Dispatches - October 18, 2009

In the previous post, I introduced 'Chris' – a mischievous second-year student who masterminded a racy entry for my 'Dream Middle School' lesson. I've remarked before that, while my age may betray me, I sometimes don't feel all that removed from middle school. As a teacher, I can laugh at some of the shenanigans the boys scheme up because I used to be a middle school boy myself. Perhaps relating more to philosophical conviction, I also let kids be kids. The agency of adulthood we all long for in our youth certainly has its moments, but that agency comes replete with problems. And the problems particular to adulthood – whether due to enhanced implications or our own enhanced awareness – always seem more dire. Though I understand the self-imposed, never-ending escalation of preparing the current generation to achieve ever-greater and ever-earlier success, I don't agree with it. When I tabulate the irreplaceable innocence of youth – cliché but true – I arrive at a cost much too high.

But I digress. Part of being in touch with my inner child – some would wryly call this my immaturity – means that I recognize the social dynamics I see unfolding. Watching Chris bully his peers and watching them respond – for better or for worse – brought back memories from my own middle school days. A minority of those memories are not particularly pleasant, but I certainly was not terrorized in my elementary education. Rather the more profound impact from watching my boys has been self-evaluation. I wonder where I would rank on the social scale of Se Kwang Middle School. I wonder how I would react to someone like Chris. I wonder if each generation is destined to pose these – and similar – questions. And if so, I wonder the purpose of it all.

I tend to do that a lot these days. Korea has challenged my notion of 'identity'. In the most superficial sense of the word I submit my markedly different appearance. At a core interpretation, my sense of self-worth. The former, usually manifested in stares from strangers, rarely registers as more than my amusement. But with the latter – as is usually the case – I am my own worst enemy.

Leaving the States – and the community, comfort, and ultimate complacency that comes with accruing personal history – can be liberating. Hiding behind the guise of an unknowing foreigner can excuse someone like me from quite a bit of the social responsibility not quite as easily shirked by a native.

Personal and shared history, however, also provide some level of comfort. And thus the cost born by the latter notion of identity. A blank canvas has left me quite able to sketch almost any rendition of Cornelius. But the ability to so quickly erase all I had outlined before has left me wondering the true substance of what was once there. I strongly suspect many of these musings are strongly influenced by my struggles with faith and doubt. Even so, Korea has catalyzed my introspection. A blog about an exchange experience in Korea is not the place – nor am I qualified – to seek answers about religion and existentialism, but the questions remain.

I remember it being high school – the middle school metaphor carries the anecdote only so far – when I did a science fair project that relied on a catalyst. The only thing I remember from this project – perhaps the entire year of tenth-grade chemistry – is that a catalyst facilitates a reaction without itself changing. When I wrote above that '...Korea has catalyzed my introspection', I suppose I had two meanings in mind. The obvious being that Korea – a culture far older than my own – certainly isn't the variable in my Cornelius equation.

Taking this one step further, I arrive at the second: I cannot fairly rest blame with Korea. Instead I rest blame squarely with Korea's food. Just kidding...but I wanted to make sure you were still paying attention. My ongoing battle with kimchi and octopus aside, what Korea does – or rather does not – provide are the distractions of the familiar. More and more frequently I am faced only with myself. My only distraction – an unfamiliar future. Two variables.

I lied – I remember two things from chemistry: experiments with two variables yield no reliable results. In this life – this experiment – I hypothesize that discovering one will lead to the other. Which I ought to solve for first is a question unto itself and, unto itself, still beyond my reach. But as long as the life in question is my own, there is sure to be a catalyst.