Spring Fever

With spring knocking on the door – cherry blossoms in bloom, balmy days, winter coats packed away – love seems to be on the brain in Busan.

We just celebrated a slew of love-themed holidays in Korea: Valentines Day on February 14th, when girls are required to buy boys chocolate, followed by White Day on March 14th, when roles reverse and boys buy chocolate for girls. April 14th brought Black Day, a holiday for those who did not receive chocolate in previous months, a chance to cry into their “black noodles” (a Chinese dish called ja-jang-myeon). Korea and its disdain for single people!

My students are endlessly curious about my love life, asking me if anyone had bought me chocolate on White Day (I asked if I could just walk around the city on March 14th, approaching any male for free chocolate – they looked shocked and dismayed at this idea). Yesterday they wanted to know if I’d eaten black noodles, or if I had a boyfriend, which would exclude me from lamenting about being single. Sometimes I’m tempted to play “Independent Woman” by Destiny’s Child for them.

They, of course, have constructed a love story for me. The story circulating through my students is that two of my co-workers, Jason and Niko, are dating (they are not) but that Jason is secretly in love with me (he is not) and I am trying to break up their happy union (I am not – well, if there were any union to speak of). I will often return from break and walk into a room of bright-eyed middle schoolers, all grinning at me.

“Teacher!” they shout. “We saw you and you were talking to Jason!”

“Teacher, do you love Jason?”

“Is Niko really Jason’s girlfriend?”

During their mid-terms a few weeks ago, they were required to write a skit about anything of their choosing, as part of the test’s speaking component. They had twenty minutes to write, during which I walked around and peered over their shoulders to make sure they were on track. One group was shrieking with laughter, and refused to let me see their script, insistent that it be a surprise for me.

When they got up in front of the class to perform, they had to go around and introduce themselves.

“Hi, my name is Harry and I’m playing the part of Jenn,” said Harry.

Oh geez, I thought.

“My name is Kat, and I’m playing the part of Jason,” said Kat.

No way. No way.

“Hello, I’m Daniel and I’m going to be acting Niko,” said Daniel.

Well, this should be interesting.

“One day, Jason met Jenn on the street,” read Reina. “He fell in love with Jenn, but he had a girlfriend named Niko.”

“Hello, where are you going?” asked Kat (as Jason) to Harry (as me). “Are you free on Saturday?”

“Yes,” replied Harry.

“Shall we go to the zoo?” asked Kat.

Reina, our narrator, continued. “Jason did a great job on Saturday, but there was someone who watched the date. She was Jason’s girlfriend, Niko.”

“What are you doing?” yelled Daniel, as Niko. The class roared with laughter.

“I am proposing marriage to Jenn,” yelled Kat. Daniel reached over and pretended to slap Kat across the face. Even I was giggling now.

“Well, I don’t want to marry you!” shouted Harry/Jenn.

“Jason was very unhappy and ended up all alone,” read Reina. “The end.”

This is how most of their stories or skits go – somebody dies or is left alone. I guess Korean school children aren’t as interested in happy endings.

Last Friday, my upper-level Listening class was smaller than usual because most of my students were off studying for middle school exams. There were three girls present, and one lone boy – as per usual, the girls all congregated on one side of the room, and Danny sat alone on the other. Our topic for the day was Love, and I wasn’t too sure how it would go over with the small group.

I figured that since none of the students would have first-hand experience with love (you know, being under 15 years old and all), I could ask them about how their parents met to start the discussion. Most of them informed me that their mom and dad had been introduced in college, or that their parents had been older and therefore it was “time” to get married. No romantic love stories here.

Annie’s parents had an even more straight-forward union. “Well,” she told the class. “My mother tried to trap my father, and then they get married.”

The conversation hadn’t gone exactly as I’d planned, and during the final hour of class, I had them write down the person they loved most in the world, and what their definition was for love.

Danny was first. “The person I love most in the world is my mother,” he said. “She always help me and understand me. She also say good thing to me and is kind to me.”

Vicky followed with her definition, saying, “To be in love is when we keep smiling when we think of our lover.”

And again, Annie’s thoughts were the funniest. She declared that the person she loves most in the world is Big Bang, a Korean boy band. “When I think of Big Bang, the person I love, I feel throb and sometimes we are being hot. Love is when you care what that person likes and do,” she informed us.

She showed us a picture of Big Bang on her pencil case, calling out the names of each member. Personally, I don’t really get it. They all look like skinny girls to me, but Annie was kind enough to say that she would let me “have” the least attractive member named Top. Only because he’s the oldest member at 24 years old, she explained, and therefore closest to my age.

Annie continued. “Tim teacher has 365 girlfriends,” she told me, referring to another one of my co-workers. “But you could have Big Bang boyfriend!”

“Tim has 365 girlfriends?” I asked them.

“Oh yes, Teacher,” said Vicky, her face serious. “One for every day of year.”