That's So Gay

I found out at the beginning of this term that as I didn't have any kids enrolled in my Friday classes, I had Fridays off. Not one to argue with a permanent three-day weekend, I also didn’t think it would last for very long. As our school is still new in the area, we’re enrolling kids every day and I assumed it was only a matter of time until some rude excited kids would sign up for my Friday classes. And I was right.

A week ago, I was notified via email that I now had two students in my Friday night Intensive Reading class: Sherry and Kristy. While I was slightly annoyed that I would have to work a (barely) full five-day week, my liver was rejoicing about the much needed rest it could anticipate.

Sitting behind my desk that Friday, I was puzzled when a smiling eleven year-old boy walked through my door. Thinking he must have the wrong room, I asked what class he was supposed to be in.

    Boy: Intensive Reading.
    Me: Oh. Ok. I don’t think you’re on my list. What’s your name?
    Boy: Kristy.
    Slightly confused stare
    Boy: (proudly) My full name is Kristy Michael Jackson.

As I’ve said before, kids at private English academies like the one I work at are allowed to choose their own English names, which can result in some pretty odd choices. So instead of accosting him and having him pick “Steve” or “Bob,” I simply applauded him for his creativity, smiled to myself and told him we were waiting on Sherry. Who may or may not have been a little girl.

But you can call me Kristy.

When Sherry (a girl) did arrive right as the bell rang, she seemed to know Kristy already; it turned out that they went to public school together. Happy to not have to go through the awkward five-minute introduction name games (I’m Travis and I bring Tomatoes to the picnic. Sherry, what are you going to bring?), we were able to dive right in to the material. However, when Sherry opened her workbook, I noticed that she had already completed the first lesson. Flipping through more pages, I was confused to find the whole book had been already been done.

    Me: When did you do this?
    Sherry: I took this class already.
    Me: Oh. Well. Ok. One second.

Puzzled, I told them to open their books and begin reading the first chapter while I left to quickly talk to the Korean staff. When I showed Mr. Rhu, the head of the school, her full book he confirmed that she had, in fact, just finished this level at another branch. Apparently she didn’t feel ready for the next level, and so had decided to repeat the class with me. Which was fine; however I couldn’t let her use a book that had all the answers already filled in – she would need a new book.

At this point, Sherry came up to the front desk (aren’t you supposed to be reading? And where is Kristy Michael Jackson?) and started speaking with Mr. Rhu in Korean, pointing excitedly at the book and scowling at me.

    Mr. Rhu: She says she wants to keep her old book. So we will give her new book and she can keep this one.    
    Me: What? Then she’ll have all the answers already.
    Mr. Rhu: She wants to keep old book.
    Me: But that doesn’t make any sense.

As Mr. Rhu and I began to get into a somewhat heated argument over the issue, Sherry took the opportunity to grab the contested book and scurry back to class. I returned five minutes later with a new book and a directive from Mr. Rhu to deal with the situation as I saw fit (read: the little punk was not going to keep her book). Placing the new book on her desk, I politely asked for her old book – which is about the time she started bawling.

I understand Korean kids are under a lot of pressure; and I understand that she probably opted to take the class again because she thought that with all the answers, it would be one academy class she wouldn’t have to worry about doing the homework for. I was (still am?) a kid, and if there was anyone who could talk his way out doing actual work, Sherry had met her match. I am also an extremely nice teacher and hadn’t made a kid cry yet. Over her sobs, I explained to her that we would have a ton of fun this semester, and that there was no point in her taking the class again if she already had all the answers in her book.

Determined to start the first lesson, I pried the old book out of Sherry’s bag, let her leave her head on her desk and cry, and turned my attention to Kristy Michael Jackson, who had been sitting politely across the room, silently reading his book and occasionally glancing over at the now hysterical Sherry.

Pleased to find his reading level exceptional, Kristy and I began the lesson on dinosaurs over Sherry’s progressively dimming howls. Every five minutes, I would ask her if she was done crying and wanted to participate, and after the first half-hour she began to come around. By the second hour when Mr. Rhu came to check on the situation, I had two smiling students who were actively engaged in a serious discussion about the extinction of dinosaurs (Teacher, is a meteor going to hit the Earth again?!). Book problems were behind us.

It was in the third hour that I wanted to cry. We were in the middle of reviewing their in-class quizzes, and it was becoming apparent that Sherry had not done as well as Kristy Michael Jackson on a quiz she had already taken.  This probably had less to do with their differing intellectual capabilities and more to do with the fact that she had spent the first forty-five minutes of class ignoring the lesson while she sobbed over a $3 textbook. Moreover, the grades from these quizzes do not affect their overall standing in the class.

Regardless, Sherry was pissed. With every answer she got wrong and he got right, I could see her anger towards Kristy Michael Jackson growing, until finally she couldn’t take it anymore and blurted out, “Kristy’s gay.”

The thing is, these kids are eleven and twelve; I doubt they could even explain to me in Korean how heterosexual couples consummated their relationships, let alone delve into defining differing sexual orientations in English. What struck me in the gut was that I was in a country where homosexuality is so taboo many Korean people don’t think their fellow countrymen are even capable of being homosexual, and yet this little girl knew exactly where to reach for her slurs. Gay.

Seeing Kristy immediately crumple under the insult, I paused the class and pointedly asked her if she knew what the English word she had just spoken meant. Sensing she was in trouble, she shook her head “no” and looked at the floor. In my mind, I was trying to figure out where I should go from there – I would have expected this in any American school, but I never thought I’d have to deal with this particular insult in Busan, South Korea, and so had no prepared game plan. Do I give them the definition of being gay? But then doesn’t that embarrass Kristy Michael Jackson? Should I tell them it’s a bad word? But then wouldn’t that leave them forever thinking that being gay is a bad thing? Should I just toss Sherry and her damn books out the window and forget she ever existed?

A bit dazed, I explained to both of them that in my classroom we respected one another, and I wouldn’t tolerate name-calling. For lack of anything else to do, I continued on with the lesson. As they were leaving class, I called Sherry aside and asked her where she had heard that insult.

    Sherry: What?
    Me: You know what I’m talking about.
    Sherry: I saw it on movie.
    Me: In Korea?
    Sherry: Yes. American movie.

And there it was. She hadn’t learned it from her family, she hadn’t even learned it from her conservative Korean culture – she learned it from Hollywood. Turns out, along with wars, ignorance and Britney’s shaved head, we’re exporting homophobia. This made every argument I had ever had over the American media’s portrayal of gays and lesbians crystal clear; it absolutely matters how our fictional television and movie characters behave towards minorities, because the world is watching.

One of my co-teachers had Kristy Michael Jackson in her next class, and when I asked if he seemed ok, she said he was one of the best kids in her group and he basically had his hand up the entire three hour class. That’s the thing about a little boy who chooses the name Kristy Michael Jackson – you get the feeling he’s figured out at a young age not to really worry about what anyone else thinks. Somehow I don't think he learned that from an American movie.