. I love you.” And, she kissed me on the cheek.

 

Elated, I bounced towards the subway blown away by the phenomenal kindness of strangers here. This is my life, my reality. I still don’t understand how I am not living a storybook. I sent my friends a message that read, “I have the best excuse for my tardiness ever.”

 

I arrived at the restaurant, and my friends shook their heads around the restaurant like abandoned puppies.

 

“We can only sit outside. There is no room…”

 

I decided, “Whelp, it is a warm night. And, wine will keep us warm. Let’s just sit outside.”

 

Let me just explain one thing. In this group of women, not a single one of us is quiet. We all like to talk, preferably all at the same time. CVK put it very succinctly to the newcomers of the group, “I am pretty sure that thirty stories start on Girl’s Night, and maybe three finish. I am being generous with three.”

 

After we finished three bottles of wine, and we were at that point of not-quite-tipsy but doing alright. I was antsy to move to our secondary location, an apartment party with wine and laughter flowing equally.  Then, it happened.

 

About eight men (two foreigners, six Koreans) in power suits and fancy cars pulled up to the restaurant.

1. This restaurant is in a creepy back alley far away from any sort of crowd.

2. None of us were dressed to match them.

3. We had just enough wine to make us sassy.

 

K, our fearless leader with a coy smile, cooed, “Oh, so glad you could make it. We have been waiting to see who could sit inside while we froze out here.” Some time passed, and the men attempted to open the glass door separating the restaurant from the porch.

Finally, they figured it out, and handed us a bottle of 12 year Glenlivet whisky. Now, this is not an everyday occurrence. We profusely thanked them, and then to be kind, we asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, he is the CEO of Glenlivet Company in Asia, and we hope to promote whisky in Busan.”

 

Wow. Really? Holy Moly. We continued to talk to the gentlemen for some time. Then, K filled the glasses with ice, while I poured the whisky. Bitches get shit done, amirite?

I gave one to my friend, and she didn’t know what to do with it. I told her to swirl it just a little. She spun her wrist like a top. Bossily, I attacked, “Whoa! What are you doing?! Slowly! Just enough for the flavor to melt a little.”

The CEO looked at me and said, “You need to come and work for me. It is clear that you love whisky. Come, please, and teach people how to drink it. We are promoting both Jameson and Glenlivet in Busan soon. You can have your pick.”

Now, I don’t know if you believe in the afterlife, but I am pretty sure that sounds a lot (or alot) like heaven. I graciously thanked him for his offer, and continued pouring the spirits.

After that first bottle cracked open, the night so very quickly degenerated. The fancy men left us with their business cards and our hopes floating in a bottle.

And, the table across the porch were celebrating a proposal. We joined their party and had him re-propose to his fiancée, complete with us singing BoyzIIMen as the background music. He was from Connecticut; it was fine.

Then, I posted this photo onto the facebooks with the caption: “What did you do tonight? Meet the CEO of Glenlivet Whisky? Get offered a job at the new branch opening in Busan? No? Just me...oh, cool.”

The most poignant comment on this absurdly long thread was this: “Dude, always take the dream job... That way there are no what ifs.”

I thought about this for a moment. I realized that I already have my dream job. Right now, I get to teach my own curriculum to a group of creative and inspiring young women who care about things. I help them learn my mother tongue. I watch them play and create and succeed. I see that moment when confusion becomes understanding. And, I don’t care how much free Glenlivet I could drink, it isn’t worth giving up these little moments of perfection. I trudged into class today, far more fragile than I should have been, and my students surprised me, reminding me exactly why I became a teacher. There are no what-ifs. I know I am doing precisely what I am meant to do.

So, I hitched a ride

As I started my trek down the mountain, I looked forward to the new path I planned to explore. I have been working at my school near a month and have not taken the same route down to the city twice. 

 

But, amidst my reverie, a car pulls up next to me (a science teacher whom I had never properly met) asked, "Deokcheon Yeok?" (Deokcheon Subway Stop?). Grateful for a ride and shelving adventure, I clambered into the back seat of her car.

An overwhelming smell of Buick LeSabre and nostalgia bathed me. Holy Homesick Batman. That poignant, now familiar, stab of pain does not hurt less the longer you are gone. In fact, it twists into many forms affecting many thought paths and overwhelms me.

This particular monster was one with which I have often battled but never beaten. That smell shot me through the space-time continuum to a time when my grandmother was alive and life was easy. It smelled of leather and love, poppies and stubbornness. And, in that moment, I remembered not saying goodbye to her. I remembered receiving that call from Dad on the snowy Monday night of finals. He said, "Don't worry. This will pass." Then, it didn't. In a stranger's car, a million miles and just as many moons later, this monster pierced a claw through the toughened layers in which I've swathed my heart opening gates I did not know existed.

Another monster, one with two faces, switches her tail in anxious anticipation. My oldest friend, my Piglet, will birth a child at any moment. This monster curls round my neck and coos in one ear an unadulterated excitement for new life. I love this child with wild abandon. Alternately, monster scrapes her tail on my other ear reminding me I will be oceans away from meeting this child not minutes—a tease of immeasurable pain and excitement.

However, the most difficult monster I perceive is subtle. Her lavender- blue scales meld with my early morning ocean exterior. The calm sunrise before the tide ravages the shore. It is this monster who reminisces of maternal touch. All I want in this moment is to hug the woman who gave me life. To hold her close to me. To breathe in her essence. To feel what she feels. This monster lives inside of me. Completely fortified against external comfort and help. I trap this monster within because if I let her out, I will lose the necessary connection the tethers my soul to a point in the atmosphere exactly midway between here and her. A constant battle of where I am going and where I am from.

I exited the car, breathed in my reality—the magnificence of the mountains, the sweetness of the sea, the place where my heart also calls home—and strolled through the underground being exactly where I needed to be.

So, this is more or less a first world problem

Once upon a time Been there. Done that.

In a galaxy far away Inaccurate. It happened right here.

So, You already have a start like that at the top of the page, dummy.

*Kat(i)e gets up, goes to the coffee machine, realizes she’s already had three cups today, decides on tea, sits back down, checks social media, thinks about Rufio, smiles, then looks back at the more or less empty word document open in front of her.*

Welcome to the inside of my brain. Home Bestie, WL is sending me a shirt that describes my exact sentiment of writing procrastination. Hope it is winging its way over here, Buster. I need it. My muse, Geof, is taking a hiatus. I need some good substitutes. I have several offers; I just need to pick one. Probably gonna be Anton Ego, circa Ratatouille. BUT STILL SEND THE SHIRT. (Those are not angry capslock, or even bossy capslock, but I CAN’T WAIT FOR A NEW V-NECK T-SHIRT AND OTHER SUPPLIES TO COME capslock.)

Right, anyway. In July, I had a very serendipitous meeting with a woman. We’ll call her J. You can read about how I traded trousers with her on the night that I ripped mine to high heaven in a dance-off of epic proportions here. Anyway, throughout the past several months, she and I have had snippets of conversation and well wishes; I have threatened to steal her dog on more than one occasion. Whatever, you would, too. He is delightful, and inappropriately adorable.

Anyway, the other day, while I was walking out of the subway, trying to maintain several conversations (one of which was with J) on several different mediums (skype message, facebook messanger, and kakao), she very rightly typed, “It seems as though you’re distracted. I am going to let you be present in your moment.”

I read that, and several emotions washed over me.

1. Catholic Guilt—Oh, crap, how did she find me out? I was not able to uphold a conversation with her because I was too busy with other things. Ahhhhhhhh, I need to go to confession. Don’t worry, J, I really needed to be reminded of that.

2. Confusion—When did I become the person who is always on her cell phone? Uh oh, have I made the switch to being Korean so subtly that it snuck up on even me?!

3. Recognition—I have become that person, and I really need to stop.

So, with that in mind, I made a Lenten promise. I know, I know. I am not Roman Catholic anymore, but if I don’t do something for Lent, I feel like a bad person (Re: Catholic Guilt—see number 1). I promised myself that I would do my best to be more present in my life.

I mean, here I am talking about how technology distracts us…while sitting at a computer, phone in front of me, iPod blaring, nook flashing “low battery,” binders hastily scootched over to the side of my desk, messy and forgotten, but very, very real.

In this moment, I would like to dissect my reality. I live in a country a bajillion miles away from the farmer’s markets, The Steaming Cup, and Sprizzo’s of home. I live amidst temples, Twosome Places, and Angels-in-Us’s. I have way more technology than necessary. Before I came to Korea, I had just upgraded my dumb phone—opposite of smart phone—to one with a keyboard for the texting. Now, I have the interwebs, multiple social mediums, and seriously THOUSANDS of games on several devices. What am I doing with my life?

I reflected on the very intentional words of my friend, J. Be present. Be in the moment of your reality. Turn off your electronics and just exist.

It is terrifying at first. You will feel naked (unless you actually are naked, in which case, kudos). You will feel anxiety. You will have FOMO (fear of missing out) of what’s happening on facebook. But, what you will experience is the melody of the rain on your roof, the purr of your kitten, the gentle breath of your loved ones. You will experience the smiles of your co-workers, the grandmotherly touch of the ajjumma on the subway who holds your hand, the simple bows and head nods of strangers on the street.

When you get home tonight, seriously try this, turn everything off—lights, computers, televisions, phones, and iDevices. Lay in your bed or on your couch. And, listen to the world around you. What does it sound like?  What does it smell like? What does it taste like?

Frankly, what I choose to do in this world is more or less irrelevant to the universe. But, if I choose to be present in all that I do, I know for certain that my world will be a better place.

 

 

 

 

So, today is the first day of school

Right now, I am a jittery ball of nerves. Tough to believe how two cups of coffee and a long commute can completely shatter the cool demeanor I normally possess. 

The first day of school always held a piece of magic. The smell of fresh notebooks and shaved pencils mixed with Dr. Pepper Lipsmackers created something unequivocally beautiful. Everything was color coded to perfection, the ruler and protractor snuggled with the dictionary and homemade lunch that my mother so carefully packed—peanut butter and jelly, one apple, seven carrots, and a love note.  

Last year, I strutted into Centum High School cradled by naïveté and wide-eyed wonder. I had left everyone who loved me, and came to a place where I knew no one, and I was terrified. I made up for it in needless vibrato and a desperate need to fit into this society.  

Conversely, today I ambled up the mountainside to Kyung Hae Girl’s High School wrapped in thoughts and fleece. I turned when students cried, “Seon Saeng Nim!” (Teacher!). I smiled, gave a half wave, and continued my journey. I sat down at my desk, void of color coding or the pretention that chased me in my formative years. This past year, I have lost all sense of trying to be someone or something I am not to fit into another person’s mold of who they think I should be. 

This morning, I relished in the First Day of School Ceremony. It is incredible to see hundreds of young women standing in ridiculously straight lines singing their national anthem. Their voices rang with pride and shyness, excitement and nerves all at one time. 

I am so excited to teach these young women. I loved my boys at Centum, and there are so many of them whom I will never forget. However, I am thrilled to teach women. I cannot wait to help them grow into themselves. Perhaps, I am overreaching. Perhaps I have unreasonably high expectations. But, I know that I can teach these young women more about life than English.

I want to teach them independence. I want to teach them critical thinking. I want to teach them that they do not have to adhere to stereotypes set for them. Don’t worry, Mom and Dad, I will do so in subtle ways. I am not going to go in there willy nilly with complete disregard to their culture. But, I will teach by example. I will teach them to ask me, why. Ask me, how? Ask me, when? Ask me.

Today is the first day of school. I am wearing last year’s clothes. My bag holds Bananagrams and games rather than binders. My desk is barren. But, there is still crackles of magic popping everywhere I go, resounding with everything I do. I know that very good things are going to happen here at Kyung Hae, and I cannot wait to be a part of them.

So, I took a swim

With a child's mask snug on my face and neon fins elongating my own set of flippers, I threw myself over the side of the boat, hoping to God the water was deep enough. I splashed and floundered about until I got my bearings. The sky, a searing azure, melded into the sea at some point on the hazy horizon. I dipped my head under the water for a peek of something I can never have.

The Andaman Sea crackled with possibility. The teal waters surrounding Koh Rok hosted an intricate labyrinth of wild life, so untouched by humanity. Materialism, commercialism, capitalism, communism all gave way to this time and space in which humans can only observe and never be a part. I wished I had gills with which to breathe, but all I had were photographs written in memories and the obnoxious necessity of taking in air.

These corals were not the flashy sort you see lounging around the Great Barrier or the Caribbean. They were a humbler folk, swathed in browns and burnt umber. The tiny holes stretched wide breathing in hydrogen, and I oxygen. These pieces of coral, large blocks of living organisms, sit both adjacent to and tangent from one another.

The fish darted back and forth like lab rats in a test that never ends. The iridescent scales shimmered in the dancing sunlight reflecting in the salt and water. I named them all as Adam did--foolishly claiming them as my own.

The first, Rita. Her scales, a shaded grey-green rainbow. The vibrant colors, masked by a translucent cover, pushed through, determined to show their beauty. Her head was pink on the bottom and a brilliant blue on top. We locked eyes, each regarding the other's form. We swam away, each turning back and stealing glances of the exotic beauty we've left behind.

The second, Marius, an uppity green fellow so bright he could light up the Vegas strip—the yellow dots along his sides complemented his pink underbelly and orange lips. His school danced in the waves, as he desperately tried to conduct a lesson. The yellow stripe on his dorsal twitched in annoyance as I invaded his classroom hoping to learn something, too.

The bright purple cone with green hair sprouting in tufts housed a sea anemone. Marlin and Nemo played tag amongst the swaying fronds. Their orange and white stripes chased each other as clouds chase the sun.  Dory came to play as well, but she was a mammoth compared to the little clowns. Her blue and yellow tail switched back and forth moving her toward more appropriate corals.

Gerald, the cabbie, swished his black and white checkered body in front of my face, urging me to hold on. He took me to where I needed to go, even though I didn’t know it. I followed his orange head as it bobbed in between Marius’ school and Rita’s vanity. He took me to this shallow crag rife with sea spines so close they almost tickled. Their spikes simultaneously foreboding and beautiful. I could just see past them to see a myriad of colors beneath—an orange that defied the setting sun, a Macintosh red, a translucent gel with a hint of blue at its very center. All of them waved to meet me, this gargantuan alien.

The mussels in this crag were a Georgia O'Keefe tribute--opening and closing with each breath. Their hard outer shells hid unique inner linings, each with an identifying stripe, polka dot, or striking color. Little neon trumpets exhaled music and bubbles, but they were so easy to scare. A snap or swift kick of my fin sent them deep in the recesses of their homes. I left them with a flip of my fin and a shake of my head, hoping a dorsal would sprout.

Later, while swimming over a deeper part of the sea, I dove down to the bottom to grasp a piece of garbage half buried in the sand. How could someone so carelessly misplace their wrappers and sully this paradise? My snorkel filled with water and salt, my teeth clenched against its barrage. All of the fish watched me move through the water, and as I surfaced, I swam through their grateful gaze.

In that moment, humanity seemed barbaric. Pillaging one of the few places left untouched by our greedy paws. This life, this sea, this ocean has survived millions of years relying on its own intuition. Entire ecosystems have ignited, evolved, died, and began anew without any help from humans. They are a phoenix rising and leaving us in its fiery wake. It’s baffling when we, as people, think that we know the best way to coexist, when we have had more years of war than years of peace. The Earth is not ours to own and do with as we please. She is a living and breathing goddess on whom we reside.
  

After four hours of wonder, I peeled off my mask and fins, hoping my memory didn’t go with them. It seems trivial to try to write something to match their vivid colors and intricate way of life. As the boat surged west, I sprawled on the bow, salt crystals forming on my skin, in complete awe of the world I call home.