Becoming Korean #5: The right time for foot massages, mentoring, etc.

Last night, I went to a special dinner with the Koreans.* David (second youngest and most energetic of the boys) rode with me, while the others drove in the van.

“In America,” David said, “what age can you get a driving license?”

“Sixteen,” I replied.

“In Korea, any age can get a foot massage license.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Even five-year-old,” he added. “But tiny hands, so maybe not.”

I have been tutoring Korean students for a year and a half now, and I am still caught off guard by these strange and precious moments.

I suspect that I am not the only teacher who is on the lookout for “moments.” Hollywood has trained me to expect sudden breakthroughs of insight or connection, in which the student suddenly blooms. The gangbanger teeny opens up about his abusive father. The school outcast stands on her desk and bursts into song. These are the moments a teacher/mentor has been taught to expect.

I’ll admit, I’ve tried to force one a few times. Early this year, while helping Daniel with his homework, I came across a question that asked, “What would you like your friends to remember you for?”

Daniel had written, “Math.”

“I think it’s asking for something a little different,” I said, seeing an opportunity to get down to the nitty gritty (yes, I am using my Nacho Libre voice here).

I explained, “Like, maybe I would want my friends to remember me for being a nice guy. Or caring about them. You know what I mean? Is there anything that you would think, ‘I hope my friends will remember me for that?’”

He lit up as if struck by sudden inspiration and said one word: “Scientist.”

It’s real-life epiphanies like this that make you realize life isn’t as dramatic as the movies. The “moments” we stumble upon are mostly ordinary, accented with comedy.

But then again, some moments are awesome.

Some moments, you take two Koreans to your sister’s orchestra concert.

Daniel is enthralled by the orchestra, and Paul has brought a camera to document the concert. Taki, who is the boys’ guardian while the house parents are out of town, is enamored. Throughout the concert, Daniel whispers to me twice, once to ask me if this is a Christian school (no), and second to ask if I know that he will turn 13 in February (didn’t know that either).

When the concert is over, I introduce the boys to my grandma.

“This is Paul, and this is Daniel.”

“Daniel,” my grandma says, and she stares into the distance. “That’s what we were going to name…”

My mom gives her a warning look, and she trails off. I’m left standing on the brink of a mystery—that’s what you were going to name WHO?—and Daniel is left stranded on half an introduction. On my list of the awkward ways Grandma has introduced herself to my friends, this claims second. (Number one was when she introduced herself to some college friends by wiggling her fingers toward their feet and saying “Ticky, ticky.”)

Later, my mom introduces Daniel and Paul to a Korean girl from the orchestra who is friends with my sister. While Paul and Ju Yung converse in Korean, I overhear my grandma asking Daniel, “Is ‘Konichiwa’ Japanese?”

Daniel says yes, and then goes to inspect the snack table.

A friend touches Ju Yung’s arm and says hi, and Taki takes advantage of the opportunity to lean close to Paul, cup her hand next to his ear, and ask, “Is she a Christian?”

“Of course!” he whispers back.

As we’re walking out, I say in a playful manner, “That was a good concert. Nice cookies, nice girls…”

“Nice cheese balls,” Daniel adds.

In the car going home, Daniel asks me if I am good at math. Daniel is a math wiz.

“I was good at algebra and calculus, but it’s been eight years, so I don’t really remember much.”

“If you were a maniac for math, you would remember.”

“That’s true,” I say. (“That’s true” is my go-to response when I’m dumbstruck by the awesomeness of something Daniel says.)

I ask Daniel, “Are you a maniac for math?”

“Yes. And for Toby Mac.”

Without exaggeration, we have had no fewer than 15 conversations about Toby Mac, each of which begins with Daniel asking if I have heard of Toby Mac. Other recurring questions include “Have you heard of John Steinbeck?” and “Did you know Of Mice and Men has swear words in it?”**

“If you could be a car,” Daniel says, “what car would you be? Not like, you could drive it, but like you are the car.”

“I don’t know. I guess a Jeep Rangler or something.”

“I would be a Rolls Royce,” Daniel says.

“Your grandma very nice lady,” Taki says.

“Thank you.”

“Mr. Josh, I saw a Rolls Royce commercial… Mr. Josh?”

When we drive at night, Daniel often thinks I have stopped listening if I keep my eyes on the road.

“I’m listening,” I say.

“I saw a Rolls Royce commercial, and there were three characters, and they were all holding up their M-I-D-D-L-E finger.”***

Moments like these are some of the highlights of my life right now. They are unplanned, unexpected gifts that make me surge with gratefulness and a certainty that life is indeed good.

Yet, I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t mention that being a tutor can be a fearful endeavor. Not fearful in the way that being an ER nurse or a foster parent would be fearful. More like an uncle who suddenly realizes his responsibility to his nieces and nephews goes deeper than being the fun-initiator.

Some days, Mrs. Joy has stepped onto the porch with me as I leave, shivering in her slippers and clutching her arms against her stomach. She tells me how worried she’s been about the boys, how some of them have been getting into trouble. She asks me to pray for them, to be a good example. She asks me to help. Only Daniel is her son, but she calls the students “my boys.”

During a time of frequent uncertainty, restlessness, and melancholy, the Koreans’ home has been a source of unexpected grace. Yet, I’ve become increasingly aware that this is more than just a blessing to me, that I am meant to be a blessing to them, and I feel my inadequacy. I am not a dad. Neither am I a trained teacher. I don’t know how to encourage these boys. I want to invite them to do things with me, to go bowling, to get coffee, but I find myself shy and insecure.

Some insecurities I face:

1.                    Is this creepy? (There’s this kid next door whose family is pretty messed up. I recently asked if he wanted to play basketball or go hiking or something, only to be told later by my family that my “reaching out” may have sounded regrettably close to, “Hey kid, want some candy?”)

2.                    Will I be rejected? (What if they would rather I left them alone?)

3.                    Do I have anything to offer? (I can barely keep my own life together, so what makes me think I could mentor others?)

Several of my friends and I have been talking lately about the verse in Malachi that says, “God will turn the hearts of the fathers to the sons and the sons to the fathers.” Many of us have had the experience of reaching out to spiritual fathers and mentors, only to feel frustrated when the vulnerability isn’t reciprocated. I am not old—I relate more to the son than the father—but even in my small way I’ve encountered fears that I imagine many fathers face, ones which hinder the Biblical movement of father to son. I am now of “mentoring” age, and I find myself second-guessing every interaction. Do I have anything to offer?

I cling to the same hope that inspires most of my interactions with friends and family—that somehow merely loving them will be enough.

A few months ago, as I was struggling to overcome my insecurity in loving these boys, Paul sat down beside me and said, “I respect you.”

I thanked him and laughed it off awkwardly, but he punched me in the arm, looked me in the eyes, and said, “No, I respect you.”

I was shocked at how vulnerable he was being with me, how much courage he displayed. Could I be that vulnerable, not only when I’m the younger one, the one in need, but when I’m acting as a father?

There are people in my life who may secretly be longing, if not for a father, for an older brother to come alongside them. If I quietly decline to engage with the young people in my life, no one will call me a coward.
But let's be real here: the people in my life are not hard to love. God has seen fit to surround me with incredibly lovable people. So why not start taking those risks now, while the sacrifice is small?

*Incidentally, I use the term “the Koreans” because I can’t think of a better way of naming this ragtag group of people. They are not all from the same family or attending the same school, but they are all Korean. So, at the risk of reducing them to their lowest common denominator—the Koreans.

** Daniel once opened to the final page of Of Mice and Men and read the final sentence aloud to me: “Curly and Carlson looked after them. And Carlson said, ‘Now what the h-’” at the word “hell” he breathed out an “h” sound and then mumbled the rest of the line. He looked at me to see if I was scandalized. I was not.

***While blogging, I often wonder if people would care if they knew I was mentioning them online. I have had several conversations with my mom that conclude with her saying, “Don’t put that in your blog!” This has become a bigger concern with this entry in particular, as I have recently become friends with Paul and David on Facebook. I don’t think they’ve read any of my blogs, and I wonder what they would think if they did. The ethics of blogging is something I’ve thought about a lot, and I still haven’t come to a conclusion. I hope that anytime I write about another person, any resulting humor or empathy arises from a shared humanity, not alienation or a violation of trust. What do you think about the ethics of blogging? Leave your opinion in the comments!