I have now finished about 14 hours of Korean and sadly I am still stumbling over flashcards depicting such important items as teddybears, hair ribbons, and crayons. Part of this is because my only contact with the language (Korean cinema aside) is when I am actually in class, but most of it is because I am very bad at languages (as evidenced by my inability to speak the previous 5 I have studied) and this one is really really hard.
Although I am not learning much Korean, I am learning some other things. First of all, it seems that after 2.5 years of stay-at-home-momitude I still have career hang-ups. My classmate, a lovely young woman, is a capable, ambitious, and well-put-together (Read 7-feet-tall, impeccably dressed, personal-trainer-trained tri-weekly, power-bar-eating, huge-office-with panoramic-view-having, multilingual etc.). Short, frumpy, mommy-brained, frazzled after a day with the kidlets, leaky-breasted, "if I don't have second dinner soon I will die" me gets along with her surprisingly well, probably because Korean is really really hard and we are currently in the same boat with the teddy-bear flashcards. There is a problem, however, with the curriculum. Since this is "survival Korean" we learn the things our teacher thinks we will need to know to get by. I learn vocabulary for school, hospitals, playgrounds and baby-talk for hugs and kisses, mommy and daddy. She learns words like power, rich, red wine, and honorific forms of address. When we were practicing introductions, she got a long sentence about her job title etc. and I was told "Aki-shi, you can say you are a housewife." Oddly, I was so troubled by this difference that I stumbled quite a bit over the declaration, and learned that I could just say I am a wife-u, and they will all understand. It seems that I am still not comfortable with the fact that over the next three years (like the last almost-three) I will be primarily known as Jamie's ah-ma or Brian's wife-u.
The compensation, I suppose, will lie in the second thing that my teacher is trying to convey. Namely that everything in Korea is better. According to my songsangnim Korea is paradise, but the apples are better and the snakes won't bite. Whenever a flashcard appears, watermelon say or grapes, we learn that it will be better in Korea. Yes, the watermelon will cost us over $12, but it will be sweeter and juicier because the water in Korea is so pure. The grapes - they are so good, and the wine - very good wine in Korea, not many people drink it, but very good quality. Korea is a shopping paradise - yes, things maybe a bit more money, but it will be worth it - the service impeccable, the wrapping sensational, the quality unsurpassed. Cars? better. Baby food? healthier. Ice-skating? everyone is doing it. We had a flashcard for bows and arrows: "Is archery popular in Korea?" I asked. "well, not really." Aha! I thought. "But," teacher continued "we always win all the medals in competition." My classmate asked about the availability of brown rice. "Oh, everywhere, everyone is eating more grains for health; barley, wild rice, now it's hard to find white rice in Korea." Yeah, right. Can I find good coffee in Korea, of course and the tea houses are sensational. Do they recycle in Seoul, yes, they are very strict about garbage, everything is recycled. Are there mosquitoes in Korea. No, no, well, not like here. They are very small and they don't bite. I am beginning to suspect slight exaggeration (no, really), but it's entertaining to try and trip her up (apparently dog meat is very tender and delicious and they are special dogs raised only for eating). At any rate, conversations about the utopia that is Seoul distracts sonsangnim from trying to teach me more of that language, which although perfect in every way is really really hard.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
pieces of a hole
A year ago my family gathered together to celebrate my grandfather's 90th birthday; half a year later, we lost him. A number of circumstances like the imminent arrival of my second child and the lack of a funeral prevented me from properly mourning him. Now, as I prepare to move across the world without many of the blocks I have used to construct my life, this is my first farewell. I loved this man. The only father I knew, I looked to him for guidance and instruction, solidity and stability. He was always there sitting on a worn armchair in the home I grew up in as I travelled from place to place making my uncertain way through life.
My memory builds him from the ground up; worn black slippers, orange socks, brown polyester pants from an earlier incarnation, now slightly too large and held up with blue and grey button-down suspenders, a white linen pocket hanky used to make jumping mice or blow noses large or small, layers of shirts: white undershirts, red corduroy collared shirts, knitted green wool vests, a horrible Christmas sweater, a gift from my smaller self and worn religiously despite the jarring colours, those thick glasses, those peaked caps.
I remember him too, as a physical presence; his warmth as I curl up beside him as a small child to laugh at Charlie Brown or listen to a story about 'Rusnell's pasture,' the feeling of his arm over my shoulder as he stands and looks at his garden, at a logpile, or out the window to catch a glimpse of the lake; the light in his eye and his animated smile as he recounts a childhood memory about a train or a farm; as he recalls a particularly good meal at a grand hotel or an out-of-the-way local secret on one of his travels; or weaves a long story about his working life and the good men who showed him kindness along the way.
I invoke him through activities; high tea in a historic setting, a long country drive to look at cows and search for wrought-iron or a good hunk of err-ope, a morning in a bird-blind listening to nature, an afternoon on the balcony watching a thunderstorm, a pre-dinner chore involving perching precariously on a ladder with hands full of some sort of muck, the thwack of spitting wood, the creak of the wheel-barrow up that long hill, the precision of seeds sorted in an egg-carton, an evening in the arm-chair under the reading-light, up into the wee hours finishing a good novel.
He taught by example, and the lessons remain: give due credit, acknowledge the influence of your past in forming your present; take adventures where they come however large or small and be sure to enjoy them; leave early in the morning, bring a pillow; do a thing well and beautifully and with all your focus whatever it may be; embrace life and the world, it is an amazing place and deserves our attention; watch things - ants building, mercury spilling, the wind in treetops; read widely, value education, chase knowledge; act to solve problems, if it's broken - just fix it, build your own solutions from things you have at home; shore up scraps against a crisis; treat yourself to the finer things now and again, drink tea from china.
Grandpa was a good, kind, and intelligent man and aways encouraged, respected, cherished and loved me. We had many adventures together over the 34 years I was privileged to know him, and I miss him almost every day.
My memory builds him from the ground up; worn black slippers, orange socks, brown polyester pants from an earlier incarnation, now slightly too large and held up with blue and grey button-down suspenders, a white linen pocket hanky used to make jumping mice or blow noses large or small, layers of shirts: white undershirts, red corduroy collared shirts, knitted green wool vests, a horrible Christmas sweater, a gift from my smaller self and worn religiously despite the jarring colours, those thick glasses, those peaked caps.
I remember him too, as a physical presence; his warmth as I curl up beside him as a small child to laugh at Charlie Brown or listen to a story about 'Rusnell's pasture,' the feeling of his arm over my shoulder as he stands and looks at his garden, at a logpile, or out the window to catch a glimpse of the lake; the light in his eye and his animated smile as he recounts a childhood memory about a train or a farm; as he recalls a particularly good meal at a grand hotel or an out-of-the-way local secret on one of his travels; or weaves a long story about his working life and the good men who showed him kindness along the way.
I invoke him through activities; high tea in a historic setting, a long country drive to look at cows and search for wrought-iron or a good hunk of err-ope, a morning in a bird-blind listening to nature, an afternoon on the balcony watching a thunderstorm, a pre-dinner chore involving perching precariously on a ladder with hands full of some sort of muck, the thwack of spitting wood, the creak of the wheel-barrow up that long hill, the precision of seeds sorted in an egg-carton, an evening in the arm-chair under the reading-light, up into the wee hours finishing a good novel.
He taught by example, and the lessons remain: give due credit, acknowledge the influence of your past in forming your present; take adventures where they come however large or small and be sure to enjoy them; leave early in the morning, bring a pillow; do a thing well and beautifully and with all your focus whatever it may be; embrace life and the world, it is an amazing place and deserves our attention; watch things - ants building, mercury spilling, the wind in treetops; read widely, value education, chase knowledge; act to solve problems, if it's broken - just fix it, build your own solutions from things you have at home; shore up scraps against a crisis; treat yourself to the finer things now and again, drink tea from china.
Grandpa was a good, kind, and intelligent man and aways encouraged, respected, cherished and loved me. We had many adventures together over the 34 years I was privileged to know him, and I miss him almost every day.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Locally grown
Ottawa was a hard adjustment for people who love food, but over the last three years we have found a few things to savour. Mother's Day breakfast involved Aubrey's double-smoked bacon, Sconewitch savory scones and Canadian favorites of five-year-old cheddar scrambled eggs and maple syrup doused raspberry pancakes. Our locally produced brunch to mark a local celebratory day was followed by taking our locally made children to the locally cherished tulip festival. This outing reminded us of things we won't miss about Ottawa, particularly the frigid May days marring Mother's Day moments and the dismal selection of après-tulip nourishment.
My children gifted me variously with an accident-free day of underpants-wearing, and a giant explosion while riverside nursing that involved a complete wardrobe change for daughter and partial costume modification for mom (maternal wardrobe change came later after post-tummy-time spit-up). Note: I am sadly preoccupied with bodily excretions lately between potty-training, nursing, and newborn life, but that's a topic for another time.
The family is now all napping and as I listen to the familiar sounds of birds chirping, the dryer spinning and the calls of children riding trikes on the windy street of my lovely green neighbourhood I realise that though I might not miss Ottawa, being local offers a peace and security that I will surely regret.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
A blog a day keeps the phonecalls away
As we prepare to prepare to leave for three years in Korea, it seemed prudent to set up a means of sharing our experiences with friends and family back in Canada. I have also been musing about memory and time and finding that no matter how hard we try, we can not sear moments into our consciousness without some recollection aids. We hope this blog will meet both goals.
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