"Freedom" from Wayside School is Falling Down

Louis Sachar is great. The Wayside School books are written for children, but the writing is excellent.

In this story, Myron sees a bird outside of his classroom window, and realizes that the bird is free, while Myron, trapped in the disciplined confines of elementary school, is not.

Inspired, Myron doesn't follow his classmates up to class when the bell rings after lunch, but instead goes down to the dark, spooky basement of the school. There he finds two men, one bald and one with a mustache, who ask him why he's there, and when he replies that he just wanted to be free, they ask him if he wants to be free or safe.

They give him a contract, written in a foreign language, to sign if he wants to be free. He signs it, then goes back upstairs and sits on the floor of his classroom, where he isn't scolded for not following the rules.

The choice between freedom and safety isn't a new idea, obviously. But this story encapsulates it beautifully and simply. Myron sees freedom, then ventures into the dark, spooky unknown: the basement. He signs a contract that he doesn't understand, and only then, after all this uncertainty, is he free. Although we can assume there will be more uncertainty to come.

For me, recently I haven't even realized how trapped I've become. It isn't the bell ringing to tell me I'm late, or my name written on the board under DISCIPLINE, or report cards, or a list of class rules. These are all simple, clear restraints. The more difficult restraints to break are the invisible ones, the ones that we often create ourselves.

My restraints are my job, my girlfriend, but most importantly my own mind (which intensifies these first two restraints). I have more free time than most people, but I have depressingly few ideas of what I want to do with it. At my job, I have the specter of CCTV watching over me in my classroom, but really, I'm free to teach my own classes as long as I cover the material. I trap myself simply by telling myself I shouldn't do things, which has lead to me not even being able to come up with new ideas.

In many ways I think I want to be safe more than free. I want to have the safety of knowing I'm making the right decisions. I want to have the safety of people's approval. I want to have the safety of knowing the future. I want to have the safety of knowing what I want.

No one likes to feel trapped, but how to we continue to live on without having anything to funnel us towards a direction?

LeBron James

He looked around. He saw how other players switched teams to get what they wanted; a new city to play in, a new manager to play for, new teammates to play with, and usually, (although this didn’t matter to him, since he was the highest paid player in the league) more money to play for. It didn’t matter for them, and as long as there was no violation of their contracts, no one much cared; it’s part of the game. Fans know that players change teams. They might be sad when a favorite player leaves, but they don’t stay sad for long; they just find a new favorite player.

What he didn’t realize was that he wasn’t like the other players. He was one of the best, some would say the best. But what made him even more important, what made his situation different from others, is that his team had become him. His team wasn’t just a hollow shell that he was drafted into, and could leave to find another. His team is the town he was born and raised in. The team of the people he grew up around. Not just a franchise. It was something more akin to a family than a company.. And betraying your family is much different from betraying the company you work for.

The lines are murky. Because although a team is kind of a company, it’s also kind of a part of the town. A team is just “kind of” a company because it has fans. Because no matter how poorly the company does, there will still be customers (fans). Why? Because that team represents the town where they reside. It is a source of pride for its residents. However, those fans who live and die for their team sometimes forget that it’s just a company, and can disappear. In fact, “teams” in the sense of the players who compose a group that plays other groups of players, are ephemeral, brought together only by the name on their shirts, the stadium they play in, and the families who have watched them for years (although these things change as well). Players have shelf lives. A player’s career can end in any game. Even if they stay at the same team for their whole career, they have only played in a fraction of the “teams” (groups of players) that have represented the “team”(name on the jersey). So whether a player plays on a team for one game or ten years, for the fans of the next generation, he will just be a highlight reel and a history lesson.

Where does that leave our King? It leaves him baffled and his fans incensed because no one clearly marked the lines for them. Who do the fans cheer for? The team or the players that make it? Who do the players play for? For their team (which is ephemeral), for the money (which fluctuates based on the market), for the fans (who can be fickle), or for themselves.

This morning I slept in and when I woke up, a few hours of delaying the day let me slip into a hole of depression that I couldn’t dig myself out of before I went off to work.

It starts when I don’t do something right away in the morning. Which is hard, especially because most days I have nothing “real” scheduled until about 2:30, when I leave for work. I have to discipline myself, because the only person I really meet before work is my girlfriend, and we don’t even really do anything together before work on most days.

So why do I even need to discipline myself? Why can’t I just wake up late, fart around a little bit, and then head off to work?

Because I’m mortally afraid of time. I’m literally scared to death that if I waste one morning, and then a few more mornings, I will have wasted time that I can’t get back. Time that I could have been working out, to make myself healthy and attractive. Time I could have been reading, to broaden my ideas. Time I could have been doing anything to make myself a person who can be considered successful.

The problem is that I’m alone in the morning. There’s no direction for me; the directions are limitless. Should I go running? Should I read a book? (At home or in a park or in a coffee shop) Should I call my parents? Should I clean my apartment? Should I start writing something?

I’ve never spent so much time alone before coming to Korea. Here I have so much time to think about what I should be doing, and mulling over decisions that I’ve made (which always leads to regretting decisions that I’ve made).

I’m not the kind of person who can be alone. I need a group. I need to have someone to get up with me and run at 8 am. I need a TaeKwonDo class where I can improve my flexibility, relieve my stress, and not have to worry about working out. I need a schedule that I don’t change around every other week.

But do I really need these things? That’s my other problem. What am I even building towards? (That’s the biggest problem). Some days I tell myself that I’m going to get in shape. Some days I tell myself I’m going to devote myself to reading. Some days to writing. Other days to learning Korean. And then I end up telling myself at some point that these things aren’t that important, that I shouldn’t stress too much about them, and I let them slip away. Self-discipline, without a definite, important goal, is impossible.

I ask myself almost everyday: what do I want? Of course I’ve came up with no answer. It leads me to ever-mounting stress, especially because soon I have to decide what kind of jobs I’ll apply for in America. I’ll hate myself if I choose a job just because it pays money. And I’ll hate myself if I don’t choose a job due to indecision. The missing piece is the most crucial one: desire. How can I live another day if I don’t have a reason for even waking up?

Hookah Bar and Ice Cream

I’m sitting with her in an underground hookah bar. It’s dark, with a few orange lights. We’re sitting in an enclosed booth, with only the upper part of our torsos showing above the table. She complains though, that we’re the only booth that doesn’t have a beaded screen surrounding it. We each order our drinks and then look around at everything in the dark bar except for each other’s eyes.  I make a comment about a boring piece of the décor; she complains about the hard seat and we both take a few pillows from an empty booth nearby. I think about how old she is and why she’s here with me. She should be getting married; she should already be married. I’m not nearly ready enough to start thinking about marriage.

I talked to my ex-girlfriend the day before: “Drinks mean sex,” she advised. My date had suggested a bar, as well as the cocktails we had with dinner.

We talk about what we each do after work. I say I read or go to Tae Kwon Do. She says she watches TV or plays with her little dog. We take a sip of our drinks.

I ask about her job again because I didn’t really understand what she does. She says she works with people who have problems, and analyzes their art. Not for how good it is, but to see how to help them. She decides to use me as an example to describe what she means. She draws a shape that she can’t come up with the name for, but then after some explaining I realize it’s a fish bowl. She tells me to pick a relationship, any relationship, maybe my friends, or my work, or my family, or me and her, anything. I pick my family. Despite actually harboring some shame for my family, it’s usually a safe topic. So she tells me to draw my family, as fish, in the fish bowl. I think it’s funny that, with her accent, she says “fish-ee.”

So I draw. While drawing, I think about not thinking about it too much. When I’m done, she explains what she sees. She says my family is close. She guesses that I’m the favorite in my family and that I look out for my younger brother. Most of her hypotheses are pretty good, when they’re not they’re pretty close. It’s a perfect time to talk about my family so I do a little bit. There’s six of us so there’s a decent amount to talk about. Five other short, small-talk introductions: “my sister’s an engineer, she lives in Washington, D.C. and we used to fight when we were younger” “my youngest brother’s in high school. He’s not so good in school so I worry about him sometimes.” I start to miss my family as I’m telling her about them, and I tell her that I miss my family. She smiles and giggles nervously and says “OK”. In that moment I want to be home more than anything, but I’m also glad I’m there with her, glad that she made me realize how much I miss them, even though I tell myself I don’t even like them sometimes.

We finish our drinks and I pay. I paid for dinner too. On our way back towards the busses and subway she offers to get ice-cream. The first shop doesn’t have any, so we go to a 24-hour convenience store. There are really young college kids there eating instant noodles under the bright fluorescent lights. She wants to buy the ice cream and I just shuffle behind her, looking at the floor. Out of the corner of my eye I think I see the college kids facing us and laughing or at least smiling. I don’t want to look at her in this store.

She gives me my ice cream and we walk down the street a little further. I need to catch the train soon because the subway and busses will stop running soon. She tries to help me figure out which bus I need to take, but eventually she gives up because it seems too complicated. I decide to take the subway instead. I realize it’s time to say goodbye to her. Maybe I won’t see her again. She’s nice but seems sad. I’m disappointed in myself that I can’t make her happy, that I can’t bring myself to make her happy. Her face is looking up at mine and our eyes meet for an instant. It’s time to say goodbye and I lean in, just giving her a hug. I still feel like everyone around us is looking at us. I feel her sigh during our short embrace, and I notice her sad smile as I walk away.

Encounter at Haeundae

It's 8 am and I'm watching the city wake up. Joggers go by, drunk foreigners, with beers from the night before stumble by. I'm reading, looking up occasionally at the crowd.
Then, when my eyes are in my book, I hear two just two heralding "clip-clop" footsteps, like taps of a fork on a champagne glass, and there's a big man in dressy clothes and a vest sitting next to me. I smile, but don't look up. There's other benches open; he's sitting right next to me. Our legs are touching. After a few moments, three hurried English phrases come out. "Hello. Thank you. Glad to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too."
He offers me a cigarette and I decline. He lights his own and smoke and ash are blown onto my shirt and book. There's no one at any of the other benches. I ignore it. He laughs at a group of people walking by and I think they're his friends. But they don't notice him, and he stays seated. Eventually he says "What's this?" in Korean and points to the word "precious" in my book. I tell him how to say it and he writes it in the air with his finger while looking up.
A few minutes later he says "Thank you" again and walks away. As he's walking he lets out the same loud laugh he did before.
I put away my book and start writing.
Later, another man comes up to me. He asks me where I'm from in Korean and I tell him. He shows me pictures of his wife, and his son. He says how beautiful his wife is, and then skips quickly past a photo of his son. He shows me a picture of his house and says, in English, "in the country."
We exchange the same standard Korean small talk: how long I've been in Korea, how old I am, how long I'll be here, where I live, if I have a girlfriend. He says that he sometimes comes to Seoul because he owns a hotel there, in Itaewon. I tell him, in Korean, that there are many foreigners there, and he laughed nervously.
He tells me he's in the hotel behind us and I guess he's up before the rest of the family, his businessman body clock making him get up before everyone else.
After awhile of us both looking at the sea, thinking about different things, he gets a phone call. "My wife..." he says, and I smile and nod before I realize that he's still thinking of the rest of the sentence. He starts, then stops saying something a few times, looking with a tense face over the ocean.
"Special day" he says finally. "My wife special day." He says a few words in Korean that I don't understand. He looks a little troubled. "You. My wife. Special Day." And points at the hotel.
I realize I'm being invited to something. I've been invited by Koreans to some events just because they're friendly and welcome foreigners, but this time it seems a little strange.  it seems like something personal and I don't want to intrude. I try to think of a way to tactfully decline. I put on a slightly confused expression so that he either explains more or gives up on me.
"My wife very young. Not me. My wife thirty five. Young."
Then I realize. My heart starts beating a little faster now that I understand.
"I want for my wife." He bites his lower lip nervously. "You."
"I want...present." I still wear a blank expression, waiting to hear more. As I wait and listen, I start to consider it. My heart is pounding. I hope he doesn't notice.
"I'm the present?" I ask. He nods and bites his lip, clenches his face, and smiles nervously.
"Nobody know. You foreigner. Korean-" and then he put his fingers around his eyes like binoculars. "But you, no."
I think of the experience. I've never done anything like it. It's 8:30 in Busan, I'm here alone, and nobody will know if I don't want them to. I haven't had many chances like this before. Eventually, his wife calls again.
"Come. Just 'chingu aksu'" he says while doing a handshake motion. He's saying what I'm thinking, "Just come up and meet, see what you think." So I do.
I pick up my bag and follow him. He scurries ahead of me on our way to the hotel; he quickly presses the close-door button in the elevator button in the elevator. We go to the executive floor. His room is the first one. We go in. I don't immediately see his wife, but when I do, she looks like a mom. Certainly older than me, but younger than him, thin, tall, dressed maturely. They start talking in Korean and I only understand a little. Suddenly he throws her on the bed and lifts up her dress, but she puts it down, squeals, and gets up. Settled down again, they talk more, with him only translating a little. I try to pick out parts of the conversation and hear "friend" from him and "what kind of friend?" from her. I only wanted to do this if they both wanted to.
At one point he grabs her and pulls her into me, moving our hands and arms into an embrace as we both nervously try to resist. They talk more after settling down again. I think she's saying she wants to have a meal. I don't know if she means with me or if she's just hungry. I'd like to get to know her better, she seems nice. I can't decide if she's just nervous, and feels strange, but really wants to do it, or if she actually doesn't want to. Again we're pulled together by him; this time I try to keep my hand away as he pulls it to her breast. After settling down again, I'm told that the family's coming soon. I try to go but he's blocking the door and pushes me back inside. They're talking again and he asks me, "Hagwon teacher?"
"No," I say in Korean, "middle school teacher."
She laughs, touches my arm and covers her face. She can't believe it. "And he speaks Korean?" she says. "A little," I say. She laughs incredulously again, covering her mouth falling back on the bed shocked. She's really nice, I think. Then she talks to me in English.
"Crazy" she says, pointing at her husband. He decides there's no time. We should meet at the hotel he owns near Itaewon sometime. I nervously stall and ask questions, trying to decide if I want to give him my phone number and agree to a second meeting. Again I decide I don't get many chances like this, and put my number into his phone. He seems glad. He roughly pulls my backpack, still strapped to me, towards him, and thrusts a package of blueberries inside as a present. "Thank you," he says. "Sorry," she says.
And finally I can go.
I walk back down the beach It's 9 o'clock. I see families, old women, joggers.

Waiting for an elevator at the biggest department store in the world

"Hey man, where are you going?" I hear, and turning around, I see a Gyopo.
"The bookstore-"
"-bookstore bookstore Yeah that's fifth floor What are you doing here man Meeting your friends here Where are your friends man?"
"Oh actually I'm here alone, I'm from Seoul, just taking a break-"
"-Oh that's cool man I lived in Seoul too I live here now but I lived in Seoul Where do you live in Seoul?"
"Up north. Dobong-gu-"
"-Do you know like which subway stop?"
"Ssangmun-"
"Ssangmun ssangmun No I don't know that."

He's blinking a lot and I realize he's really strange. I feel awkward that I've already told him so much about myself in such a short period of time.

"So do you have a girlfriend man?"
"No"
"Why not man Just not interested Do you like Korean girls or American girls?"
"Yeah, I just don't have one, I don't know why. Do you?"
"Yeah an American girl-"
"-You don't like Korean girls?"
"I want to marry an American girl move to America get a good job at a good company you know."
The elevator arrives, cutting our conversation short.
"Hey man do you Facebook Do you have Facebook?"
"Yeah-"
"-Add me on Facebook man"
"Or you can add me. My name's really unique-"
He shook his head quickly with his eyes shut "No no man just add me My name's James Kim and my profile picture's Brad Pitt From Fight Club."
"Alright man sounds good."

When I got back to Seoul I looked him up. His profile was there, with exactly the picture I was expecting. I have some Facebook friends who I've talked to even less than James Kim. I have only a few Facebook friends who have asked me to ask them to be friends.

I didn't add James Kim as a friend.

Shit 5/5/2010

I rushed to TaeKwonDo to find out it was canceled for children's day. I thought about taking the bus home and going for a run, just to get some exercise, or to finish the lesson plan I should've done already, but I decided to walk the way back and spend some time thinking about my life.
I noticed how pretty the way home at night was, with the trees and the streetlights. And I was alone, just the darkness and the green trees lit up and the street with a few cars.
But then, from the walking and my dinner, I started to feel like I had to shit. I thought about taking the next bus but decided not to, hoping I would find somewhere to take a shit along the way or that it would pass. It didn't pass, and it didn't look like there were bathrooms for a while. I started to think about a post I had read on an online forum about a guy who had irritable bowl syndrome, or some condition where apparently you had to shit a lot. I thought I might have the same things, but then I realized that I only have to shit really bad when I've had a filling dinner and a long walk right after.
I remembered a response to the bowel syndrome guy's post saying that Korea had a lot of public restrooms now after the World Cup.
I started thinking for a second, if maybe I can think about my future to distract me. It didn't work, so I slowed down my walking and thought about each step, clenching my butt cheeks and trying to keep my insides from sloshing around and bothering my stomach even more. I saw a few places but they didn't look promising. In Korea, or Seoul at least, you want to find a multi-story building with a few businesses in it; there's usually a shared bathroom in the stairwell.
I didn't see any of these kinds, just single story restaurants and car places and places I didn't know what they were for. Then I see one, but it looks dark. I might just have to keep clenching until I get home. It was Children's Day; not much was open. I glanced inside the stairwell briefly and without confidence. There I saw, at the top of the stairs, a small illuminated square of white porcelain.
I shuffled up to the small bathroom, checked if it was for a man or a woman: It was unisex. I checked for toilet paper: it's there. Then I look down at the toilet in the only stall. It's a squatter. Whatever, it'll make a good story I thought for half a second as I desperately dropped my pants, closing the stall door after. Shit gushed forth. I found the flusher, still trying to catch my bearings, got some toilet paper, considered how to use it, then someone walked in. He used the urinal and I decided to wait til he was gone to avoid an awkward foreigner moment. But he just left, locked the door, and turned off the light. I gave a quick wipe, flushed, picked up my bag, then felt the walls for a lightswitch. None. I tried to open the door, and managed to since you could unlock it from the inside. I turned on the light switch outside the room and washed my hands and left. The owner locking up for the night might be confused in the morning to see the door open, but why didn't he notice I was in the stall. Fuck it. I didn't care.
So then, with a few minutes away from my apartment, I thought about my life. I didn't want to do this forever, maybe not even another year. But what would I do if I didn't do this? This is fine for now though, maybe one more year. But then I thought I'm not getting any younger, why do something I don't like if I'm not getting experience doing something I want to do. What job will I find where I can say "I love my job" like a cop does in movies when he catches a bag guy? I should decide soon and not waste any more of my life.
And then I couldn't remember if I'm 24 or 25. That's not so old, either of them, but also not so young. It's probably time to make some sort of life decision. Then, when I got back to my apartment, I remember I'm 23, my Korean age is 25.