‘We drink because there is little culture here…’

“We drink because there is little culture here,” she said, as if it were a matter of fact.  My student’s response was startling, disproportionate to the question I had put forward.

I had been asking several students about their favorite pastimes in conversation class, when the topic of drinking and Korean culture surfaced.  I had seen the topic before.  Curious as to why the topic came up so often, I asked them to give me a critique of their own culture.  The questions I asked were relatively simple and I wasn’t expecting much.  After all, alcohol forms an integral part of the human diet the world over, save Adventists and Muslims.  But her response threw me for a loop, and sent me turning over rocks in search of an explanation.

When you encounter extremes, or variations of what you are accustomed to, your mind is forced to ask in order to comprehend.  This is what happened to me when I observed Korean drinking culture for the first time.  Not because I have never observed drinking culture before, but because I saw that the drinking culture here was more a form of widespread alcoholism.  Systemic.  Entrenched.

You see it in the many advertisements and restaurants, and in the streets.  Where I currently live, in an area known as the ‘Manhattan’ of Korea, it is not uncommon to see groups of young men–professionals–still dressed in their suits and ties from work, staggering around in a drunken glee as early as 9:00pm.  I can’t even begin to count the groups of older gentlemen I’ve seen carousing in the early evening, men my father’s age, arms slung around each others shoulders, like schoolboys at the beginning of Summer break.  Another interesting sight are the groups of tipsy young women who walk up and down the streets at night, giggling and chattering like birds.

You see it in the classroom, too.  I’ve had students come to class at 6:30am, gray in the face, reeking of old cologne, sweat, and cigarette smoke, completely hung-over.  One student, a petite girl, missed class on one occasion, informing me that she had drunk from 12:00pm to 3:00am several days earlier.  Two days later she was still visibly hung-over.  Another student missed an exam, explaining to me with bleary eyes that he had to celebrate an important deal with a client and was therefore ‘sick’ on test day.

So, what do Koreans drink, exactly?  The choice drink here is, without argument, Soju, a clear liquor traditionally made from rice.  Soju is fairly inexpensive and can be consumed with a meal, or on its own; but always in a group.  A Korean friend of mine explained to me that a bottle of Soju actually has an odd number of servings, which means that, if you are drinking in an even-numbered group, there will always be at least one or more empty soju glasses at the end of the bottle.  The odd number of servings is no coincidence.  To compensate for the empty soju glasses at the table, you must order a second bottle.  The cycle repeats itself to the point of drunkenness.  I imagine it makes for good business, if you are in the liquor industry.

There are a few simple explanations that come to mind regarding the issue of Korean drinking culture.  First of all, the Korean work ethic is prolific, exhausting, and impressive.  Expectations at work, school, and home are comparatively high.  Put simply, society has demands.  The pressure is enough to make any Westerner buckle.  Drinking eliminates said pressure, opening the door for a brief moment of ‘freedom’ where, in essence, one can operate outside the bounds of society’s many expectations.  Koreans also drink for the sense of togetherness that alcohol brings; the feelings of isolation that come with working long and tedious hours dissolve as the shots are passed around.  In addition, drinking is a legitimate step in the deal-making process; specifically, drinking with your business partners and clients is important for PR and building trust.  The parents of the bride and groom even consume shots of soju to celebrate the union at a traditional Korean wedding.

Looking for a different perspective, I ran some of my thoughts about Korean drinking culture and, specifically, my student’s comment by some friends of mine, one a Korean-American, the other, a Korean who has spent a considerable amount of time outside Korea.  Both of them–almost immediately–pointed me back one hundred years to 1910, when the Korean peninsula was forcibly annexed and colonized by Japan.  During this dark period, Korean material culture was systematically destroyed: centuries worth of documents and records were erased; Korean martial arts and traditional wrestling were banned; and many of the country’s national treasures also disappeared or were taken to Japan.

The people suffered, too, immeasurably.  Koreans were forcibly conscripted into the Japanese military, or were made to work–humiliatingly–for their occupiers as laborers.  The disgrace did not stop there, though, as tens of thousands of Korean women were forced to serve the Japanese troops as “comfort women”, a blot which remains a dark and controversial topic to this day.  Their land was taken, too.  By the end of the Second World War there were close to 1 million Japanese settlers on the Korean peninsula.  Japanese was even made compulsory in school.  Korea was, for lack of a better word, “raped”, her culture dismantled, her land seized and redistributed, her people humiliated.  Korea, the “land of the morning calm”, all but died during those years.

The loss of material culture and the reminder of what had been were soon compounded by the tragedy of the Korean War (1950-1953), which set the peninsula back even further.  In the aftermath of these events, restoring Korea to its former glory came secondary to survival.  Buildings were erected—thoughtlessly—with only progress on the mind; and few attempts were made to restore the aesthetic qualities—the quaintness—that had characterized Korea for centuries.  The architecture that emerged after the Korean War, a form of architecture perpetuated to this day, was drab, gray, and functional.  The “land of the morning calm” would never look or feel the same.

And so they grieve.  And in this grief there is a sense of shame and loss.

The story of Korea’s recent past reminded me that there are moments in the course of human history that shape our collective consciousness.  We all have defining events in our narrative, moments where something was forcibly taken from us, where something was broken.  The Jews have the Holocaust; the Armenians, the genocide under the Ottomans; and Americans, the crumbling of the Twin Towers.  We may not see it or feel it on a daily basis, but we are all deeply influenced–driven–by the specter of collective tragedy.  My point is that the Korea of today is shaped by the forced removal and suppression of her culture and people nearly one hundred years ago.

This grief is embodied in the Korean idea of Han, which one Korean theologian sums up as a “feeling of unresolved resentment against injustices suffered, a sense of helplessness because of the overwhelming odds against one, a feeling of acute pain in one’s guts and bowels, making the whole body writhe and squirm, and an obstinate urge to take revenge and to right the wrong—all these combined.”

One could easily counter the whole notion of collective grief in this circumstance by pointing to the recent successes of the Korean economy, a miracle on its own and a veritable force for the twenty-first century.  Is that not a sign of recovery?  Perhaps.  But does material productivity and technological progress necessarily equate emotional recovery?  Peace?  Stability?  I think not.

One of my favorite songwriters, Ben Harper, in his song “When It’s Good”, sings a line that speaks to my student’s comment:

“Some drink to remember, some to forget, some for satisfaction, some to regret…”

This is Han, the unseen, immutable vein of grief she so simply expressed, but that we all, in the end, share.

Full of drive but sleep deprived…

My sleeping patterns have slowly begun to resemble those of my students.  What this means is that–typically–my day ends around 12:00AM and begins roughly 5 hours later, with the moon hovering somewhere over the darkened high-rise buildings that loom outside my window.  It is always cold when I wake up.  5 hours of sleep, while admittedly insufficient for a healthy lifestyle, is enough to ‘get by’.  Am I well rested in the morning?  Absolutely not.  But I do have enough steam to get to midday, after which I’m in the clear.  Sure, there are a few groggy moments here and there, but overall I perform about as well as I do with 7-8 hours of sleep.  At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

When I began teaching one of the first things I noticed was the signs of physical exhaustion apparent in many of my early-morning students.  They were slower than the late morning classes, with glossy stares.  And they blinked frequently.  I’ve seen girls come to class with the subtle remains of a night mask clinging to the curves of their jawline.  One fellow appears to have trouble rinsing his teeth after brushing, because he comes to class nearly everyday with white residue on his lips and around the corners of his mouth.  Very minty.  And classy.  All signs of a forced wake-up.

“Repeat after me, ” I would say, energetically, conducting a drill.  A few would repeat the sentence, mumbling, eyes half-closed.  The rest, though, would sit there–blank–trying to digest my command, wake-up, or do both at the same time.  At first, I thought it was my fault, that I simply wasn’t interesting enough.  I soon realized, however, that I was not dealing with unmotivated or bored students, but sleep-deprived ones.

The exhaustion I noticed in my early morning classes led me to ask each student–at random–how much sleep they got every night and why.  The average: 4-5 hours.  The top 3 reasons: 1) long hours at work, 2) excessive studying, and 3) ‘I went out drinking last night’.  By and large it seemed that decent sleep–meaning 6 or more hours–was a weekend luxury.

Recently, one of my students, a professional in the financial world, told me that she averages about 3 hours of sleep per night.  According to her, unpaid overtime is what usually keeps her out late.  This past weekend she parted with her routine in dramatic fashion, sleeping a total of 22 hours straight, rising only to eat and use the restroom.  Talk about sleeping yourself into a permanent coma.

Now, to get anything out of a sleep deprived class you have to have twice the energy, triple the motivation, and throw in a cookie every now and then to keep them focused.  Of course, they will come to class–regardless–such is the desire to gain the ‘edge’ in this remarkably competitive society.  But the challenge lies in getting them to internalize the material and produce results.  This is precisely why my energy during those early morning hours is so critical.  In short, I bring the party.  To do this I must maximize the impact of my presence and energy, while minimizing any tell-tale signs of exhaustion or unpreparedness coming from my end.

Here are a few points I try to keep in mind for my early morning classes:

1) Smile frequently and use hand gestures.  Usually, the only energy in the classroom is the energy I bring to the classroom.  Being overly animated sometimes does the trick.  They need to know that, at the very least, I am awake.

2) Do everything to conceal exhaustion and unpreparedness.  I found the students can detect when my voice is a bit off, or when my eyes are slightly glossy.  They count my yawns (even the ones I hold back) and note when my tie is knotted a bit looser than usual–a clear indicator of a rushed morning.  If you are exhausted or rushed, fool them.  Tighten that tie, straighten that collar, and swallow those yawns.

3) Energize yourself, using all-natural stimulants, like a shot of ice-cold water or a series of deep breaths before entering the classroom.  If that fails, I retreat to Trucillo’s Cafe for an inspiring cup of coffee during my sacred 8:30AM break.

Intrigued with the idea of minimal sleep, I decided to try it out for myself.  Consider it an unhealthy social experiment that I have yet to recover from.  Keep in mind that, according to my very rough and completely unscientific estimates, the majority of my early morning students–from the second-year engineering student to the small-firm businessman; from the stockbroker to the insurance woman–function on 5 or less hours of sleep a night.

The 4-5 hour night experiment began with a bang.  Oh, the things I could accomplish and the fun I could have in the evening with those extra hours!  At first, it went smoothly.  Indeed, my evenings were long and full; and at the sound of the alarm a few hours later, I would sit up, take a deep breath, and leap out of bed to get to the shower.  No problem.  There is an adrenaline rush that comes with starting your day while the rest of the world sleeps.  There is even a rush that comes with operating on little sleep.  Sure, I would have to clench my jaw and breath in through my nose around 8:30AM to fight those wide, hippopotamus yawns.  But that was okay.

After a week or two of this I began to hit the alarm–two or three times–before finally rising and making my way to the shower, dragging my feet the whole way, adrenaline spent.  The yawns grew in height, width, length, and got louder.  I even skipped breakfast a few days in a row, unheard of if you know anything about what makes my world turn.  Now, the awakening process has become a real chore, an exhausting battle of the will, where the mind is constantly forced to–often violently–subdue the body.

This whole sleep experiment has got to end; I need rest.

I’ve decided that 5 hours of sleep is bad, and that 4 hours of sleep is even worse.  That’s why I’m going to go to bed right now.

Cheers

Godzilla is 189cm tall and lives in Seoul…

At roughly 189cm, I am a tall one.  Here.  There.  Anywhere.  189cm–roughly 6’3–is sizable no matter where you are.  But in Korea 189cm means something completely different.  It is colossal, huge, borderline freakish.  On my first day of class I discovered, to my dismay, that my height was not an asset, but an obstacle, an irreversible consequence of Nature, unnerving to even the most confident student.  My challenge: I would have to convince my students that I was not Godzilla.

At precisely 6:29am I strode into the classroom, feigning confidence, books tucked under my right arm.

To be fair, everyone is timid on the first day of class; no one ever knows exactly what to expect.  This applies to both the teacher and the student.  But imagine walking into a classroom, trying your best to exude a blend of confidence and approachability, and hearing a collective gasp escape the open mouths of your students.  Terror is not something you want to foment on your first day of class, unless, of course, you are a second grade teacher.  But these students–my students–are adults and pay good money for English language instruction.  If you intimidate them, or if they feel uncomfortable with you as a teacher, they will switch classes, or will leave the institute altogether.  The teacher-student dynamic that takes place in the classroom is actually one of a language institutes best (or worst) forms of PR.  Put simply, a good teacher will both keep and attract students, while a poor teacher will drive them away.  Word spreads quickly, too.  So, ease and approachability have everything to do with the success of this equation.  In fact, ease and approachability were what I wanted to establish the moment I entered the classroom on that morning.  But, my size.  There was no way around it.

Knowing I had some ground to cover, I set my books down and greeted everyone in the warmest tone possible.  They were not convinced, and stared back at me–blankly.  I asked them how they were doing; they continued to stare.  I swear one girl’s mouth remained agape for the larger portion of my introduction.  I also discovered that jokes, while theoretically the best ice-breakers, are completely useless, unless your audience can understand them.  I was about as funny as Jeff Foxworthy, who, coincidentally, is never funny.  Not an ideal situation on my first day of class.

Stumped, I realized that, unless I wanted an empty classroom the following morning, I would have to adapt to the unfortunate situation.  Faster than you could say ‘Natural Selection’, I pulled up a chair and sat down.  It wasn’t until I did this that my students began to relax.  Now eye-to-eye with my students, I opened up the floor to questions.  All was quiet until one student slowly raised his hand and asked the inevitable: “How tall are you?”  My answer: 189cm.  Their collective response: a ‘gasp’ mixed with nervous laughter here and there.  The situation repeated itself in each of my six classes.

Physically lowering myself to their level seemed to have had a positive effect on how they perceived me, though; I was no longer threatening, something to be intimidated by.  Only then did I notice a change in the atmosphere, as hesitation and intimidation gave way to curiosity.

(You encounter this phenomenon of physically lowering oneself to eye level here, often in nicer restaurants, where the waitress will kneel on the ground, elbows propped on the table, to take an order.  Though bizarre at first, you feel less rushed than back in the States, where ‘Flo’ towers over you, shamelessly chews gum, taps her pen against her notepad, glancing around the room, annoyed, as if she wished she were somewhere–anywhere–else)

In this case, I scored big by physically lowering myself down to my students level.  I saved face.  Seated as I was, they seemed to trust me more and began asking questions that had nothing do with my unusual dimensions; but inquired about my origins, home, university degree, family, interests and hobbies, among other things.  Needless to stay, I stayed in the chair for the rest of the hour.  And for the remainder of the day.

Sometime last week I had a student of mine–a middle aged woman–tell me that she selected my class because she heard I was, “very big, but gentle.”  When she told me this, I sighed–deeply–relieved that 189cm was not too big to love.

Cheers