Sink Or Swim

The day after I arrived in Korea was a day like any other--except that I was exhausted coming off of a 15-hour-long trip, was seriously jet-lagged after only 3 hours sleep, and was expected to teach a full day.

("What is that? That is a monkey.")

My coworker, Hyung, gave me the three texts I would need, a copy of my schedule (with my classes thoughtfully marked with a "J," the initial of the teacher who had the job before me), and left me alone.

("Who is she? She's Mrs. Wilson.")

It all seemed simple enough. There were 3 teachers (only one of whom, yours truly, was American), covering 3 different classrooms, all on a rotating schedule. The teachers would move from room to room every 30 minutes; after 90 minutes, new students traded places with the old students, and we started all over again.

The wonderful thing about theories is that they look so good on paper.

("Do you have a pig? Yes, I do.")

I am 6 feet 2 inches tall. I weigh around 250 pounds. I have longish hair and a full beard.

I will never forget the stark terror on my students' faces when the biggest, tallest, hairiest thing they'd ever seen first showed up that afternoon to teach them English.

("I have two eyes. I have one nose.")

"Hello," said I. They stared, wide-eyed. I asked, "What page are we one?" They looked at each other, then back at me. Expectantly.

Smart as a whip, I immediately noticed a problem: I was the only one speaking English.

I had no boat.

I had no life preserver.

Sink or swim. I started to panic, and paddled madly for shore.

I pulled my bright yellow "English For Children 1" book out. The students stared. I pointed to the book. Somebody, somewhere, in the quietest voice I almost didn't hear, said, "...book..."

I paddled faster.

"Page...?" I let the question hang there while I flipped the pages back and forth. Some of the students carefully turned pages in their own books until they stopped at Chapter 3: I AM CHANGSOO. They looked back up at me, waiting.

My year of teaching English in Korea had officially begun.

In front of a classroom by yourself for the first time, you quickly discover what most educators call "Teacher Mode," an interesting state of being that is you and yet not you. It is a slightly more authoritarian, less casual, less humorous you. You adopt this persona because, as much as you want to be every student's best friend, you must first be known as The Person In Charge. To not adopt this persona is to be eaten alive by a bunch of 3rd graders. I've seen it happen. It's not pretty. Chairs are thrown.

I was suddenly feeling very lucky to have found this persona in front of a classroom of English-speaking students years ago.

To teach in Korea, experience in a classroom is not necessary; you need only a bachelor's degree. I could not even begin to imagine doing this a decade ago, fresh out of four insulated years of college.

Every 30 minutes, class after class it went: I walked into a room. Received looks of surprise and terror. Got the books opened to the correct page. And then got a small group of Korean students to repeat after me.

"I am Changsoo. I am a student."

"I am Younghee. I am a student, too."

Okay, so the content left a lot to be desired. A whole lot. Hey, 16 time zones away from home, I'll take what I can get. Gladly.

And just like that, it was 9:00pm. Almost before I knew it, the day was unceremoniously over and Mr. Byun, my boss, was shaking my hand and saying, "Thank you very much. Good night."

I hadn't sunk. I may not have been the most graceful of swimmers, but at least my head was still above water.