Anchovy Poop

Epitaph Assignment:

“R.I.P. Be Happy. Smile. OK?!” – Anna, 1st Grade Student, Seokjeon Middle School

“Give me the money. Give me the food. Don’t reading. Look people die. Give me the sport car. Give me the gun. Watch out. Hahaha.” – John, 1st Grade Student, Seokjeon Middle School

What is smaller than a little anchovy? Anchovy poop. They call themselves this because that’s how small their love for each other is. Yet despite their love being miniscule and fecal, this group of teachers has stayed like family even though they have been scattered across the province.

In the Korean educational system, teachers must relocate schools every 4 or 5 years. This is effective in evenly distributing the less desired work of rural schools since teachers earn “points” depending on the distance of the school from the city. It is also effective in distributing stress, since as soon as teachers adapt to a school they have to transfer, moving all of their materials, learning new school policies, and making new friends. My teaching time was divided between two schools, Seokjeon and Yangmok. Because their school year is the reverse of ours, a new school year began in February, the middle of my year in Korea, and my world was a little shaken when all of the teachers I had become close to at both schools left to be replaced by timid teachers who, in the midst of getting their own bearings, had no desire to approach an English-speaking foreigner.

During the 8 day long orientation for native English teachers, we were given no hint beyond province as to where we would be living or what kind of school would employ us for the coming year. They bussed us to Daegu and lined us up in front of our teachers and vice principals and then matched us up like a gym teacher assigning square dance partners. Most of the Korean teachers bowed or awkwardly waved to their new native English teachers, so when mine giddily applauded, I knew that I was in good hands. My first impression of Jang, my main co-teacher, was that she was about 30 years old, so when she told me she’d been teaching for 20 years, I was shocked. She immediately took me under her wing, showing me around Waegwan and taking me grocery shopping. About a week into teaching, I still hadn’t started work at my second school, Yangmok, and I was curious about my co-teacher there. When I asked about Okhee, I couldn’t believe my luck. “She is nicer than me,” said Jang. And actually, she was right.

Even though Jang is not the outgoing ball of cheer that Okhee is, I felt almost closer to her for it. She made no attempts to avoid awkward silences or blunt truths, such as the first week of class when I showed a picture of my parents and she remarked in front of the students, “Oh! Your mom is better than you.” Overworked and exhausted, she never complained as she mothered me through my first weeks of Korea, helping me to open my bank account, buy a cell phone, obtain my alien registration card, go to the hospital when I was sick, and struggle to get a feel for teaching middle school students. In the classroom, although in theory we were expected to lesson plan and teach together, she provided exactly the assistance I needed. When she was present, the students were alert and participated, and at the end of class she helped me as I clumsily gathered my array of teaching materials. I already had a strong affection for her as a guardian. When one day in the cafeteria she stoically tried to convince me that my chicken soup was dog meat, it began my affection for her as a friend. Soon, she was making sexual jokes and asking me what it was like to kiss men with facial hair and linking arms with me as we walked through the school. I missed her incredibly when she changed schools in the spring, and our infrequent visits would remind me why. “Laura,” she would say, “I have only known you for a short time, but you feel like an old friend.”

I have already mentioned Okhee, but I couldn’t possibly say enough about her. She carries her 4 feet with a swagger and she uses her dimples to sweet talk her way into anything she wants. Unlike Jang, who took a while to get to know, Okhee bombarded me with conversation as she drove me to Yangmok two mornings a week, so immersed in speaking that she frequently ran red lights. Also contrarily to Jang, Okhee became my friend first and, being perhaps even more disorganized and scatterbrained than me, had to grow into the role of my caretaker. On the first day of school she wrote this in an email to me:
“Even though I am much older than you, I am sure we can be good friends. Physical age is not important, right? I read the book ‘Tuesdays with Morrie.’ In that book, the old professor and the young student are very close friends, like soul mates.”
Although Okhee, in her late 40s, is no ‘old professor,’ age is a very important factor in friendship in Korea. If two people discover at first meeting that they are the same age, they are immediately friends and their demeanor towards each other instantly changes. If there is an age difference, elders are meant to be revered. The fact that I can get away with making fun of Okhee for being over dramatic and she can laugh is an almost unheard of pleasure here. As I said, almost every teacher I had become close to changed schools in the spring, and this included Okhee. I insisted that Jang at my main school and Okhee at my second school, since they were both relocating, should simply switch so that I could keep them both. Okhee actually took me up on it, becoming from that point on my main co-teacher.

Although Okhee has done innumerable things for me, perhaps the greatest was include me in Anchovy Poop. The negative side of a group-based rather than individualistic society is perceptible to any foreigner as they walk down the street. Strangers do not look each other in the eye or smile as they pass each other, nor do they apologize as they bump or elbow into each other in a crowd. Bus drivers, taxi drivers, and even cashiers can be quite unpleasant to their customers. To see the positive side of a group-based society, you have to be part of a group. Groups are usually established of classmates or co-workers, and without these connections it can be hard to make Korean friends, although brave Koreans may extend their friendship to foreigners if they want to practice English and learn about Western culture. A Korean in-group is called ‘jung’ and they have each others’ backs no matter what. In fact, friends usually refer to each other as ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ and treat each other accordingly.

Anchovy Poop is a mix of young and old, married and unmarried Yangmok teachers. At school, they rarely addressed me, and when Okhee initially invited me to their outings they would smile at me warmly, and then I would sit back and observe as they gabbed, in Korean, about their husbands or their students’ officious parents. A breakthrough came one night at a dinner when Hyo Jin, the youngest member, drank a lot of wine. In the 3 months that I had known her, I had no idea that she could speak English. Suddenly, she was chatting away with me excitedly. Little by little, each of the members overcame their nervousness to speak with me and grappled with their limited English, my limited Korean, and our cell phone translation dictionaries to forge a friendship. One night at a restaurant, they had an odd request for me. They wanted to take a picture with a mug close to the camera and me far away such that it looked like I was sitting inside the mug. When I saw myself on the camera sprouting from a coffee cup making the typical Korean peace signs, I learned that this was my official initiation into the Anchovy Poop group.

There are 10 Korean teachers in Anchovy Poop, and exactly 9 of them changed schools in the spring, just as they began to warm up to me. Of the five oldest, the ‘mothers,’ Okhee and Sunny are the socialites and fashionistas of the gang. Yumi and Essuk are almost overbearingly friendly and might have the greatest laughs of any Koreans I know. Gyeongju, the music teacher, is a strong headed single woman who can sing like a diva and instigate a bus full of people to dance in the aisles. Of the younger clan, Ji Young and Yumi are adorable and can usually be found posing for pictures. They are under constant pressure from the others to get themselves hitched before it’s too late. Yoon Jung recently got married, bumping herself into the social status of an ‘ajuma.’ Mina is the shyest of the group, and recently learned to drive. She lived in my apartment building and was assigned the unfortunate task of driving me home after each outing. She would grip the steering wheel in terror, doubly nervous to be on the road and to be speaking English, although by the end of the year she was excited to have me as her travel companion. Finally, Hyo Jin, the youngest and the only one to remain at Yangmok, was the life of the party. This motley crew whisked me away to chaotic and hilarious adventures from Jeju Island to karaoke rooms to a charcoal sauna to Jeollanam-do, the south-western province, during which we spent more time all jammed into a single van on the road than sight-seeing. When Okhee broke the news to Anchovy Poop that I was returning to the U.S., they asked me, shocked, why I was leaving. I told them “Kachok” – family, and “Chingu” – friends. Ji Young looked at me wide-eyed and said “Uri-nun (We)…Kachok, Chingu…”

There are a lot of great things about Korea that make it worth visiting, like beautiful mountains, rocky beaches, and fantastic food. But there is no way I would have fallen in love with Korea the way I did if I had come only as a tourist. That is in large part thanks to my ‘jung.’ To me, their love was a lot bigger than anchovy poop. Maybe more like elephant poop.

Gyeongju

Okhee

Essuk

Sunny


Gang Yumi

Mina

Yoon Jung

Ji Young

Seo Yumi


Hyo Jin


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