Monday, February 27, 2006
Hope Springs Eternal
The Instructor gently takes my elbow and steers me into the corner of the dojang. "End of class . . . Dodgeball?"
For the past two weeks, my whole life has revolved around the kids' graduation ceremony. Last week I skipped Taekwondo class altogether. I don't know why--being here makes me forget I have a job. Every ounce of anxiety slips off my shoulders. I feel younger, invulnerable, untouchable.
But never immortal.
Watching my martial arts classmates, I can't help but envy them. Oh, I remember how I was at their age. Quicker, stronger, more flexible. My skin was as rough and dark as bark, my muscles were more pronounced and my bones could take a pounding.
When I leapt forward, I didn't worry about where I would land--twisted ankles and pulled hamstrings were faraway places. I wore purpling bruises with pride, cut my nails to the flesh and sported Bengay like perfume.
Now I can't make a jump without feeling it all the way up to my knees. When I wake up, I can feel last night's tumbling along my spine. When I rotate my hips for a roundhouse kick, I feel it--oh boy, do I feel it. At 24, my limbs protest. I'm too old to start over.
But when I put on my dobok and look in the mirror, the giddiness spreads from my chest to my toes and fingertips. For these two hours, I am a kid again--and although I can't take the beatings as well as I used to, at least I'm still willing to take them.
I laugh. Dodgeball, okay. "Haven't played that since fifth grade," I drawl. He doesn't understand my words, but he senses my reluctance. He rolls his eyes and tugs me to the mat.
Squaring off against a tall, lithe high adolescent, I grin sheepishly. Look at the little old woman playing with the kids. He looks me over, and his face sets in battle.
For a moment, I'm startled by his solemnity. Until I realize that he has found a worthy opponent.
Pia at 10:58 PM
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Silence
"So I was supposed to tell him tonight. You know, that I like-him-like-him. Put the ball in his court. Because why should I have to hold a torch for him for another month while he's oblivious? I just wanted to get the whole thing off my chest."
T and I lean back in our booth in what has become "our place." Small, dimly lit and uncrowded, its one of the only places in Itaewon where two young, pretty Asian-Americans can talk without getting manhandled by skeevy expats.
"But he isn't here tonight," T said.
"I know. And I was prepared for rejection, you know? I mean, he's the nicest guy I've met here, he's good-looking and artistic and I've had these intense feelings for him since I saw his bookcase. Christ, I just want to find something that's wrong with him."
"Guys like him are hard to find here."
"Guys like him are hard to find anywhere. The problem is that every girl he meets thinks the same thing. He gets hit on everywhere."
"So how were you going to tell him?"
I shuffled in my seat. "That's what's weird about it. I didn't have a plan. When I ask a guy out, I usually have some kind of strategy. I usually have a speech--and a backup speech--I'm a perfectionist with this stuff. I have to know exactly what to do. But this . . . I wasn't sure what was going to happen."
"Call him."
"Well, I can't now. He had sex last night."
"Wow, Pia. I'm sorry . . . But why don't you tell him anyway?"
"He's spending the whole day with her. K says he doesn't even like her, but she just arrived and she's scared shitless. So now he feels obligated to her. I guess I can't blame him. I would probably take care of her too. I guess I'm just disappointed.
"I can't judge him," I quickly added. "I mean, he's young, he's a foreigner and he's only going to be here for another nine months. But he told me he didn't want one-night stands anymore. He said he was embarrassed about that last time.
"But then he gets drunk and fucks a coworker!
"But who knows," I drawl, finishing my rum and coke. "Maybe he'll grow to like her. And then I can get over him. But I'll promise you this--the next time I find a guy like him, I'm just going to act on my gut and ask him out.
"I'm just going to put myself out there, because that's the only way I'm going to get over him, right?"
Pia at 9:34 AM
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Tramp
A tech-savvy friend recently suggested I sign up for an RSS feed. After more than three hours of painstaking research, I obliged.
The upside to having a news reader service is that you can check for updates on all of your chosen blogs on one page. I've just started adding my favorites to My Yahoo! and it's a time saver.
Also, you won't have to go through the hassle of uploading my page, only to see I've once again posted Disney lyrics and/or love letters to boys who don't return my emails.
You can subscribe by clicking the small, orange square on the sidebar. If you have any difficulties whatsoever, please comment as soon as possible.
Just don't ask me about RSS, Atom or news readers. I'm still clueless.
Pia at 11:29 PM
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Matronly
“Pia Teacher wants to be a writer. She wants to write books. What do you want to be when you grow up?” I asked a kindergarten class on one of those manic Mondays.
“I want to be a scientist. I want to make money.”
“I want to be a firefighter. I want to fight fires.”
“I want to be a salesperson.” (“Why?”) “I want to own a 7-11 in Canada!” (“Um. Okay.”)
“I want to be a Pia Teacher!” exclaimed Sandy, throwing her arms up in the air.
For every hundred 30-minute classes that make me want to pull out my own hair, there’s five seconds that make my heart pump madly in jubilation.
I have come close to quitting my job three times. I was tired of spending more than half my day in the office while other English teachers clocked in 20 hours a week. The first time I began to pack my bags, my parents talked me out of it. My supervisor cut a few hours off my schedule the second time around.
The third time, I stuck around for the kids.
Now those of you who know me personally are well aware of the fact that I don’t want children—ever. But over the past couple of weeks, my students have really grown on me.
There’s Sandy, my eager-to-please darling. Not only did she memorize her lines for the upcoming school plays in one weekend, but everyone else’s as well.
Then there’s Michael. He compensates for his tiny stature by kicking other students, running into walls and making up these crazy touchdown dances. I used to dread being in the same room as him. But now he’s taking in English like oxygen, and while he still stirs the class into a riot, just watching him respond to my questions in his two-minute periods of solemnity is a reward all in itself. (And I’ve joined in the dancing, much to the kids’ delight.)
But the first kid who ever warmed up to me was Larry. With his pale, perfectly round face, he has one of the most adorable tykes I’ve ever seen. I just want to pinch his cheeks whenever I see him. And his singing voice is shit but he becomes so absorbed during songs and dances that I can’t tell him to stop.
Larry also has the constant need to be cuddled. Whenever I enter his line of vision, he putters into me, jerks down my cheap acrylic sweaters and forces himself into my arms. If I’m reading a passage he’ll sit on my lap, and there’s this nook in between his shoulder and neck that’s perfect for my chin. He smells like milk and rice all the time.
One day I was pouring hot water for my third cup of coffee when I saw him sitting on the stairwell, his forehead on his knees. I set aside my drink and sat next to him, resting my hand on his back. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
And then he lifted his head, stared up at me with those slanted black eyes, and planted his face across my lap. I held him for five minutes, stroking his wet hair, all the while blinking back tears. I knew then that I loved him, that I had stupidly allowed myself to grow emotionally attached. And, to my despair, he loved me.
No matter how much I’ll need to leave, I won’t. At least not until my contract ends.
Last Friday, as I was handing out science kits to the kids, Michael bowed and said, “Thank you. Om-ma.” Mommy.
“Don’t call me that,” I said, lowering my face to conceal my grin.
But they had seen it. They all started chanting Omma, pulling at my arms and wrapping their arms around my legs. I was dragged to the ground, peppered with kisses, my carefully-prepared kits spilling on the floor. I laughed, sat up and held them close. “Don’t be a baby,” I chided, flicking Michael on the forehead.
Of course, I would never want to take any of my students home. Being their teacher is hellish enough.
But being their Pia Teacher—now that’s another story.
Pia at 1:46 AM
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Resolutions
New blouse. New heels. New purse. New earrings. Manicure. Push-up bra. All for a guy who didn’t even show up.
Spent the night at a friend’s place—left shortly after he crawled into bed and tried to spoon me.
“All you need is one good fuck,” he murmured as I shut the door behind me.
I stood at the subway station at five a.m., hair askew, mascara pooling under my eyes, underwire digging into my flesh, liquor lacing my breath. I stared out at a monk waiting across the tracks. I missed the temple.
I knew then this wasn’t the life for me—the smog, the booze, the bars, the shiny fingernails and pretty clothes. I’ve always longed for something else.
Somewhere in Korea, there’s a place for me. A place where I can see the stars at night, where the tall grass wavers in the crisp air and the rice fields flourish. A place with rows of mountains and dirt that will deliciously crumble under my feet. With beaches where I can sit back, watch the sun rise and meditate. Where I can sip a cup of green tea and accept my shortcomings, failures, successes and death.
A place with where I could grow and thrive and celebrate my life.
Just give me nine more months to finish my contract.
“How do you think Mom and Pa would react if I converted to Buddhism?” I asked my sister this morning.
Nine months. Then I'll go back.
Pia at 10:56 AM
Friday, February 17, 2006
Full Moon, Part One
The night before Lunar New Year’s Day, K rested his hand on my knee as we ate pancakes in the New Yorker's apartment.
“What are you doing?” I snapped. I was never in the mood for his drunken come-ons. I slapped him away and he laughed mockingly.
“You’re so stiff all the time. Just relax,” he said, taking my wrists.
Stocky and muscular, he outweighed me by at least 125 pounds. I dug my foot into his stomach and tried pushed him back. “I mean it. Stop!”
“You’re such a wildcat.” His hand moved up my thigh. I gritted my teeth and glared at him. For a second his face fell and he looked confused.
Throwing me aside, he retreated to his end of the sofa. “God, you’re such a bitch. I don’t even want to talk to you anymore.”
NYer returned as I was rubbing my wrists. He quickly lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “Am I interrupting something?”
“I want to go home,” I muttered, standing up. I was hit with a wave of nausea. I’d been drinking champagne, and in spite of eating six pancakes I was still intoxicated.
“’I want to go home,’” K whined. He stood up and jerked me off the sofa. “Come on, Princess.”
He pulled me along the street, past concerned elders and snickering teenagers. “You can’t treat me this way!” I finally shouted, tearing out of his grip. The street was wavering and as I staggered back I held his arm for support.
“I want to be treated like one of the guys,” I pleaded, locking his gaze. “You know you make me uncomfortable. You have to stop.”
“Your life must be so difficult,” he said. “Poor little princess with so many problems. You’re such a fucking virgin. Get over yourself.”
I didn’t know where we were. The subways stations were closed and my stuff was still at his apartment.
Back at his place, I assessed the situation as he undressed only a foot away from me. Clearly, I was too disoriented to get home on my own. My phone was dead and I was in an unfamiliar neighborhood. At the time, I felt like I had no choice but to stay.
“Just to show you what a gentleman I am,” he murmured, “I’m sleeping on the floor.”
Pia at 12:43 AM
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
A Thousand Words
Since this blog has been my only opportunity to write in the past few months, I've become rather obsessed about it. Does anyone else find themselves zoning out at work and class, thinking about your future entries and site counter? Trying to piece together a compelling first sentence, finding blog rings and comparing yours to the big dogs?
This site was originally created to assure my friends and family that I was alive and having adventures, but at some point it became therapeutic. At the same time, there are moments of anxiety--there are times when I regret past posts (like the one directly below) and wish I wasn't so nostalgic. I definitely think I could have done a better job with my writings on the temple--it was so much more than what you've read on the site, but I'm not a good enough writer to do it justice.
I think I need a ghost writer. Anyone interested?
Future plans: Gathering photos of the gorgeous landscape. I've wanted to insert pictures for a while but my camera's busted so I have to resort to begging friends. Also working on "Full Moon," an account of my stay in Seoul during the Lunar New Year weekend. And yes, you will know more about the guy.
In a few days, you might notice some of the names in my stories have changed. My entries have been rather detailed, so in order for me to protect myself it has become necessary to edit my posts. If you get confused, just look at previous entries. And feel free to email or comment on what you don't like about my writing. I always appreciate criticism.
Pia at 8:20 AM
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Hangover
I return from Seoul brokenhearted.
Why do I always fall hard for guys who won't feel the same way?
We talked all night, tucked into the corner of that seedy bar, leaning towards one another, our faces only inches apart. We talked about the ethnicities of past partners, cross-country dreams, our small town backgrounds, my shamelessly bad taste in music and your one-night stands. You spent an hour trying to teach me darts, holding my hand, and I purposely fucked myself up to stretch the lesson as long as possible.
I got drunk. You saved me and my friend from assholes in Itaewon and tried to sober me up by pressing water and tomatoes on me. You ditched our obnoxious friends, went with me to that shitty dance club and made all my girlfriends fall in love with you. You put up with my awkward dance moves and my passionate defense of graphic novels.
What is wrong with me? I'm intelligent, articulate, attractive and witty. I know that, 99 percent of the time, I could get any guy I want. But you're different. You're the only guy I've met here who hasn't showered me with praise, who hasn't told me I was the one, who hasn't dived in for the kiss.
You were the perfect gentleman, and all I wanted was for the monster to emerge. I wanted you to corner me in the restroom and assert yourself. I wanted to give in.
But now you know. Just one long, anguished sigh as we embraced. Just one long, wistful look as you left. And all you could do was laugh, your eyes sad. And I furiously blinked back tears. I could feel my pride slipping and defiance pulling apart.
In those few seconds I knew we'd never have this night again. You see, I can't be just friends with you. No matter how mind-blowing our conversations are and how pretty you are and how much we both care, I can't let myself pine away for you.
That would hurt too much. And I have a low tolerance for pain.
Pia at 9:44 AM
Friday, February 10, 2006
Rush
I love how I can leave work in tears, start my Taekwondo class 30 minutes late and strut home feeling like I have complete control of my life.
Pia at 12:29 AM
Monday, February 06, 2006
Changes
Tell me how you like it.
Pia at 7:47 PM
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Daughter In Temple
Wherever I go in South Korea, there is one constant in the sky—neon red crosses, burning alongside storefronts and skyscrapers, in the big city and tiny suburbia, silent and deafening at the same time.
They remind me of my lapsed state, of the days I wished I no longer believed, but knew that in spite of my words and my absence I would remain faithful.
The last time I went to mass was after my father was diagnosed with cancer last August. I made a promise to myself and God that if he took care of my father I would practice the faith again. But I couldn’t stick with it. As much as I love Pa, I chose to burrow myself under the covers and get an hour more of sleep.
So I was surprised when I actually embraced waking up at four in the morning to meditate in that small Buddhist temple in the south. I especially enjoyed “walking meditation” up the mountains, which ended with a visit to a folk village and rice fields. As the head instructor asked me questions about California, I took in the beauty and simplicity of the countryside and its people.
“This is where I should live,” I told R after W left for Seoul. The head priest had invited us to join him for his horse riding lesson outside the temple, but watching him trot in a circle got old real fast. So my new Canadian friend and I passed the time by exploring a nearby lake.
“I don’t think they let women become monks here,” R said.
“I wasn’t talking about the temple. Although it would be exciting, wouldn’t it? It’s hard, obviously,” I twittered, tossing a rock at the frozen water. “They do the same exact thing every day, and I would think that would get boring. But they have such an appreciation for every single thing in their lives.
“I feel like I could have that here,” I sighed, turning to her. “It’s strange, because I’m not a religious person. Well, I was Catholic, and I was devoted, but . . . Anyway, it’s something I’ve always felt conflicted about. I don’t like going to church, but whenever someone criticizes Catholicism, I have to defend it.”
“I know how you feel,” R said. “My mom’s a Sunday school teacher, so Christianity was a major part of my life. In college I decided it wasn’t for me. But I don’t think it’s as oppressive as some people think.”
“Religion only restricts your life if you let it,” I said. “But I think all religions are good natured. It just depends on how you interpret yours, you know what I mean? The monks here spend most of their lives in the temples, but they look so liberated. It makes me want to . . . Whatever,” I laughed, standing up.
Pulling her off the ground, I declared, “I don’t want to convert or anything. I’m a shitty Catholic, and I’d be a shittier Buddhist.”
After R and I took turns riding, the head priest took us to a pagoda that the monks visited often for their exercises. As we crossed a bridge over a frozen river and climbed a rocky hill, he turned back to me and asked, “Pia, when will you marry?”
To hear a question like that from a monk startled me and for a moment I couldn’t respond. Then I said, “I don’t think I’ll ever marry.”
He looked back at me, looking confused. I sighed deeply. “I enjoy my solitude,” I explained. “I enjoy my achievements, and I need them to be my own.”
He didn’t seem to understand what I was saying, and I wouldn’t have been able to explain. I hadn’t told the entire truth, and I’m pretty sure declaring my resentment for men would have made him more dumbfounded.
The pagoda, consisting of two stone pillars and a fire pit, had been partially destroyed from a fire decades ago. As I gazed up at the ruins, I instantly thought of my father and how the seemingly sturdiest of structures can crumble.
But even though the pagoda had deteriorated, it was still worshiped. It would never be what it was, but its admirers did not deny its imperfections or attempt to repair the damage. They simply accepted the destruction and rolled with the change.
*
On New Year’s Eve I sat up from my slumber a quarter before four, spitting snot into dried balls of toilet paper. Sliding the door open and slipping on my shoes, I stumbled out of my room and looked out at the mountain. The temple rooms were lit, their windows orange and flickering. I leaned over the railing and looked out, inhaling the frozen mountain air that splintered in my lungs.
I would be leaving after the morning meditation. I was sorry to go so soon, especially since they would be meditating on the beach in 24 hours to ring in 2006. But I also knew that the longer I stayed, the harder it would be to leave.
Fifteen minutes later R and I trod up the mountain and snuck into the meditation room, where the chanting had already begun. To my surprise, the majority of people were under 30, which made me wonder how many visitors had just converted. Had they found the same thing I did?
Painted on the west wall, four naked Buddhas sat in various stages of meditation, their eyes low and without a worry in the world. The monks, their heads newly shaven, were dressed in cranberry and chanted in low tremors.
After we completed our bows everyone sat facing the walls and began to meditate. I can’t say I was totally into it. I’m not accustomed to sitting cross-legged for extended periods of time, and my lower body was screaming and falling asleep simultaneously. But there was also that tiny nook in the back of my mind that reflected on the past year’s occurrences.
During this time a year ago, my entire life was up in the air. I’d just been laid off by a dictator who’d gone out of his way to crush me with his lewd invitations; I’d tossed aside my lifelong dream of writing in New York and I’d moved back in with my parents.
I had taken TESOL courses on a lark—I hadn’t considered teaching abroad since college, and I only signed up to appease my parents and buy more time to figure out what I really wanted to do.
Now I was in Korea, and while I was having a wonderful time, there was still that part of me that was a small town Pollyanna—that naïve romantic perfectly content burrowing herself under piles of blankets as she read comic books, who suffered from a major case of redneck pride when she drove past the Sunsweet factory on her way to Wal*Mart and felt as if the entire world was just waiting for her to jump right in.
And while I knew I could not stay in that mindset forever, I yearned for that young idealist. I wanted to believe in the best of people. And most importantly, I wanted to believe that even though I was flawed, there was a something that made all the trials and mistakes worthwhile.
I left the meditation room with collapsible limbs and a weary mind. R had to grab my arm and pull me along. When we reached the bottom of the mountain, I looked up and took a long look in the direction of the stone Buddha gazing down at us with that tiny, knowing smile. I couldn’t see him in the dark, but I could feel a flickering in my mind as I looked on.
“Wait,” I said, prying her hand off me. “I can’t go.”
“If you miss the train, you’ll get stuck,” R warned. “You’ll have to wait ‘til New Years to get another one. And it will be a bitch trying to get into Seoul tomorrow, believe me. Pia, you can come back to the temple as much as you like.”
We left. The taxi ride was filled with the soothing sound of Buddhist chanting over the radio. As I sipped coffee, I mused over the fact that it would be a long, long time before I would revisit the temple. And that wasn’t so terrible.
The only thing I would truly miss was the passion I’d felt for that miniscule corner of the world. I would go out and make new memories here, and it would not be long before I forgot the meditation, the hike and the monks. After all, I just wasn’t the religious type.
But for two days and two nights, I was devoted. And that had been really, really nice.
*
When I returned home, I looked in the mirror. Those black rings still hung below my eyes, magnified by the harsh bathroom lights. I had spent the past two days without makeup or a shower, but there was an earthiness in my appearance—coupled with a vulnerability that made me cringe involuntarily.
After my shower I plucked a bottle of foundation off the counter and pressed the liquid into my flesh until all the cracks disappeared.
M ducked into the bathroom. “We’re drinking in two hours,” she said. “How was your trip?”
I tore myself from the mirror and sighed. “I think I’m a vegetarian.”
*
Clad in a sequined top, tight jeans and three-inch heels, I found myself in Geckos, a popular bar in the expatriate sanctuary of Itaewon.
“The guys here are cute,” E said, as a dozen pairs of eyes swung in our direction. I lowered my own and slumped into my chair.
I have this queer little love-hate affair with Itaewon. During the day, it’s nice to walk around when you’re feeling overwhelmed as a foreigner. Two-thirds of the inhabitants are non-Korean, and everything’s written in English.
On the other hand, nights there feel like a cheap cop-out, like eating at McDonalds.
The men—whether they’re foreign or native—are aggressive. And as a skinny, English-speaking and Korean-looking female, I can’t help but feel like I have a huge bull’s-eye on my ass.
On that night I had ditched a previous get-together with K and D. While I had enjoyed our time together at Osaka (for the most part), I was wary to meet them while they were drunk. But at the same time, I had thought of them often. So when K called I told him where we were and invited them to join us.
An hour before midnight, K slid into the chair next to me. He was accompanied by his friend, a New Yorker who had a drunken grin plastered on his face.
“Where’s D?” I asked between mouthfuls of soy enchilada.
“He threw up all over Seoul. I had to take him back to his hotel. Poor guy,” he sniggered, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “He thinks he’s in love with you.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I muttered.
Meanwhile, M grumbled to NYer: “If your friend doesn’t leave Pia alone, I’m going to punch him in the face.” What a woman! NYer laughed and stared into space. Since my main objective was to avoid the K’s leering paws, I didn’t pay that much attention to his American buddy. (That would change.)
“Can I get you a drink?” K asked, touching my knee.
I picked up his hand and dropped it on the table. “I’ve given up alcohol.”
“So now you’re a sober vegetarian? You have to live a little, Pia.”
I gave him the cold shoulder and ordered another coffee. Eventually he got the hint and swaggered off, but not before planting a wet kiss on my cheek and telling me to loosen up.
After his departure, T, who had joined our group shortly after our arrival, snickered at me. “You’ve been breaking hearts all night.”
“It’s my calling,” I said, grinning. I’d been attracted to this tall, roguishly handsome writer since we’d met.
He took out a pencil, scribbled a note on a receipt and passed it to me.
Tell me about yourself.
It felt like such an adolescent thing to do. I wrote back.
I’m nerdy! What else?
He laughed.
That was clear the moment I saw you.
I know! I’d like to put it on business cards.
Meet me in the bathroom in four minutes.
He stood up and left.
“Is something wrong?” M asked, after I’d been caught staring at the table for the past five minutes.
I jerked on my jacket and scarf. “I’m leaving. Now.”
I pushed my way through the singing hoards into the streets of the appropriately-named Hooker Hill. Leaning against the railing, I realized that I was more religious than I thought. There would be a day I would drop Catholicism completely, but there were still things that I considered sacred.
I straightened myself and flipped open my phone. “Happy New Year, Pa. How was the chemo?”
“It was long, but I’m okay.”
He sounded so weary at the other end. I have to admit I was grateful I couldn’t see him. “Do you feel any side effects?”
“My fingertips hurt a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. You’re celebrating in Seoul?”
“It’s so beautiful here. All of the department stores are lit, from head to toe. There are opera singers performing at the temples, and everyone is so nice to each other. I wish you were here. I . . . I wish I was there for you.”
“Don’t feel guilty, Pia. It makes your mother and me so happy to hear your stories. Korea has been good to you, and when you’re happy, we’re happy . . . Have your adventures. Then come back to us.”
I felt a lump in my throat. I would never be comfortable with my father’s new reflective attitude towards life. “I prayed for you.”
“I know, baby. But don’t forget to pray for your mother and sisters. Thank God for the time we have together. Be grateful for all the gifts He has given us.”
I shuffled my feet in the muddy pavement. “I’d better go.”
As I snapped my phone shut, I could hear "American Pie" over the loud speakers, drifting into my ears and covering my bared shoulders.
Did you write the book of love
And do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so
Do you believe in rock n roll
Can music save your mortal soul . . .
Pia at 6:50 PM
