I go back and forth on whether or not I’m a good teacher pretty much on a daily basis. It’s not that I think I’m a bad teacher, but when it comes to explaining the past participle preterit perfect, or any of the other finer points of the English language, I have found myself ending lectures with, “You know. It just sounds right. Right?” Which is normally when I’ll do something goofy to make the kids laugh and forget they were asking me what exactly a prepositional phrase is and why you can’t end sentences with them. (You can’t?) At the end of the day, I side with the school’s logic that whatever my faults when it comes to the technicalities of grammar, the kids are better off learning English from a native speaker so they are exposed to both the language and the culture; and trust me, if you dropped any of my kids off on the streets of New York tomorrow, they’d do pretty well for themselves.
But every once in a while I find myself having to articulate cultural norms or rituals that when enunciated, sound inescapably bizarre.
Last week, in the middle of explaining the vocab word “cast,” I decided to delve into multiple meanings, one of which being what doctors put on someone when they break a bone. Cast. Which in turn sparked a wider conversation on who has and hasn’t broken bones, ending with the kids asking which bones I’ve broken.
Me: I haven’t broken any, yet. Knock on wood.
Rapping quickly on my desk, I looked up to find ten confused faces staring back at me. Slowly, every student in the class started knocking on their desks and looking at me, puzzled. I spent the next fifteen minutes trying to explain that knocking on wood signifies good luck and why knocking on metal or concrete just wasn’t the same. But how many knocks, Teacher? And how hard? And what if there’s no wood?
Or
As I teach middle school kids who have pretty much been at school every day since they were born, it seems that in any given class, half the students are sick. Coughing. Wheezing. And sneezing. Which is probably why I spent the first three weeks battling every bug the kids tossed my way. The only thing is in Korea when a person sneezes, there is no custom to say anything directly afterwards. Everyone just goes about their business like nothing happened.
Now, I’ve always thought “God bless you” or even the tamer “bless you” was ridiculous – who am I to bestow a blessing? And just because you sneezed? On the subway? Really? But it wasn’t until I moved here that I realized how deeply ingrained the reflex had become. I spent the first week or so blessing any unsuspecting Korean with allergies that sneezed within earshot – until my kids reminded me that A.) it’s weird and B.) no one understands what I’m saying anyway. So now every time a kid sneezes I have to physically restrain myself from imparting God’s love. Fine, heathens, have it your way.
Or
My kids have their big exams coming up, and tonight while reassuring them that they’ll all do fine, I told them that I would keep my fingers crossed for them regardless. They immediately demanded to know which fingers I was crossing and why. And what does crossing mean, Teacher?
The lesson I concluded with? We are all weird.
When I was “hired” by my school via email back in New York, I was told my employment was conditional on my successful completion of a week-long training program and, in big black letters: PASSING A MEDICAL EXAM. At three separate points during the interview process, I was reminded that immediately upon my arrival in Seoul, this medical test would be administered, and should I fail, I would not be hired. Or reimbursed for my airfare. Or allowed to stay at the hotel. Or helped with any travel arrangements I would need to make after basically being kicked to a very foreign curb.
The problem was that while they reiterated the words “medical exam” in nearly every correspondence, there were no specifics as to what exactly they were testing for. I assumed that a drug screen was pretty mandatory, but beyond that would they be booting people with medical conditions that they simply didn’t want to deal with? And what was involved with the medical test exactly? Pee in a cup? Blood? Hair? Running on a hamster wheel?
Ever the hypochondriac, I immediately began worrying that my rare and terminal cancer I’d been unwittingly carrying around for years was going to rear its ugly head and not only would I be given two weeks to live, I wouldn’t have enough money to do anything on my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks To Live list. And none of those things were in Seoul.
I’m only slightly exaggerating my hypochondria. After spending a couple months working on the PR for a multiple sclerosis medication in New York, I had slowly convinced myself that I had MS. I would be writing copy that helped illustrate the symptoms for the disease, and suddenly notice I had all of them. Headaches? Check. Sudden forgetfulness? Check. Random tripping and falling? All over it. This lead to me actually scheduling a MRI during a lunch break. It was in the waiting room where I came up with my Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list. During all of this, I managed to convince my roommate that she too was afflicted with the irreversible disease, and explained that she should also go in for a MRI as soon as possible; the earlier the disease is diagnosed, the earlier treatment can begin. Two weeks later, we both had beautiful pictures of our healthy brains and the rest of our friends making fun of us.
So by the time I arrived for my first day of training and was told the medical exam would be later that afternoon, I was pretty sure it was going to be leukemia.
After a short morning introduction (why waste too much time training people who might be carrying deadly diseases around?), we were given a map to the hospital that consisted of two landmarks – the training center and the hospital, with what seemed like one short road connecting the two. Just go left and then straight and then right and you’ll see it. We had been in the country for less than twenty-four hours, were still jet-lagged out of our minds, and had no idea where we were, let alone where the hospital was. And so, equipped with what might as well have been a map of Toledo, forty or so foreigners bumbled “left” down the street.
Fifteen minutes later, almost positive we had gone the wrong way, we slowly began passing people wearing hospital robes strolling down the street. Unable to ask “where’s the hospital and why aren’t you there?” we just kept walking upstream and eventually found the party – the hospital parking lot and stairs were littered with patients milling around. Some were in wheelchairs, others toted around their IVs, and the rest were nonchalantly chatting and smoking. This wasn’t abnormal to me – outside most hospitals you find patients gathered, getting some fresh air. The difference here was patients weren’t just standing outside, they were steadily coming and going from the hospital grounds – each dressed in identical hospital scrubs and slippers, some carrying shopping bags from their excursions.
Still consumed by my pending prognosis (which would inevitably have to be translated by an unsympathetic nurse in broken English: “you die soon. Sorry.”), it wasn’t until I moved to Busan that I began to notice similarly attired patients wandering around the streets of my neighborhood. I have done absolutely no research and have yet to ask my kids about this, but after seeing the tenth patient of the day while getting a slice of pizza tonight, it will be the first topic of discussion in class tomorrow.
I’m all for patient freedom and I’m sure when I come down with whatever is going to tragically cut my life decades too short, I’ll want to get out of my sterile room and grab some air. But from what I know about medicine, the rooms are sterile for a reason. Squatting on the street corner and smoking cigarettes is probably not recommended by your physician – and as far as I’m concerned, if you’re not healthy enough to put on proper clothes, you’re not healthy enough to be standing next to me at the grocery store. Coughing. But then again, maybe getting apples and ruining my appetite all in one shot was on their Things to Do When I’m Told I Have Two Weeks to Live list.
After one of our breaks in class last night, I returned to find a sketch my kids drew of yours truly on the board:
I laughed for five minutes straight. And then gave them a pop quiz.
While I’m busy opining about how old I look, I realize this insecurity may be highlighted by the fact that I’m in a country surrounded by people who look perpetually younger than their age. And tonight I found out why.
One of the things I’ve liked about being a teacher in a foreign country is that anytime I have a cultural question, I have forty to fifty different kids who are eager to explain away my confusion – probably because I’m offering extra credit for anyone who can do so in proper, complete sentences. It is in this way that I’ve managed to piece together certain nuances that aren’t readily available in Lonely Planet.
My school, like many things in Korea, is very technologically advanced. Most of my “paperwork” revolves around the computer in my classroom. If I mark a child absent in the system, his parents receive a text message within the first half-hour of class, letting them know their kid is not in his seat. I download every lesson plan, test, and handout from our server that’s updated by our research and development department located in Seoul; conversely, the kids are able to log in to the system from home, see their grades and complete their online homework. Very efficient. Very 2007. And very Korean.
From my screen, I can summon up all kinds of information about my students; test score averages, attendance records, which regular school they attend, what grade they’re in, etc. Most of this is useless to me, however I did skim over their grades and ages shortly before I began the term; being a new teacher, I thought I could gauge what level they’d be at by their age. But when I compared my first on-screen roster of thirteen year-olds to the class full of young faces staring back at me, I was a bit confused. Shrugging, I figured puberty must hit late on this side of the globe and was just happy they were so talkative. It wasn't until Sherry's birthday today that I began to question everything.
Sherry, the young woman who works at the school’s front desk, reminds me of a Korean Air stewardess: she constantly has a smile on her face, understands only rudimentary English, and is happy to get you a cup of tea but looks like she might stab you with a chopstick if you don’t say please. The first face I see when I get off the elevator and the last person I say goodnight to as I leave work, she’s always waving and smiling, which until my Korean vocabulary progresses to include verbs, is as far as our communication usually gets us. She, like the rest of our Korean staff, works tirelessly and I honestly don’t understand how she stays so chipper. They deal with parents all day and then kids all night – easily pulling ten to twelve hour shifts, while the Western teachers stroll in for our six-hour teaching stints and stroll right back out making double their salaries simply because our parents taught us “hello” instead of “an-young-kah-say-oh.”
So when I found out it was her birthday when I arrived to work tonight, I wished someone had told me sooner so I could have gotten her something. But the more I thought about it I realized this was my first Korean birthday and I wasn’t sure if my Western customs applied. Should I have gotten her a card? Flowers? A giant bottle of Soju to ease the pain? Feeling (familiarly) incompetent, I wished her a happy birthday and was shocked to hear that she was turning 27. The thing is, she doesn’t look a day over 14.
Back in class, my kids, eager to get off subject and always amused when they get to tell their teacher something he didn’t already know, informed me that in Korea people have two ages – their Korean age and their Western age. Their Korean age begins roughly around the time of conception (a tradition which I’m sure FOX News will no doubt be subscribing to shortly) and so babies reach age one when they come kicking out of their mother. Also, as I came to understand it, Koreans who are counting back in this manner also really celebrate their birthday on the lunar New Year – which to me just sounds like even more of an excuse for the whole country to get really drunk together. But I’m definitely not arguing.
According to this math, it’s possible for a baby to be two years old and only off the umbilical cord for two days. No wonder there’s so much pressure on the kids to succeed – they’re already slacking from day one. What? Are you just going to sit there? You’re almost three years old. Shouldn’t you be walking, talking and beginning calculus?
When I asked them their Western ages, my kids happily revealed that instead of being the teenagers I thought, the class was full of eleven and twelve year-olds – which, from what I remember about being that age, is a big difference. I think this explains their willingness to shout out answers in class and (gasp) speak in front of the opposite sex. As for Sherry, I found out that we’re the same age. A fact I had to prove to her with my passport. “But Travis. You so bald.” Annnnd there it is.
I’m not aging well. This thought usually occurs to middle age men as they examine their receding hairline in the store windows just before they purchase the red convertible they’ll sell exactly one year later. However, this thought has been on my mind since I was nineteen – not because I’m particularly vain; but because that’s about the time the hair follicles on my scalp decided to close up shop. This fact alone doesn’t necessarily bother me, and I honestly don’t get up in the morning and think to myself “well, another bald day.” However, it’s hard to forget when I’ve had a steady stream of onlookers who feel the need to comment on the situation atop my head on a near hourly basis.
It’s amazing how little decorum people observe when it comes to this subject. Obesity? Wouldn’t dare. Acne? Never noticed it. But the second a bald guy walks in the room everyone is immediately free to comment on the one malady that has apparently been deemed socially acceptable for dinner conversation:
“Do you shave your head? Or are you bald?”
I shave my head because I’m bald.
“Have you tried Rogaine?”
Have you tried tact?
“Well, at least you have a nicely shaped head.”
Yes, and at least I’m not hunchback. But thanks.
And my personal favorite? The people who insist that I have hair; that all I need to do is give it a chance to grow. My mother is the ringleader in this category – every time I see her, she laments how I could have a beautiful head of hair if I would just let it grow out. Here’s the thing about being bald – the hair doesn’t grow. I’m not doing this for fun. I would rather not have my head reflect the flashes in photographs better than most mirrors. I could go without the Mr. Clean jokes for just one day. Really. I could.
But, this is the head I was given, and so me, my bald scalp and my freakishly large eyebrows descended on Korea, a country chocked full of kids who love talking about my exposed cranium. You would think they've never seen a bald person before; kids gather around my desk at break times and have recently taken to petting my scalp, asking me questions like "did you ever have hair?" and "when will it grow?" I can’t get through an hour of class without some cute munchkin somehow finding a way to incorporate a recently learned vocabulary word into a sentence about my hair malfunction.
Me: Who knows what “glow” means?
Kid: Teacher’s head glows with no hair.
Me: Good. Very good. I hate you.
And the kicker? In my Korean class this week we learned that there is one commonly used Korean word for both head and hair. The example my teacher came up with? Travis has no hair but he has a head. Because you know, it had been thirty-seven minutes since the last bald comment was made. Thanks, Pixie.
Ex-pat communities are always somewhat strange – people gathered together for no other reason than they share a skin color, a national anthem or a language. These commonalities are further highlighted when you’re in a country where the language barrier is daunting; suddenly the mere fact that you can understand someone’s conversation across the street gives license to introduce yourself, join them for a drink and swap cell phone numbers. Even though I’ve never had much of a problem talking to complete strangers, it takes a while to get over feeling like…well, a loser. No matter how hard you try to control your inflection, you inevitably come across as the new kid on the playground with no friends. “Hey guys. I was just walking by and saw you. So I thought I’d, you know. Stop and say, you know. Hey. I’m, um, Travis? I just got here. Are you teachers? Am I still talking?”
But the thing is that even though some people have been over here for years, everyone remembers what it was like to be fresh-off-the-boat, and so with a knowing nod usually overlook the first bumbling introduction. It’s in this awkward way that you start meeting people, and then they introduce you to friends, and friends-of-friends, and soon your phone starts to fill up and you can step away from YouTube and into a social scene.
Which is where I found myself these past couple of weeks. Starting to get over the first-month hump of going out every time someone asked (because how can you say no to someone you just met? What if they never ask again? And you’re forced to spend the rest of the year locked in your apartment watching old Oprah episodes online?) I had begun to get into a routine of sorts.
The more foreigners I meet, the more I find they fall into two camps: those who want to speak Korean, and those who don’t. I have also found that almost every other characteristic that can be attributed to them stem from this central point; the foreigners who have taken an interest in learning Korean are less likely to make inane statements about the country (Have you noticed that all the older Koreans hate foreigners?) and are more likely to know cool places to go on a Friday night. It was this crowd who referred Pixie to me as the best Korean teacher in Busan, and after meeting her and signing up for classes late one night at a bar (see? It’s a good thing I went out every night), my classes finally started today.
As my coworkers were also interested in learning the language, we arrived at 11:00 A.M. this morning to a building by Pusan’s National University, each gripping notebooks and freshly sharpened pencils; a group of teachers reduced to nervous students on the first day of school. Greeted by a perky Korean woman, I introduced myself and told her we were looking for Pixie – which is when she introduced herself as Pixie. Whom I had already met. Good, Travis. Laughing about how it was late and dark and did she get a new haircut? I was quickly let off the hook and we were shown to our classroom, a decent sized space across the hall from a group of students who sounded to me like they were learning Chinese. Or Japanese.
Me: Oh, the school offers Chinese classes, too?
Pixie: What? No, just Korean. Why?
Wondering if there was a three-strikes-and-you’re-an-idiot rule, I silently agreed to only speak when spoken to, and settled in for the first of our two-hour lessons. Which was incredible. Sitting on the other side of a language class for the first time since beginning to teach ESL was eye-opening, both for my Korean vocabulary and my day job.
The ever-patient Pixie slowly took us through the Hangol alphabet, an incredibly straightforward set of characters laid out by a Korean king in 1444. This king, apparently fed up with the complex Chinese characters that kept most of that country and all of his illiterate, set out to make a written language every commoner could use. Five hundred years later it’s pretty clear he succeeded, and now every Korean can admire him daily – as his image still adorns the currency. His goal for the characters? "A wise man can acquaint himself with them before the morning is over; a stupid man can learn them in the space of ten days." Apparently we were somewhere in the middle; after two hours of chanting and grunting, we were assigned a series of scripts to trace for Wednesday’s class and sent on our way.
Armed with the fledgling ability to read, the city had now become a giant library for us. Every sign was a learning opportunity, and we excitedly piled on the subway back to our neighborhood, proudly sounding out each stop as it flashed across the screen on the train. A helpful reminder I’m sure our fellow passengers appreciated.
Returning to my classroom this afternoon, I had a newfound appreciation for what my kids go through, and tried to remember to extend the same patience Pixie afforded a group of twentysomethings who struggled to learn the Korean alphabet to my group of ten year-olds, who are struggling to paraphrase complex passages about carbohydrates and proteins. And the coolest part? I totally scored points with my kids when I could read their Korean names aloud. After looking at me like I had just sprouted another head, they animatedly started speaking Korean back at me, which is when I had to explain that while I could read, I still couldn’t understand much of anything. “Don’t worry, Teacher. You’ll get it. It’s easy. Not like English.”
When I say that I didn’t have any preconceived notions about living in Korea when I first moved over here, one might think it’s because I aimed to forget everything I knew about the country and arrive with an open mind. And that would be true, if I actually knew anything about the country to begin with.
To my credit, I did buy one book off Amazon (“The Koreans: Who They Are, What They Want, and Where Their Future Lies”) which I would read and then recite out loud to my roommates in New York. “Did you know it’s important not to challenge your Korean boss in front of other subordinates because then he’ll lose face?” As I don’t think they actually thought I would pick up and move, they were polite enough to feign interest for the first couple of chapters, before switching to their tried and true tactic when dealing with my Interests of the Month: smile and nod.
Me: Did you know Korea has the 13th largest economy in the world?
Roommate: (Smiling and nodding) Oh?
Me: Yeah, and up until the 70s it was basically a third-world country?
Roommate: (Slightly dozing off) Hmm.
Me: And now Seoul is the sixth largest city in the world?
Roommate: (realizing I was still talking) Yeah. I have to go. Alphabetize my grocery list.
Needless to say, as my plane dropped out of the clouds on the way to Seoul, I was glued to the window, excited for my first peek at the country I would be calling home for the next year. Fighting off the sleeping pills I had ingested to survive the fourteen hour haul, I was pleasantly surprised to see endless rows of green mountains with small and large cities sporadically peeking out. I soon found out about seventy percent of Korea is covered with mountains, and as anyone who has watched the videos I posted from Busan a week later can attest to, I’m slightly obsessed with the ones that are now a five-minute walk from my apartment. Hey. You would be too if you grew up in the Midwest where the closest thing to a hill was the slight incline of your driveway; suddenly finding myself choosing between an afternoon at the beach or a hike in the mountains was a nice change.
Excited to go up my local mountains and encouraged by stories from other foreigners about the great trails that were waiting for me, I set out a couple weeks ago armed with a bottle of water and my iPod. Somewhat a novice when it comes to hiking, I didn’t think to ask for directions to the trail entrances; I figured if I could see the mountain from my apartment windows, all I needed to do was walk until I hit the bottom, and then hike upwards. Well, I found the bottom, but no trail. Not one to let minor details get in the way (who needs a trail?), I began my climb, clutching the trees and hoisting myself up the side of the rather uninviting mountain. Ten minutes later, I was back at the bottom after nearly stepping on a snake and almost knocking myself unconscious on a low hanging branch in my frantic and less than graceful descent. So when the Texans called this morning inviting me to join them on a hike, I was excited to actually experience hiking the mountain trails.
From what I can tell, Koreans love to exercise. And more importantly, they love the accompanying apparel one has to buy in order to exercise. One of the first things I noticed about Busan was the abundance of sports stores; swimming, hiking, rafting, skiing – if there is an outfit for the sport, there was a store nearby selling it. I had seen hikers walking around town, each wearing matching black pants, long sleeved shirts, vests, walking poles (think cross-country skiing), white gloves and visors. Hoping this was voluntary and not a strictly enforced dress code (“You no climb. Need poles.”), the Texans and I started up the trail clad in our mismatching shorts and t-shirts.
Happy to find the trails extremely well maintained, complete with stairs for the steep inclines, we were walking for about twenty minutes when we came to a clearing in the woods and saw what looked like a nearly complete gym. In the forest. Bench press, squatting machine, a combination treadmill and elliptical apparatus, parallel bars, a pull-down weight contraption, chin up bars, inclined sit-up bench, giant hula-hoops, etc. In the middle of the forest. No membership fee, no annoying guy about to bust out of his baby tee hovering in front of a mirror – just us, some identically dressed Koreans, and the squirrels. And the best part? There wasn’t just one Forest Gym; in our two-hour hike, we came across four different areas with similar equipment. They did not mention this in my book.
Pausing for a mini-work out (I’m embarrassed to report my abs are somewhat sore from five minutes of hula-hooping – who knew?), we continued on with our hike, and I made a mental note of the path’s location for any future wilderness work out sessions. As far as the outfits go, after spending the morning feeling like a social outcast and swatting at the itchy grass brushing up against my calves, I now understand the utility of the uniform and am considering investing in some of those comfy looking black pants. I have to draw the line at the visor though – it just doesn't go with the bald.
I love outdoor markets. Any outdoor market, really. I’m not sure what it is, but food just looks better to me when it’s away from the fluorescent glare of the supermarket and under a tent. And in Korea, the person selling the food is generally a sweet old woman, who I can never really say no to. Which is why my fridge is currently overflowing with three pounds of cherry tomatoes that I’m now eating like grapes.
One of the biggest markets in Busan is two subway stops away from my house and is also around the corner from the Mormon’s apartment. So when she asked if I could help her carry a table home that our director had brought to school for her, I agreed on the condition she’d show me around the market afterwards. Deal.
I should have known that by “help” she meant I’d be carrying the table myself; as if the two foreigners don’t get enough stares speaking English on the subway, I was now the white freak show with a table strapped to my back. The thing is this was not my first time carrying strange items on a subway: in New York, my roommate and I once trekked an eight-foot Christmas tree home via two different trains. But in New York, people stare for a minute and then move on with their lives. It seems once Koreans find you puzzling, they can gawk for hours. Fortunately, the ride was only two stops. Unfortunately, she lived on the fifth floor and the table didn’t quite fit in her tiny elevator. Twenty sweaty minutes later, we had deposited the table and were off to explore the market.
As she shops there almost daily, she confidently showed me down the never-ending maze of small alleys and winding streets, packed with tiny stalls selling everything. Intent on coming home with a plant, I walked into every flower store we saw looking for the ideal tiny green thing that would hopefully last longer than a week. Convinced that she knew the perfect plant store but unsure of how to get there (I know it was by the fish. But maybe it was past the grains?) we spent a good hour searching up and down every aisle.
Near the end of the fish market, I began to smell something pungent and familiar. While I was trying to figure out where I knew the smell from, we rounded the corner and I found out. Lining both sides of the narrow street were rusty cages with two or three dogs apiece, mostly lying down or asleep. The breeds didn’t look too familiar to me, however they were all big animals whose coats were long overdue for a brushing. But these dogs weren’t waiting to be groomed. Just next to the cages were refrigerated display cases, showcasing freshly killed dog meat.
When I moved to Korea, I had heard jokes about people eating dog, but somehow assumed that it was a tradition that had been done away with. Like foot binding or scrunchies. However, standing there staring at a row of dead dog paws confirmed that the custom apparently lives on and I was suddenly mentally reviewing every piece of meat I had eaten since my arrival, wondering if I had ever unwittingly consumed a poodle with my noodles.
Initially repulsed, I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to figure out why a dead dog made me want to alert the authorities while a dead pig meant bacon with my eggs. Every argument I threw out didn’t hold up for very long. Because dogs are pets, that’s why. Well, they’re only pets because we made them pets. In parts of India, aren’t cows pets? Yeah, but dogs are smarter than cows. But aren’t pigs smarter than dogs? Yeah, but bacon tastes really good. Mmmm. Bacon.
Until recently, dogs weren’t kept as pets in Korea, and for the most part it seems they widely prefer the small breeds for companions. These big dogs were raised to be killed, much like any farm animal. When I asked my kids about the practice, they all protested that the only people who like the meat were their grandparents, but when I asked if they’ve ever eaten dog, about half of the class raised their hands.
It seems that until I learn more Korean, I’m limited in the information I can find on the subject, as most English articles are just a tad biased: “Why It’s Wrong to Eat Dog,” or “Animal Rights: A History of Cruel Dog Eating in Asia.” From what I did find, about 10 percent of the country say they include the dish in their diet, generating a business that brings in close to a billion dollars annually. However, partly because the Korean government faced fierce opposition to the practice from Western groups during the 1988 Seoul Olympics and again during the 2002 World Cup held jointly in Korea and Japan, dog meat has no legal status in the country, which has caused the industry to move underground. While some critics deplore the inhumane conditions the animals are sometimes subjected to, they also argue against legalizing the industry, which would effectively end these conditions with regulations much like the ones imposed on the beef, pork and poultry businesses. It seems officially including dog on the country’s menu poses too much of an image problem with the West.
Still, unless you’re a militant vegan, it’s hard to defend one animal while you’re chewing on another’s leg. The cultural supremacy inherit in the argument is blatant; you shouldn’t eat that because we think it’s wrong. It’s all relative, and the clash of my suburban American upbringing and my current home in Korea made my head (and stomach) hurt.
Nevertheless, while I can defend the practice in principal, the thought of ordering dog soup still makes me a bit queasy. After yelling at the Mormon for not warning me I was about to be scarred for life, we soon found the hidden plant store and I came home the proud owner of a small green shrub with yellow flowers. That promptly died two days later.
