My students are always shocked when I tell them that English is my second language. By now, my Korean is nowhere near as good but it's still the language I think in. My curses and prayers always feel better in Korean. Lately I've been really enjoying my native tongue. I’ve been singing K-pop songs and dropping Hangul in conversations. I’ve even introduced myself as Taeyoung.
Korean is played in short, choppy sounds. If English rolls through its letters, Korean stutter-steps each character. Each vowel is rushed and married to a hard consonant. The cadence fluctuates wildly, jumping up and down; Korean speech can be charted on music staff. And we speak it rapidly, plugging in words to universal sentence structure. Nouns are attached to articles that make sentences easy to anticipate. Korean thoughts flow like mad libs.
But more than anything, it's endearing. with separate conjugations of verbs to show respect. completely different vocabulary when addressing your elder. Whenever I talk to my friend’s parents, meet esteemed speakers, or want to honor my Dad, I’m grateful for the honorific style of Korean. Ironically, there’s something self-empowering about submitting to others.
I used to be embarrassed to answer my mom’s phone calls around American friends. Meanwhile, my Latino students flaunt their Spanish like a rare talent, seamlessly code-switching when they address each other. Maybe I’m getting bored with English. or embracing my roots. But when I speak Korean, it feels familiar and natural. It fits the length of my tongue and the shape of my lips. It makes me wanna improve my Korean. Maybe even live there for a little. I want to understand my mom’s articles in the church newsletter. I want to communicate closely with my wife’s parents. I want my kids to speak Korean as their first language. As cultures change and parents pass, the language might be the only thing that remains.
Apr 16, 2012
Feb 6, 2012
Lady
The other day I overheard my 11 year old sister on the phone with my 27 year old sister. She's been married for a while living in NC. It's sad to think that Sarah, who changed Erin's diapers and warmed her bottles, now watches Erin grow up through Facebook pictures. I couldn't really hear what they were saying but I heard a comfort in Erin's voice that I had never really heard before. It made me wonder how Erin would be different had Sarah remained in her life. I never considered that there might be some things that I couldn’t provide for Erin, myself.
There's something different about a woman's presence. The female perspective is warm yet firm. Wise. When I talk to some of them, they place their hands on their folded legs. They listen and nod with squinted eyes of empathy. They retort calmly, pinching strands of hair behind their ear. Their gentle prodding coaxes me into my best behavior.
For the first time, I'm enjoying a handful of meaningful yet platonic relationships with different ladies in my life. One’s a married deaconess from church. Another led our team in India. M teaches History at my school. Y's a paralegal in the city. Phd students. Nutrition bloggers. Adopting mothers. There is something timelessly fascinating about the female psyche. I'm forever a fan. Partly because it's the one thing I can never fully understand, but really because of the woman's uncanny ability to comfort and empower. Somehow, at the same time.
Maybe it has something to do with child bearing. That God designed women with an innate gift of powerful love. This year, two of my juniors conceived children. Three of my seniors currently raise infants. It’s interesting when these girls come back from pregnancy. They come back with a solemn maturity. They work efficiently, with a chip on their shoulder. They study silently, indifferent to the gossip. They smile, but not in the same way. Sometimes during my lessons, I make eye contact with her and wonder how many hours of sleep she got. I try to give my most reassuring look because I'm familiar with the heavy brow of a single mother. I know in that moment, I’m witnessing the transition from girl to woman.
The biggest influences in my life have one thing in common. They truly believed in me, when it made no sense. They gave me the benefit of the doubt, when I didn't deserve it. More than anything, I was driven by the fear of disappointing them. I started becoming the person they thought I was.
There's something different about a woman's presence. The female perspective is warm yet firm. Wise. When I talk to some of them, they place their hands on their folded legs. They listen and nod with squinted eyes of empathy. They retort calmly, pinching strands of hair behind their ear. Their gentle prodding coaxes me into my best behavior.
For the first time, I'm enjoying a handful of meaningful yet platonic relationships with different ladies in my life. One’s a married deaconess from church. Another led our team in India. M teaches History at my school. Y's a paralegal in the city. Phd students. Nutrition bloggers. Adopting mothers. There is something timelessly fascinating about the female psyche. I'm forever a fan. Partly because it's the one thing I can never fully understand, but really because of the woman's uncanny ability to comfort and empower. Somehow, at the same time.
Maybe it has something to do with child bearing. That God designed women with an innate gift of powerful love. This year, two of my juniors conceived children. Three of my seniors currently raise infants. It’s interesting when these girls come back from pregnancy. They come back with a solemn maturity. They work efficiently, with a chip on their shoulder. They study silently, indifferent to the gossip. They smile, but not in the same way. Sometimes during my lessons, I make eye contact with her and wonder how many hours of sleep she got. I try to give my most reassuring look because I'm familiar with the heavy brow of a single mother. I know in that moment, I’m witnessing the transition from girl to woman.
The biggest influences in my life have one thing in common. They truly believed in me, when it made no sense. They gave me the benefit of the doubt, when I didn't deserve it. More than anything, I was driven by the fear of disappointing them. I started becoming the person they thought I was.
Nov 13, 2011
my piece from "The Trumpet" (vol 15).
Tenali, India
During my two weeks in India, I spent a lot of time with children from different villages. For the most part, children are the same wherever you go–including the kids from Pastor Rufus’ orphanage. There were 40 of them, ages 5-12. And because they grew up together, I’m not sure how many of them actually knew they were orphans. During praise, they would sing and dance. During games, they would laugh and smile. But on the last night as we prayed over them, they began to cry. This was not the innocent, childhood bawling but a deeper, aching groan. Perhaps for the first time, they could sense that something was off in their lives. I held one boy named Heart as he sobbed into my chest with his arms around my waist. It was the unique posture of a child longing for his parents. The deep pain of missing something he doesn’t remember. As I prayed I cried out, “God, why is this happening? What is Your purpose?”
He assured me that He loves them very much and that He would be their father. So God let him cry, like He always does. He let the pain sink in. It was the hollowing of this orphan’s heart, to make space for Himself. I glimpsed the future of the Gospel in India that night. Leaders were being shaped in that very room. As I held Heart, I saw that he and I weren't that different. At the end of the day we are all spiritual orphans, separated from our Father in Heaven. Nostalgic for the eternity we haven’t yet experienced.
During my two weeks in India, I spent a lot of time with children from different villages. For the most part, children are the same wherever you go–including the kids from Pastor Rufus’ orphanage. There were 40 of them, ages 5-12. And because they grew up together, I’m not sure how many of them actually knew they were orphans. During praise, they would sing and dance. During games, they would laugh and smile. But on the last night as we prayed over them, they began to cry. This was not the innocent, childhood bawling but a deeper, aching groan. Perhaps for the first time, they could sense that something was off in their lives. I held one boy named Heart as he sobbed into my chest with his arms around my waist. It was the unique posture of a child longing for his parents. The deep pain of missing something he doesn’t remember. As I prayed I cried out, “God, why is this happening? What is Your purpose?”
He assured me that He loves them very much and that He would be their father. So God let him cry, like He always does. He let the pain sink in. It was the hollowing of this orphan’s heart, to make space for Himself. I glimpsed the future of the Gospel in India that night. Leaders were being shaped in that very room. As I held Heart, I saw that he and I weren't that different. At the end of the day we are all spiritual orphans, separated from our Father in Heaven. Nostalgic for the eternity we haven’t yet experienced.
Sep 12, 2011
Dry Cleaners Ministry
Mom: You lost weight. Is everything okay?
Customer 1: My roommate is recovering from cancer.
Mom: What is her name? I will pray to Jesus for her.
Customer 2: How is Erin?
Mom: She has volleyball tryouts today. She asked me to pray in Jesus name.
Customer 2: I'll pray for her also.
Customer 3: Where is Ben?
Mom: He's in India.
Customer 3: Why?
Mom: Jesus sent him.
Damn mom... How you have so much swag?
Customer 1: My roommate is recovering from cancer.
Mom: What is her name? I will pray to Jesus for her.
Customer 2: How is Erin?
Mom: She has volleyball tryouts today. She asked me to pray in Jesus name.
Customer 2: I'll pray for her also.
Customer 3: Where is Ben?
Mom: He's in India.
Customer 3: Why?
Mom: Jesus sent him.
Damn mom... How you have so much swag?
Jun 29, 2011
May 23, 2011
Gut
Sometimes during college, my roommates and I would start craving a certain taste but we couldn't quite put a finger on what it was. So we would start bouncing ideas off each other through process of elimination. "Asian or American? Hot or cold?" Some days we would discover that we had wanted Halal cart all along. Other times, we would settle for Subway. One thing's for sure though, when you finally get it, it totally hits the spot.
It's funny because we would just be flipping through menus looking for something to tip us off. So often, we don't know what we want but we'll know it if we see it. It's the same reason my students prefer true or false questions to essay assignments. We can identify yes or no but struggle when asked to explain why.
Sometimes our gut can sense things before our minds can understand them. I'm convinced that girls who know nothing about basketball can recognize Michael Jordan's dominance during a game. Tone-deaf boys can still appreciate the sheer power of Whitney's voice. Even total strangers pick out their soulmates on the first encounter. It's the smell of passion and its truth can't be denied.
It's funny because we would just be flipping through menus looking for something to tip us off. So often, we don't know what we want but we'll know it if we see it. It's the same reason my students prefer true or false questions to essay assignments. We can identify yes or no but struggle when asked to explain why.
Sometimes our gut can sense things before our minds can understand them. I'm convinced that girls who know nothing about basketball can recognize Michael Jordan's dominance during a game. Tone-deaf boys can still appreciate the sheer power of Whitney's voice. Even total strangers pick out their soulmates on the first encounter. It's the smell of passion and its truth can't be denied.
Apr 25, 2011
Thinking : Action
If you work out regularly, you know the therapy of a steady bench press. push. breathe. push. breathe. The cleansing sweat of a rhythmic jog. left. right. left. right. Sometimes, we need to channel our most carnal instincts just to feel human again.
More and more, I'm beginning to think that human beings were designed to work. move. toil. During my 11 day vacation, nothing was more dangerous than being idle. When our "thinking to action ratio" is too high, we become petty and dramatic. Delusional and complacent. I started thinking myself into ruts.
Personally, I really miss--and even need--the daily grind again. There's something sexy about 6 am. Refreshing about a full day's schedule. And nothing is more satisfying than loosening my tie at the end of the day.
Furthermore, repetition and exhaustion can really arouse the imagination. The best ideas have a way of falling into our lap when we're least looking for them. when we're buried at work. So many artists become out of touch over time, because they quit the day jobs that helped them write their best songs. They lose the tension of everyday experiences that once triggered their creative juices.
So Kanye, when you're done with your dark, twisted fantasy, I'll be at the gym waiting for the guy that wrote "Roses". Do you even remember why you rap anymore? Just think of that cheeky kid with the backpack. Hip Hop needs you and I miss you.
More and more, I'm beginning to think that human beings were designed to work. move. toil. During my 11 day vacation, nothing was more dangerous than being idle. When our "thinking to action ratio" is too high, we become petty and dramatic. Delusional and complacent. I started thinking myself into ruts.
Personally, I really miss--and even need--the daily grind again. There's something sexy about 6 am. Refreshing about a full day's schedule. And nothing is more satisfying than loosening my tie at the end of the day.
Furthermore, repetition and exhaustion can really arouse the imagination. The best ideas have a way of falling into our lap when we're least looking for them. when we're buried at work. So many artists become out of touch over time, because they quit the day jobs that helped them write their best songs. They lose the tension of everyday experiences that once triggered their creative juices.
So Kanye, when you're done with your dark, twisted fantasy, I'll be at the gym waiting for the guy that wrote "Roses". Do you even remember why you rap anymore? Just think of that cheeky kid with the backpack. Hip Hop needs you and I miss you.
Apr 5, 2011
Apr 3, 2011
Self-Assessment
Teacher: Ha
Subject: 11th English Language Arts
Term: 2010-2011
Classroom Management: B
Curriculum Building: B+
Faculty Rapport: A-
Student Relationships: A
Differentiation: C+
Representing Christ at work: F
Subject: 11th English Language Arts
Term: 2010-2011
Classroom Management: B
Curriculum Building: B+
Faculty Rapport: A-
Student Relationships: A
Differentiation: C+
Representing Christ at work: F
Mar 12, 2011
Curves
I have this theory that the best Spanish teachers aren't actually Hispanic. In fact, they're anything but. They are non-native speakers, who actively learned it as a second language. They still remember what it's like to struggle: the hardest conjugation rules, the toughest vocab, and the most helpful mnemonics. It's hard to be a good teacher, if you've never been a bad student.
See, you have to think that the best personal trainers used to be overweight with slow metabolism. the guys that really earn their fitness, everyday. In my experience, the most gracious pastors were once the deepest sinners. The most broken youth grow up to be the best presidents.
It's like... your worst subject in middle school ends up being your major in college. As a kid, writing gave me so much anxiety, not just because I was bad but because I knew I could be better. The potential of our passions is frustrating but learning curves make the growing pains worth it.
Will Smith--one of the hardest working actors--said he still wakes up every morning with a poor man's mindset. That seems to be the secret. Remembering your lowest times as a point of reference. Writing your autobiography as you live it.
See, you have to think that the best personal trainers used to be overweight with slow metabolism. the guys that really earn their fitness, everyday. In my experience, the most gracious pastors were once the deepest sinners. The most broken youth grow up to be the best presidents.
It's like... your worst subject in middle school ends up being your major in college. As a kid, writing gave me so much anxiety, not just because I was bad but because I knew I could be better. The potential of our passions is frustrating but learning curves make the growing pains worth it.
Will Smith--one of the hardest working actors--said he still wakes up every morning with a poor man's mindset. That seems to be the secret. Remembering your lowest times as a point of reference. Writing your autobiography as you live it.
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