I'm a Terrible Person (Most of the Time)

by James Smith

My teacher lore, which I fear to post here for the possibility that I find my way, once again, onto the No Fly List through name alone carries me through an interaction with one of my youngest students -- a privileged girl who had just returned to her Korean homeland from three years abroad in Thailand where, essentially, she lived like a princess. This was a tough pill to swallow -- for years I lived in South Korea, teaching outside of the main city because I felt that even those who cannot afford to go up into Seoul deserve a competent English language instructor; I spent weekends volunteering with North Korean refugees to provide them the basic tools they needed to function. Serving this young student hearkened back to my first year in South Korea teaching at a high-end kindergarten when a five-year-old snapped at me during lunch and said, "More soup" and successfully ended my tenure at that school when I decided submitting my resignation would be more reasonable and less work than razing the entire nation to the ground.
      That's my bad. If prejudice goes down, it can certainly go up, too. I struggled to remind myself of this and fought day by day to keep it at the forefront of my mind. Moreover, she was a brilliant girl with a good soul who only wanted to help others. This made everything worse and more painful for me. I listened because it was all I could do.
      On our last day, two surprising things happened: she asked me about my religion -- a question I sidestepped as best I could (her family are fairly radical in their beliefs and, according to my student, had physically assaulted those who did not serve the same gods as they). In a moment of reflection at realizing authority figures in her life did not adhere to the same systems in which she had been indoctrinated, she confessed to me that she did not think she believed what her parents believed -- the knowing risk she took, the trust and faith she placed in me that I had not returned... that guilt still burns.
     As I recovered from that shock, she told me about her weekend activities... which included putting dry ice into a plastic bottle out of boredom/curiosity. Given Koreans' lack of free time for trouble making activities, even her parents probably had not realized what may well have happened. Telling her was dangerous; kids love explosions, after all. So do adults. Not telling her was at least as dangerous -- turning it into a mystery would have forced her curiosity to be sated. And then probably exploded. Faced with the dilemma, I knew what I had to do. What I had to teach (or not, read the story! Ask me for it!)
     And having unleashed an awakened/disillusioned middle schooler on the world with the curiosity and awareness of a young McGyver -- and taking a measure of pride in it -- I reflect on what a terrible person I might be.