Drive By Bread Drop Off

I’m pretty happy with my work conditions here. The students seem fairly well adjusted, happy, and serious. No more than 5 pupils per class. And now I’m only working from 4:00 until 9:30 pm on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, and 8:00 pm until 10:30 pm on Sunday. So I’ve got the majority of my days free. Not a bad schedule. My only complaint, which is not really a complaint, just a tinge of sadness, is that since I don’t teach on Mondays and Thursdays I don’t see some of my students from last session. Namely, George. The class he was in was so wonderful. George, Sandy, and Ellen. They all wanted to be called by their “American” names. They were all around great kids. It was the highlight of my day to teach them.

As I was walking home, through the narrow, winding streets with no names, I heard a voice call out, “Lori!” I was quite startled. Almost no one here calls me by my name. If I’m teaching, the students call me “teacher.” If I’m walking down the street I’m called “miguk” (American) or “wegug saram” (foreigner). I turned around, but didn’t see anyone. A large black car pulled up beside me. The back window rolled down. I was having flashes of being abducted and I haven’t learned the word for “help!” yet. (Note to self . . .) From the window comes a shopping bag. Should I run? What’s going on here? If the person had not called my name I would have been sure I was being confused for someone else (a drug dealer, perhaps?). The bag is shaken at me animatedly. “Take it, teacher, take it.” Okay, calm down, first of all, whoever is holding the bag is speaking to me in English. Secondly, he’s calling me teacher. It must be a student. But which one? Just then the front window rolled down. I saw the cheeky smile of Pil Sang. “Hello, Rori Teacher.” I took the bag. George, what is this? “Bread, teacher. American bread. The kind you like.” I laughed and thanked him and they drove off. I don’t know how they knew I would be on the street, or if it was a random coincidence. Sometimes I truly wonder if my life is real . . .