Korean Mothers are the Best, you Know: Facepalm

The Korea Times came out with a howler of an article recently, mistakenly using the headline "Tips for Keeping Partners from Cheating" on an article that was clearly meant to be titled "How to Suffocate Your Partner and Poison Your Relationship With Mistrust." This is a far cry from its 2009-10 nadir (setting the record straight, and alien graveyards), but still. My response on Facebook was sarcastic, but basically: 1. Don't trust your partner? Find another.  2. Partner asking for your passwords? People usually extend to others the amount of trust they deserve themselves. Memo for everyone: possessiveness and obsessiveness aren't cute and charming. They're creepy uncomfortable suffocating and insulting.


Not to be topped (bottomed?), The Korea Herald ran an article by Dr. Kim Seong-kon, a longtime contributor there, titled "Korean Mother: A Cultural Icon" - now, Dr. Kim has been writing an article a week for a very very long time, so maybe we have to forgive the occasional stinker, but this one went over the line.

Kim suggests "the Korean mother" as a cultural icon for Korea - a symbol of Korean culture, or essence, or somesuch. Nothing terribly wrong with that, though compared to the examples he gives, like Japanese samurai, which only Japan has, choosing something every living person necessarily has seems odd.

Kim describes the sacrificial and nurturing quality of Korean mothers, name-checks "Please Look after Mother" by Shin Kyung-sook, compares Korean mothers to birds that feed their babies while they starve, and even points out how Korean mothers are different from the mothers in his anecdote, AND in this one TV show he saw, which is enough to satisfy a scholar these days, I guess. (Peer review, here I come!)

[Update: Smudgem writes a thoughtful response to the article, that includes some nice words about this post: thanks!]

Asia Pundits raises a number of objections to the article - asking whence Korean teen suicide, if Korean mothers are so great (but acknowledging the issue is waaaaay more complex than that), and in what way trundling kids off to hagwon until 8 or 10pm is different from sending kids to their rooms early in the evening. Asiapundits also outlines the pressure Korean moms often put on kids to get into a good school -- even using the threat of violence to bully kids into studying harder. The article is worth reading. The top comment (as of now) below that post mentions "stage mother superficiality" - making parenting decisions based on what the other moms in the sewing circle will think, rather than what's best for the kids, which happens, I suppose (elsewhere as well of here, of course).

Newer blogger Wangjangnim weighs in a little more emotionally, with his best point being that Dr. Kim's description of Korean mothers is a not-too-subtle disguise for a series of normative statements about gender roles that are a generation or two out of date, and which also fix the acceptable standard for motherhood ridiculously high. (Meanwhile, Chosun Ilbo English headline this morning: "Actress Park Si-yeon Happy to Focus on Being a Mom" -- still waiting for a major daily in Korea featuring a headline, "Famous and Accomplished Woman Happy To Focus on Career For Now" with a positive write-up). Wangjangnim also mentions (though briefly) overseas adoption, which has created a whole bunch of Koreans who are alienated from their Korean moms.

Both AsiaPundits' mention of teen suicide, and Wangjangnim's mention of overseas adoption, as presented, are probably unfair "Yeah but what about this!" reactions. Both reduce very complex issues into pot-shots in a conversation about something else, far less than these two issues deserve. (Honestly, though, adoption sprang to my mind as well during my kneejerk-rage reaction phase.) Neither of those fraught and complex issues are fair to lay solely at the feet of Korean mothers: both require far-reaching discussions of Korean society. There are other little digs one could make -- my facebook feed featured a funny wisecrack about the prevalance of car seat use, for example. Moms in Korean dramas notwithstanding, I have several main problems with the article:

First: When I try to talk about an entire country of over 50 million as if it's a single, undifferentiated mass, my commenters give me hell. Essentializing an entire culture is always fishy territory, whether it's a foreigner or a Korean holding the broad brush. Korea is a pretty big, complex thing: big enough, and complex enough, that you can find evidence to validate any bias or agenda you bring to it, from the fuzziest of happy purrs, to the bitterest of angry yawps. This gets us no closer to the bottom of things.

Second: There are tons of moms in Korea who don't fit the rose-tinted profile Dr. Kim offers. Hell, if Doc Brown and Marty McFly skipped back in time and showed this article to a seventeen-year-old Dr. Kim, I bet he wouldn't recognize his own mother in it. Nostalgia does that.

Next: for Koreans whose moms were less than ideal, or for Korean moms who aren't living up to Dr. Kim's standard, I'd hate to compound their hurt or guilt, by making them feel like their family issues also problematize their bona fides as Koreans. In my first year here, I dealt with panic attacks from a kid whose mother would beat him for bad scores. I had another kid in my second year who had internalized her mother's verbal abuse so completely I never heard my brightest student of the whole year say a positive thing about herself; she came to class with bruises sometimes, too. I've dealt with moms whose kids' accomplishments seem more to be baubles for boasting to their friends, than for their kids' own benefit. They were all Koreans. I know someone who had a (brief, doomed) engagement with a man whose parents had dropped the guillotine on OVER THIRTY previous prospective fiancees. But those three anecdotes, as well as the mom I saw on a Korean drama that my mom-in-law likes, who is a manipulating, selfish badword, don't mean all Korean moms are like that, any more than Kim's anecdotes and TV reference mean American moms are all deficient.

Dr Kim: "But those mothers don't typify REAL Korean motherhood!"

No true Scotsman would do such a thing!

The "NO True Scotsman" fallacy: Justifying funny pictures of men in kilts since the Internet

There are also tons of moms outside of Korea who do all  the things Kim describes. Tiger parenting? Pressure to succeed? Sacrifice for kids? Emphasis on education? Those ring a bell to more than Korean kids, as does every other behavior (good or bad!) you name when you describe a stereotypical, or an idealized Korean mother. Except maybe making kimchi, which not all Korean mothers do anymore.

The book thing: Kim points to "Please Look After Mother" as an example of Korean motherhood... now Gord Sellar has problems with that book; I myself found it touching at first, but trying too hard, and finally reaching maudlin territory. I have doubts that the author set out to write a book about Korean motherhood; I find it more likely she was trying to write about her mother. The conversation about whether or why any piece of Korean culture that finds success outside Korea's borders is quickly labeled "representative" of Korea is a long one, and off point here, except that I find it frequently spurious, especially because the designation is usually post-hoc. Except for D-War.

(Source) Common sight at night in drinking districts.

For that matter, how can Kim claim Korean motherhood is unique if the book became a New York Times best seller? If a book becomes a best seller, it's fair to say that means it's struck some kind of a chord with readers. If a book resonates, that means an audience can relate to it... which means all those Americans buying the book must have connected to the portrayal of motherhood in it at least a little, since the book is about nothing else... the success of that book SHOWS that Korean motherhood isn't as unique as Dr. Kim claims it is, doesn't it? If Korean motherhood were totally singular among world cultures, it stands to reason that the book would only have been successful in Korea, and not found a mass audience outside of it.

Finally, I just find it tiresome that Kim gives into that all-too-common impulse, where one seems unable to talk about a great Korean thing, without comparing it to a foreign thing that isn't as good.

Nobody has to tell me that Gyeongbokgung is in more harmony with nature than Beijing's Forbidden City, for me to be impressed by it. In fact, bringing up the Forbidden City mostly reminds me how much smaller and less fancy Gyeongbokgung is, how much more famous the Forbidden city is. Telling me hamburgers are shit does nothing to impress the health benefits of Korean food, except show me that someone has an inferiority complex, and is a bit petty, and doesn't understand American food: the Korean correlative to hamburgers is something closer to ddeokbokki than bibimbap. And it isn't necessary for American mothers to be told they suck, before we can properly celebrate Korean mothers. If it is necessary, that's a shitty kind of patriotism.

This type of argumentation is tone deaf if the author is appealing to anybody except Koreans themselves (of course he's writing this to Koreans... why in English? is the real question) Picking USA (and Japan, the other standby), again and again, as the points of comparison to show Korean superiority, also betrays a type of colonized thinking, because why USA and Japan? They're the two countries who have most recently dominated Korea politically and/or economically, so they're the two burrs in South Korea's saddle, when it comes to national pride and perception of national sovereignty, that's why. Showing that Korea is culturally superior, even with less economic or military clout than USA or Japan, is simply a tacky ploy at restoring a Korean pride somebody imagined has been damaged.

But the fact that pride is always measured against these countries over others, reveals that the Koreans who write articles like Dr. Kim's (which, to be clear, is a subset of Koreans - not the whole lot) still haven't gotten over the period when Korea was colonized: they can't leave that scab alone, and simply celebrate what Koreans are: these ones have to get a dig in. Using those specific measuring sticks to show Korea's better, unintentionally underscores that Korea was well bested by them in the past.

Korea has enough kit now that it would be utterly possible to celebrate its culture on its own terms -- between the Korean Wave, the achievements of Korean businesses on the world stage, OECD membership, Ban Ki-moon, Psy, and Storm Shadow, the growing popularity of Korean food and the medal standings of the last few Olympics, there's enough there to stand without comparisons. But compare they do (some of them), and it comes across badly every time. (Example: Why Korea Sucks at Marketing Itself. Discuss.)

Lee Byung-hun as Storm Shadow. Making Korea's national status look goooood.

Given his output, we have to expect Dr. Kim will write a clunker from time to time. But this one was over the line.

I'm glad you had a good Chuseok weekend with your mother, Dr. Kim, it shows. But please try to express your love for your country and your mother without shitting on other countries and their mothers, and next time ideas are thin, maybe take a week or two off from your column over pinching out a turd like this one.

Funny footnote: I have some history with Kim Seong-kon - a letter to the editor in response to his article was the first time I ever sent writing of mine to a publication other than my university's poetry journal. You can read it here.


Special note for commenting: let's try to keep this comment discussion more nuanced than just telling everybody how horrible Korean moms are, OK? There are horrible moms and great moms in every country.

Some words for my Opa

My Grandfather's Funeral was last Tuesday.

My sister wrote about him.
My uncle delivered the Eulogy at the funeral. (published here with permission)
Because I couldn't be there, my two cousins read the eulogy I wrote at the funeral. Here is what I wrote.

All Hail Tom Coyner!

Tom Coyner is one of the snazziest commentators on Korean culture. His webpage, Tom Coyner, is cool, but I especially like what he writes for Korean papers.

This time, he argues that at the same time as Korea tries so hard to build its brand, Korea continues bulldozing the kinds of neighborhoods and landmarks that would do the most for Korea's ACTUAL brand, rather than just the manufactured one. Yet again, the gap between what Korea IS, and how Korea wants to be seen, reveals itself in sharp relief. Give it a read. I totally agree... sure, some of these neighbourhoods ARE decrepit and DO need revitalization... but another rectangular class and concrete eyesore is the LAST thing Seoul needs these days to become a unique, interesting city with neighbourhoods that each leave strong, and different, impressions on visitors.

My Opa

This is my Opa. He's my hero.

Rest in Peace.
More about my Opa, my hero.

My Eulogy for Opa

Strangely enough, the story that sticks in my head about Opa isn't even something that happened to me. When Mom was sick, she and I talked a lot, sitting on the couch, between Mom's increasingly frequent naps. One of the stories that stuck the most is when Mom told me about doing the family chores when she was young. All the other kids avoided the after-dinner dishes, but Mom did them with Opa, and she says she loved doing the dishes, because it was an hour a day of Opa's undivided attention.

Maybe the story had a bit of extra meaning for me, because at the time, I was living in Mom and Dad's house, not working, to dedicate time to Dad and Mom. It might have been my own version of washing dishes with Opa, to sit across from Mom, to play some music she enjoyed, or chat, or share a story. Spending time with someone you love, I've realized, doesn't have to be meaningful. In fact, the meaningful stuff often doesn't come about without ordinary, un-meaningful time working like the soil where seeds of real closeness might grow. This is a lesson I've learned painfully this year. In a month visiting my family, it was good to have meetings, to get together, to talk about Big Stuff, but even while we discussed all kinds of deep or fun or far-reaching topics, when something went wrong at Dan's house, the people they called up for help were the ones who lived in town. The ones Silas felt comfortable with were the ones he saw daily or weekly, and it didn't matter to him that Dan and I shared a room for most of elementary school.

Opa was like that too, for me. It took a fair bit of poking and prodding for me to get any Big Topics out of him: it was more to the point to be with the people you loved, and to enjoy their company.

Opa was the gentlest man I knew. He was patient, and warm, not in the pull you off the ground with a bear-hug way, but in the "come over here and sit with me" way, and that made it easy to be comfortable around him. He had a sneaky, unforced wit that popped up from time to time, just rarely enough that I never expected it. I once asked him, after coming back to Canada from my first year in Korea, "Do you have any advice for me on how to live my life?" and he answered, "Don't get old." It's also impossible for me to think about Opa without thinking about my Mom, and or to think about Mom without thinking about Opa, because there was so much of Opa in Mom: the gentleness, the listening, the joy in being around the people she loved. Between them, with the simple way they both enjoyed being near the people they loved, the gentleness, the listening, the generosity, I think that they laid the groundwork for a lot of the best parts of my character.

Opa wrote two family histories. The first was about his father's generation, a history that started with a bunch of unfamiliar Dutch places and names that didn't mean a lot to me when I read it, and ended as a tender, admiring tribute to his father. The second volume was the story of his and his own children's lives, with stories about childhoods, courtships and marriages, and the like. But the more important heritage that Opa left us is first, a deep spiritual grounding, a Godly and faithful upbringing for all his children, that contributed to a powerful moral compass that I'm pretty sure has been passed on to every one of the grandchildren, too. Opa left in every person of his family, a softness that proves softness is not the same as weakness -- the gentleness of spirit that Opa lived out now repeats itself in his children and grandchildren. It's one of the best parts of me, when I let it come out. In fact, if you call and ask me what’s up, I’d tell you that one of the reasons this has been one of the hardest years of my life is because I haven't allowed that side of myself, the side that most resembles Opa, to come out more.

One of the most powerful spiritual experiences in my life came about because of Opa. This was in 2003, my first year in Korea. It was June, just as I was starting to get my expat feet under me, and I got a call from Mom and Dad saying that Opa was in the hospital again, and not doing so well, and that I might need to schedule a trip back to Canada if I wanted to see him again. I went out for a walk around my neighborhood: walking is something I do when I can’t think of anything else to do, and as I came through the gates of the park built for the 1988 Seoul Olympics -- right near my house -- it was near sundown, not quite dusk yet, but the sun was low and the sun rays were getting long. I looked up, and saw a triple rainbow, with the middle one as flaming bright as any rainbow I've ever seen. Then I turned around, and a brilliant sunset seen circled the entire horizon, in every direction, from shades of pink and orange, to layers of clouds in purple and gold. Later I learned that a typhoon was approaching Seoul that day, and that’s why the moisture in the air led to a sunset rainbow, but all I felt was the peace that comes of being assured, "Things will be OK," by the only one big enough to make a sunset with a triple-rainbow. I love that from time to time, God chooses to talk to us by showing us staggeringly beautiful things, that only He could have invented, and just like Job, we're silenced with wonder, never bullied into submission, but awed back into trust.

And this time, well, I'm still waiting for the triple-rainbow, and the dishes in the sink are dirty, and I wish Opa could stand beside me and we could wash them together, and maybe talk, or maybe just be silent, and do a little task with someone we love, and have that be enough. And maybe the time we got to spend with Opa while he was here on Earth... maybe that was the triple rainbow. Maybe Opa's life, and his character, and the way he left himself behind in all of us, maybe that's more beautiful anyway, than some wild typhoon sunset. It's sad for us that he's gone, but it's good that we knew him, and maybe what we have to do next is find the people we love, the ones we want to be with, the ones we want to care for, the ones we want to remember us when we go to God, and wash some dishes together.

Goodbye Opa. We'll always miss you.

My Uncle Al's Eulogy for my Grandfather

Two Eulogies were read at my Opa/Grandfather's funeral.

Here is the official one, delivered by my Uncle Al.




Dear Family and Friends,

As I sit and write this, Psalm 139 comes to mind.

Verse 13, “For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” These verses reflect the way Dad lived his life. IN spite of the doubts Dad had, Dad lived as an example to us his children and grandchildren. He taught us that God was his God, that, if we trusted him, God would be our God also.

Dad lived that out every day. He read his Bible faithfully. He prayed from his heart. When he sang—and he did not sing outside of church—he sang heartily. When we were younger, he talked with us individually about his faith and our faith. He showed us it wasn’t about feeling, but about trusting that God is as good as his word. The feeling would come later.

Dad encouraged us in everyday ways. When we went to college or university, he encouraged us in that. I remember well a conversation he and I had in my first year of college. He remarked about the changes he saw in me in only four months of study. He understood the value of education how it affects people and gives them a different outlook on life. He was interested in that without having the benefit of the experience himself. In our various experiences, he always had questions to ask, wisdom to offer and failing that, an ear to listen with. Because of his experience as a construction estimator, Dave, Dad and I always had something about which to talk.

Dad was also an industrious person. Witness the fact that he built two homes. The first took a few years to build, but money was short then. But, he and Mom, with some help built it all. When we were young, Saturdays were not spent sitting around like I like to do now, Dad had things to do. The garden consumed some of his time. But Dad built the canoe, made a picnic table, toy chairs for us, a swing set, a bicycle rack—not to mention the repairs on those bikes—bunk beds for Jane and Greta, a desk, more bedrooms in the basement of that house, and the list goes on. When Dad and Mom bought the lot at 312 York Road in October 1973, with tow exceptions, we spent every Saturday from the first weekend in October to Mid-March cutting and clearing trees. We chopped out about an acre of trees in that time. Except for the chainsaw, it was all bull work.

When Dad turned 65, he didn’t know what he needed or wanted to do. He opted for semi-retirement, and his employer was amenable to that. So, for the next year, Dad worked half-time. After that year, he fully retired. True to his industrious nature, Dad still couldn’t sit still. He spent time tutouring at Jarvis Christian School as well as spending time tutouring in the community. Dad also gave us something to read. He wrote a book on the Boonstra family history, starting with his grandparents up to the present (at that time). As if that wasn’t enough, Dad turned his attentions to Mom’s side. Mom had been collection recordings from her family about their history and tighter they collated the findings putting them in book form.
With the exception of bird watching, Dad never engaged in any sport or other hobby. Reading and gardening were his mainstay. Actually, the garden was Mom’s. Dad helped when needed. Dad was a voracious reader.

When we were younger Sunday afternoons were spent walking the trails of Coote’s Paradise, McMaster, or King’s Forest. We learned to identify trees, flowers, and birds. My favourite was Coote’s Paradise because there was a variety of birds, the meadow, forest, and wetlands birds. The things he taught me on these walks were life-long. He had an interest in nature that he passed on to me. Sure, there’ much I don’t know, but what I do know, I learned as much by osmosis as I did by being told. Those were times for me where I connected with Dad in a personal way because, sometimes there were times when I’d be with Dad by myself.
Dad was also a devoted husband. Yes, there was a time earlier when thong weren’t as they should have been, but Dad and Mom worked through those times. After that, they never looked back. They didn’t argue in front of us. They were an example to us of love and devotion. In later years, Mom showed us her devotion to Dad when she took care of him, and later yet, waiting on him, quite literally, hand and foot. They slept in separate bedrooms because Mom, being a light sleeper, was kept awake by Dad’s coughing at nights. When we visited overnight, they always said goodnight to each other with a kiss and an “I love you.” They were married for almost 58 years.

Dad was an integral person, that is, he had integrity. There were no two sides to Dad, no Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. He didn’t play favourites with his children, and in his dealings with us, he was honest. In his dealings with others, he was just as honest. I can’t say more to describe him this way, because that is all there is to say. That’s how he was.

Dad was a generous man. The injunction in Malachi 3 is one that he and Mom took seriously and lived by to the day he died. There we are told to test God and see if the will not open the floodgates of Heaven. We cannot out give God. They taught us that concept of tithing. They, if my suspicions are correct, went beyond tithing.

That brings me back to Psalm 139. Verse 16, “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Dad has come to the end of his days. His earthly remains were buried just a short time ago. We didn’t know when and how Dad would die. We all knew it would happen. I personally thought it would have happened a long time ago. Dad was not always healthy, nor was he strong. God knew, and he was always in control. After Dad’s major heart attack in 2003, Dad did not venture out much when it was cold, hot or windy. He was susceptible to pneumonia and fluid build-up around hi heart and lungs. Every time he had this he was left a little more weakened than the previous bout.

Psalm 139 Verse 3, “you discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways...You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand on me.”
“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?”
“If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”
“If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, into verse 10, “even there your right hand will guide me; your right hand will hold me fast.”

The last month of Dad’s life was not easy. He spent two and a half weeks in the hospital on three occasions. The last week was most difficult for Dad. Yet, we read that God’s hand was on him, that Dad could not flee form his presence, that even in the depths, God was there, and that even on the far side of the sea, God’s right hand held him fast.

Verse 17, “How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them! Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand. When I awake I am still with you.

Mom left Dad Friday afternoon to come to get some sleep. Their last words to each other were, “I love you.” When Dad drew his last breath, nobody was close by. Nobody knew he was that close to death. When he awoke, he saw that he was still with God. God had not abandoned him.

Psalm 139 Verse 23, “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

The Roses in Samchungdong

Soundtrack: hit play and start reading. The Shins

Song: Red Rabbit

On Sunday, before seeing Indiana Jones together (enjoyed it. Love the kitchen-sink action sequences of the Indy series...) I spontaneously suggested to Girlfriendoseyo that we meet a bit early and stroll around, because the weather was nice.

I had no idea we'd be mugged by roses once we got to Samchungdong.

Girlfriendoseyo was like a kid in a candy store.



She described this wall as "a waterfall of roses."
Words. Superfluous. Look.

But. . .

"Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded."
--Yogi Berra

Samchungdong is in danger, dear readers. Dire danger. The dastardly Dunkin Donuts dilemma: people like what's familiar, but the appearance of a chain like dunkins seems to me a blight on a cool, hip little neighbourhood of Seoul. What's next? A stinking starbucks? We have enough of those already. We don't have enough Samchungdongs. It's the old dilemma -- people find a hip neighbourhood that's free of the trappings of chain stores and corporate crap; word spreads, it becomes a hot-spot, so the chains move in, in an attempt to cash in on the popularity of the neighbourhood, and because they have the resources to squeeze out the hip little independent coffee shop owners who play unique, funky music and let you write your name on the walls, and make a panini you can't find anywhere else. In the corporate attempt to cash in, the mucky-mucks and their cookie-cutter franchises dillute the unique colour that made the neighbourhood into a hot spot in the first place, it gets co-opted, and starts to suck.

The same thing happens to pristine "best-kept-secret" beaches in south asia -- a few intrepid backpackers blab, word spreads, and suddenly all the reasons people had for going there in the first place get squeezed out by the usual tour groups and noisy camera-toting bus-touring foreign currency-monkeys, to the point that you say "Phuket! Forget these hidden-away hovels! I may as well just go to Phuket after all."

Dunkin Donuts in Samchungdong. . . everything that is wrong with the (corporate) world. Is there no remaining refuge?
One more gripe about Samchungdong: Too. Many. Waffle. Houses.

Don't get me wrong: I love samchungdong! Even the waffle houses can stay, if they're nice, and each different from the other. But dunkin's has got to go.

This is an ad for Stylish Beer -- if you drink it every day, you'll look like her . . . I swear!
A Jewelry shop in Jongno 3 ga. Jewsrock.org (a site dedicated to jews in rock music, including their patron saints, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen) ought to know one of their indie stars opened a jewelry store. Maybe Ben Kweller?

Korean store openings: across from the entrance to my work last week were these, gyrating inflatable phalluses. They skimped on the sexy dancing girls, though (a mainstay on the Korean grand opening circuit). One was there, but she didn't dance much, and mostly just talked.

The air compressor makes the phallus twist like this:This is how you open a business in Korea, almost without exception.


More US Beef protests this weekend. They're starting to get rowdy -- people were arrested over the weekend, and the left-wing, anti-American string-pullers are more open about the real motivation behind their misinformation campaign to smear American Beef's reputation.


Han-woo (that's what the first two syllables on every menu item reads) means "Korean Beef" -- stores are starting to advertise their Koreanness in the beef department.

Almost every beef-serving store had "hanwoo" stickers up by their entrances, advertising that they only served Korean beef. Whether the signs can be trusted or not is another matter. Whether Korean beef is even safer than American beef at all is also completely unknown, because the Korean Beef industry has refused to allow mad-cow risk-assessment organizations to inspect their farms and slaughterhouses.In Korean, saying "Majah majah majah" (the equivalent to "OK OK OK OK") is a way of saying "I'm listening intently," while to English speakers, repeating "OKOKOK" is a sign of impatience, tantamount to saying, "I get it already -- move on". . . this can be a source of misunderstandings between Koreans trying to show they're listening carefully, and Westerners who think the Korean is acting impatient.

You know you're in Jongno 3ga when. . .
If you've ever told someone, "I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot-pole!"
Here's the guy to call:
Lush is a soap, etc., store. I love the goofy names of their fragrances. "Sonic Death Monkey" -- a must-have body-wash for those early mornings when a little giggle will help you wake up.
'nuff said.


be well, all. That's it for today.

Hats off and a moment of silence for Namdaemun Gate, or Sungnyemun

All around Seoul and the rest of Korea, there are markers and placards around historical sites saying "XXX place, Korean National Treasure # __" before the explanation.

Of them all, the top, the big numero uno, was Sungnyemun, also known as Namdaemun Gate. It was one of the gates to the old city, and it was originally built in 1396-8 or so.

Here's a picture.

Sungryemun, Korea's National Treasure #1
See more pictures here. Seriously, follow the link: it's a good photo essay on a really beautiful structure.

This morning, I got into school and everyone was buzzing. During my first class, I got two text messages: Namdaemun is Destroyed!

At first, I had no idea what that might mean.
(sorry. I did an image search of "Namdaemun Gate Destroyed" on google and that picture showed up.)

The truth was much less fanciful, and much more tragic.


They suspect it was arson: someone was seen climbing up inside the building, and a spark spotted shortly after.
I went down to see what it looked like.
Getting closer.


Close enough to see some details of the ruin now.
The crosswalks around the intersection were all shoulder to shoulder. Many were taking pictures, but many were just standing, aghast.





Hundreds of people were just standing there, silently. Like a wake.
Every Korean I've talked to about this is shocked and dismayed -- nobody knows what to say. I don't even know what to compare it to.
For Americans, imagine Mount Rushmore or the Lincoln Memorial being destroyed by an earthquake. For Canadians. . . I have to reach; most of our defining symbols are natural features. Imagine if the Hockey Hall of Fame burnt down, and Bobby Orr died trying to save Wayne Gretzky, and Sidney Crosby's knee got shattered by a piece of flying debris as the building collapsed, maybe. Or if a geothermic event wiped out Niagara Falls as we know it, and left it as the Niagara steep rapids instead. Or if the CN Tower were 600 years old when it burnt own.

People milling about in shock, dumbstruck, with haunted eyes.




They say it'll take two years to rebuild, and hopefully they'll protect it, and other important Korean heritage buildings, against fire more carefully: this is not the first time a Korean heritage site has been threatened by fire.

P.S.: This post got linked by GI Korea on his popular Korea blog ROK Drop. Props for your coverage, and thanks for the kudos!

My Hero.

My Mom's dad (we call him Opa, the Dutch word for grandfather) has made one of the main tasks of his retirement to write a family history. He started off with the life story of HIS father (my grandfather), which he published at a little, family publishing house (the kind of place that prints out genealogies and small-scale projects) to hand out to his kids and grandkids. I received my copy when I was sixteen, and (being sixteen) had no clue yet of the importance of roots and heritage. Too busy finding out who I was, I didn't have time to wonder about where I was from yet.

The man himself: my hero, Opa Boonstra:


Later, I worked for two summers as a guide at a heritage museum, and started to learn about the importance of history, and what a resource our elders are, simply through the stories that have given their lives meaning. I spent two summers hearing older folks come through the museum talking about who they were, and how things are changing, and what still stays the same. Sure, these thoughts are nothing you can't find in Thornton Wilder's "Our Town," but it's amazing how the technology, the methods, and the setting change so dramatically, but we human beings are STILL just trying to figure out who we are and what we're doing, struggling to connect, to know and be known, and to feel like our lives were worth something, carving out a place in this world, like writing our names in water (kudos to John Keats for that one).

I read that book finally when I was about twenty-four, just a little while before we found out my mom had stomach cancer. I was touched and moved by what, ultimately, read (to me) as a tender and admiring tribute to my Opa's father. What a blessing for the whole family, that we can have that story written down, as a piece of our heritage, that those stories will not be forgotten in time. It was an act of love for my grandfather to write a history of his father, both for his father, and for his children and grandchildren: he gave us the gift of knowing where we are from (or at least being able to).

Here in Korea, families have amazing, long genealogies -- during the Korean war, one of my students told me how, as his family escaped their burning house in North Korea, fleeing the approaching Communist Troops, his grandfather ran back into the house to rescue the family genealogy. I shook my head in wonder, and he told me "It goes back thirty generations". Cripes!

North America, because of the immigrant culture, doesn't really think too much of Genealogies -- especially when a lot of people are like my sister-in-law: "Irishambodiargentinianativenglisherpa" or, as she charmingly says, "Heinz 57". At best in North America, unless your progenitor rode the mayflower, genealogies are a hobby. However, in reading my Grandfather's memoir, I realized that for many Canadians, especially second or third generation immigrants, the story of "How We Came To Canada" (or America) is as important a part of our self-stories as Koreans' "Your five-times-great grandfather served in the court of King Wi-na, but was executed during a purge when the next king took the throne". In that respect, as my friend Tamie says, I bow to my grandfather's effort to keep our family story alive, to make sure it is not forgotten in the past, as those who experienced it die away.

The memoir includes stories of living through the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands, and in the second volume, my Oma (grandmother) tells her story, too, and shares the fear her family felt when her father went off to fight the Nazis, and went several weeks unaccounted for. I read how my mother was born, how they built their first house in stages, as they worked off the previous home-builder's bank loan and more funds became available to them (basement first, then frame, then electricity, septic tank? Grab a shovel! etc..)

I thank my grandparents for writing this down, committing it to paper, so that it will not be forgotten.

And for everyone who wonders whether the things they do to help others matter at all, here is an excerpt from early memories of my Grandmother's grandfather:

"Later on when [my Oma's] Opa had his own shoe shop, he would not charge people if they could not pay. People held him in great regard for that. When I (Marijke) was visiting in Shalom Manor [an old-age residence with many Dutch immigrants] in 2005, I met Mrs. Zeldenrust, who lived in Hoogkerk many years ago and had known Tante Grietje [my grandmother's aunt, I believe]. Mrs. Zeldenrust's son told me about Opa's generousity and how peope appreciated that. I was amazed to hear that story forty-one years after his death."

Forty-one years after his death, people still remember his acts of kindness and generousity. Sure, "Nazi Week" will garner more ratings on the Discovery Channel than "The Friendly Cobbler," but, dear readers, kindness IS noticed, and remembered, whether it's ever mentioned back to you or not.

My man Jesus said, "Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal; for where your treasure is , there your heart will be also."

My personal favourite kindness CAN make a difference moment:



Les Miserables: a gracious act by the Bishop pulls a life out of the gutter and redeems a character who'd given up on himself; Jean Valjean goes on to become the greatest of grace-givers, thanks (though he might never have found out) to a kindness done by a bishop who'd been robbed, and would have been within his rights to send our man Jean back up the river where he came from.

(read the book. knocked my socks off. just read it -- Jean Valjean is one of my favourite characters anywhere, because of the way he incarnates grace to everyone around him)

Preach it.

So I started this new job yesterday. . .

After stomping around jongno and myeongdong to find a pc room where you're actually allowed to log onto blogger (some places won't let me log on -- nature of their networks or something, I guess), I've finally found a spot, and the time, to fill you in, my loved ones.

(Yes, I do still love you all. You've been on my mind. Really.)

Well, for the first time, I don't have any cute kid stories. Instead, I have cool grown-up stories.

I'm teaching at a school right in the middle of downtown Seoul, near the city hall where all the insane soccer-game-watched-by-a-million-people kind of stuff happened during the world cup (you can check my post about the world cup: I added some pictures.)

This is really great for me, because I'm realizing that one of my great pleasures in life is eating out in restaurants. Discovering the best chicken soup, or the best california roll, in my neighbourhood makes me really happy, and gives me something to share next time a friend comes by. So, I've been systematically trying new restaurants all month at lunch time (my split shift means dinner is usually something light), to find the best of certain dishes, and just to find more good eats.

To get my visa, I travelled to Osaka.

I'll do a separate post on Osaka when I have another free three hours, except to say it was fantastic: miles better than last time I went there.

But here's the great thing.

Yes, I love my area -- I live a block over from an "old korea" souvenir market, a block the other way from a quiet shrine that's also one of three "UNESCO World Culture Sites" (that's an interesting thing to read up on, world culture sites -- check which famous places made it and which didn't -- my favorite world culture site was "head smashed in buffalo jump" in Alberta. I'm also a block from a restaurant that serves one of the most delicious foods I've ever eaten, right next to two movie theaters, all of which can be accessed through a network of winding little back alleys in the old traditional Korean style, with cobblestones and elaborate doors and just enough width to push a cart. I do need to stock my fridge yet, and I also need to find a clothing repair shop to fix two pairs of pants I own, but I still love my area.

However, the thing that's made me most happy is this:

a 530am wakeup call. Yes, that sounds counterintuitive, but here's how it works:

To get to work before 7am (and pick up a McDonalds coffee on the way), I have to set my alarm at 530 -- time to wake up, shower, and dress. Then, I start walking at 630, with Sonober, my cool coworker.

To wake up at 530am with enough sleep to make it through the day, one must go to bed early. I usually shoot for 1030 or 1100, with 1130 as my MUST HAVE LIGHTS OUT BY cutoff. The things I used to do between eleven and one AM (my previous lights out cutoff) were almost never productive: drinking a beer with Anthony (as nice as he is) never got me closer to achieving my life goals. Nor did chatting on MSN, visiting humour websites, or watching movies. These days, because of my split shift (yay teaching adults!), most of my free time is between 1pm and 7pm, which are much more productive hours than 11-1. I think I wrote about a hundred pages in the last month, in different short stories, poems, and a few plays. I've finally finished a notebook I was working on for more than a year. This is immensely satisfying, and as I accomplish more writing, I WANT to write more. This, unlike MSN and the rest, is getting me closer to my life goals, and so, between living in a really fun neighbourhood, eating great food, and writing every day, I'm kicking butt!

I hope all of you have had equally satisfying months!

Sorry it's been so long since I posted, but once I have internet in my house I'll be more consistent again.

Love you all!

Next time: Osaka!

Mountain, Sauna, Matt, Church, Funny Students

OK. Fully aware that the last e-mail was a downer (so
much so that I've received about a third of the normal
number of responses to my updates, and most of those
much later, and from different people, than usually
respond to them, I'll try to balance it with a little
bit of wonder and joy.

And, storyteller that I am, I'll do it episodically.

On the night of the last full moon, one of my
coworkers invited me to climb Buram mountain (the
mountain five minutes from my house,) after work.
Just in time for the mosquitoes to get moving, we
headed for the forested mountain, and climbed, using
trails and occasionally pulling ropes, to make our way
upwards for about half an hour as the sun went down.

The moon was orange, and the patterns of streets and
apartment buildings in the valley between the
mountains was stunning -- there was just so much city.
For the southern Ontarians, imagine stopping at a
lookout point driving down Mount Hope on Hamilton, but
instead of looking down on Hamilton, looking down on a
city five times the size of Toronto (and visibility
was good enough that we could see a good quarter of
it). Lights all the way to the horizon. The photos
turned out beautifully, and they're on Jon's digital
camera.

We have two new co-workers: Matthew, who's really
energetic, positive, and fun, as well as being a
writer himself. He's a good, smart guy, and so far
we've really enjoyed each other's company. I've kind
of taken it upon myself to try and show him and the
other, brand-new teacher (Amanda, who looks a little
like Uma Thurman, and whose boyfriend is arriving in
two more weeks), around this area. Matthew already
knows a lot about Korea and Seoul, but Amanda's brand
new, and from a small town, so this afternoon I'm
going to give her a taste of the subway system.
Matthew is also a huge fan of the saunas here --
Korean bath houses are incredible, and they're one of
the best de-stressing experiences I've found -- and it
looks like I've found my first sauna partner since old
roommate Dave left. This makes me very happy. He's
also an avid traveller, which means I might have some
company to actually accomplish some travelling around
Asia this year: travelling alone just doesn't appeal
to me (said the guy who headed out for Korea
unaccompanied). I'm thrilled to have him around.

One of my Kindergarten classes, when I take
attendance, started playing the "say no when Rob asks
if I'm here" game, so I answered them with "well then
where ARE you?" They've been regularly insisting that
either A: one of their classmates has eaten them (to
which I shake my finger at the accused classmate and
say, in a funny angry voice, "No more eating Kevin,
Owen", or B: they're at my house in Canada. I tell
them to say hello and give a hug to my Mom and Dad.
One day, I asked them, "Well it's supper time in
Canada right now. What are you having for supper with
my mother and father?" So Mom, head for the grocery
store, because you'll need to have ingredients ready
for pancakes, cake, cookies, pizza, donuts, rice and
soup next time I take attendance and my kids all turn
up in your house.

There is a coffee shop in one of the busier districts
on Seoul called "Canada Coffee Shop"; it's funny,
because in Korea, there's a coffee shop with Canada's
name and flag, employing Koreans, selling Italian
drinks that were popularized by an American coffee
shop franchise (Starbucks). Then it occurred to me
that really, nothing's MORE Canadian than such a
combination -- Canada, the country where you'll find
an Italian restaurant owned by Chinese Canadians in
the Punjab district of Vancouver, where ability in
Chinese, Japanese, Punjabi, English, Korean, and
Italian are all useful to better serve the clientele,
and where when I ask a new friend what her ethnic
background she says "Heinz 57: a secret combination of
herbs and spices." My Korean kids have trouble with
understanding the short history of Canada and the way
people here are from so many places -- you can be
Irish Hungarian Iranian Haida French and Taiwanese --
over here, I had one student whose family genealogy
stretched back twenty-eight generations -- and that
we're PROUD that such mixing can occur in our
increasingly (though not yet perfectly) diverse and
accepting society.

More in the lines of heritage and history:

I finally read the book my maternal grandfather wrote
about his family history, chronicling his family's
beginnings in Holland, the trial of the Second World
War, their immigration to Canada and the family's new
life there. When I was about sixteen, he sent me this
book he'd written after talking to all his father's
friends and relatives. At the time it was a bunch of
Dutch places and names without faces, and I got about
one chapter in before giving up. This time, after
conversations with my grandfather about our family and
heritage last January, and after being far enough away
from my roots to understand and treasure how deep they
are, reading it was a moving experience. The book
read, to me, as a tribute to my great grandfather, and
I imagined my Opa using research for his book as a
chance to get to know his own father in a new way, now
that he's gone, and realized that by writing down his
own discoveries as he tried to get to know his father,
he also gave me the chance to get to know HIM in the
same way. So thank you for that, Opa. Thanks for
writing down your journey, so that I could share it
with you, and get to know my own roots because you
recorded yours.

More recently, I was struck near the bone again by an
experience I had in my local, in-my-area church. It's
a small church, and it meets in a large classroom in a
Christian English school. The leader of the church is
a guy named Steve, and he has some contacts with the
underground church in China, and some missionaries
there. In China, church meetings are illegal, and
missionaries there have to be extremely careful,
becuase they're carefully watched. Instead of the
loud, exuberant, free singing found in a North
American or Korean church, a Chinese or North Korean
underground church can't risk being overheard, so they
will have one guitar playing lightly (if that), and
one person singing aloud (in a quiet voice) while all
the other worshippers mouth the words or hum quietly
along. The song leader in our church asked us to sing
a song in the style of the underground church. The
style of singing the song, whose words went, "He is
our peace, He has broken down every wall. . . Cast all
your cares on him, for he cares for you, He is our
peace. . . " was both a praise song, and a prayer for
those who can't worship freely -- who still live
behind walls. For about three days I couldn't get
that picture out of my head. I've been reminded.

I think prospects here in Korea are looking up: this
new potential travel/hangout friend in Matthew is a
really encouraging sign: I've been lonely and homesick
for the last month or so. Both the new co-workers are
pretty good friendship prospects, and if Amanda's
boyfriend (coming in July) is as cool as she is, we'll
be in for some good times. I'm reading good stuff --
Dune by Frank Herbert, and the Iliad by Homer have
both carried me away recently -- and writing has been
progressing (slowly . . . but progressing) as well.
As always, my students are brilliant and wonderful
even when nothing else is -- Cindy (the most verbose
student I have -- funny, but really chatty, and who
regularly, ironically, scolds Willy for talking too
much) was asking me about the homework I gave her: "Do
we really have to do this part?"

"Everything from page 56-59"

"What about on page 57?"

"Cindy, what part of "Everything" don't you
understand?"

"Everything."

I howled -- I don't think she realized on how many
levels her comment worked, but it was perfect. She's
the one who used "It's a travesty" instead of "It's a
tragedy".

In another class (another favourite class), we were
reading about Benjamin Banneker, a black intellectual
who challenged Thomas Jefferson in a letter about
their allowing of black slaves in America. During a
review class, I asked my students, "What famous
document did Thomas Jefferson help write?"

(the constitution)

"I don't know."

"It starts with a C."

"I don't know."

"The conn n n nn "

"glish."

Konglish is the Korean slang word for English words
that sneak into the Korean language -- words like
guitar, barbeque, piano, hamburger, and words that
didn't quite make the jump intact, like "handphone"
and "air con" for "air conditioner".

Showing Amanda (who's never been overseas before)
around the area, and around Seoul, has been a good
reason to revisit a lot of places I hadn't been to in
a long time. New people in one's life often causes
one to revisit old, familiar places, both in
conversation and in location. That's one of the best
things about having visitors to BC: an excuse to see
canyons and mountains and theatres that one doesn't
otherwise visit.

Today I went to one of Korea's traditional markets --
it's mostly touristy now, but still loaded with old
Korean goods like jewelry boxes, carry bags, and other
wonderful artifacts of Koreanity. I'd forgotten how
quaint and lovely the area is with its cobblestone
road and bamboo building exteriors and a funny blend
of modern destination and ancient Korean market.


In follow-up to what I said last time about my nephew,
I'll just share a verse in the Bible I found that
reflects my view about the whole thing.

John 9:1-3:

1As he [Jesus] went along, he saw a man blind from
birth. 2His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned,
this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"
3"Neither this man nor his parents sinned," said
Jesus, "but this happened so that the work of God
might be displayed in his life.

-- My prayer now is that "the work of God might be
displayed in [Matthias'] life". In the case of the
man born blind, that meant Christ would (shortly
thereafter) heal him; in my nephew's life, that might
be the work of God in his life; it might be something
that I can't see or imagine now, but that will totally
surprise and amaze everyone when it happens. I'm
finding peace about the situation; I mostly just want
to see him again.

I was walking through a shopping center in Seoul and
accidentally stumbled upon some kind of program -- a
group of 11-15 year old boys were playing in a drum
arrangement with large and small drums and cymbals.
For a long time, they played, varying the beat and
somehow managing to continually increase the intensity
of their rhythms. Heads bobbed in unison; it seemed
like even the sweat crawling down their faces ought to
be synchronized, and I realized that each of these
boys had, for a little while, ceased existing: they
were only the rhythm, nothing except the same as their
teammates, and I, too, disappeared for a while (I
can't tell exactly how long: clocks seem to stop
working properly when you're carried away like that).
What an invigorating experience! Somehow getting away
from myself for a little while makes me feel so much
more comfortable once I'm back in my own skin, but not
many things can do that. Old friends can, and chances
to really show a person love or compassion can.
Sometimes worship can (that's where the word ecstasy
originally comes from -- the heightened state of
excitement old Greeks observed during certain
religious rituals), or art -- creating or engaging
with it. Regardless of where it occurs (I imagine
intense exercise or competition would do the same),
it's quite an experience, and certainly makes
returning to onesself a lot easier, sort of the way
travelling can make your hometown feel that much more
comfortable. I once read a note a Japanese ESL
student had written to a penpal, and she had signed
off with the phrase "Have a vivid day" -- I loved
that: not just a nice day, or a happy day, but a vivid
day. May your experiences today be intense and
interesting, and may your mind be aware enough to
notice things as they happen to you, and may you
relish them. Sometimes I'm walking down the street
and suddenly, inexplicably, it's as if somebody
flipped a "senses on" switch in me somewhere, and I
can see every leaf on every tree, taste the sunlight,
and feel the air sliding between my fingers. I wish I
knew how to bring such an experience on whenever I
wanted, but until then,

Have a vivid day.

All my love.

Rob