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!

Becoming Korean Part 4: Things You Don't Say to a Korean Momma

Never tell a Korean momma that you don’t feel good.

I walked into the Kim’s house last night with a sore throat and stuffy nose. When Joy, the mother of the house, asked how I was, I told her I was good but feeling a little sick.

Five seconds later she was pouring me a thick tan smoothie from the fridge. “Homemade!” she said. “Whole grain, vitamins, seafood!”

The moment I finished it, she swapped my empty glass for a full one, this one filled with a dark brown liquid. “Drink!” she commanded. As I raised it to my lips, she added, “Tastes bad!”

I hesitated, but she urged me on, and I took a sip. It did taste bad. I couldn’t nail down any of the flavors, and I didn’t have time to try, because Joy Kim was not done with me yet. Not by a long shot. She pressed her finger against the base of her throat and motioned for me to do the same. I did, pushing my finger into the soft space beneath my Adam’s apple.

“Press hard,” she said.

I shoved my finger deeper into my throat and tried not to wince. This was made more difficult when she insisted I continue drinking. Finger lodged deep, I tipped the cup back and downed the rest of my glass.

For a few minutes we made small talk. Much of our talk is small, even when I’m not cutting off my respiration. Mrs. Kim is not as good at English as Mrs. Choe last year. Talking with her is good practice for using short sentences and inventing new sign language. Here’s a short conversation I recently had with her:

Joy: “John Wesley?” [grins and nods vigorously]

Me: [nod]

Joy: “We see where he die.” [clutches throat and lolls head, still smiling]

Me: [smile]

Joy: “In Fiji…” [makes outline of an island] “…people eat… other people” [brings her arm to her mouth and gnaws, tilts head, smiles]

Me: “Yeah. Cannibals?”

Joy: “Yes, yes! Cannibals! John Wesley, they eat him.”

Me: [smile and nod]

When talking to Joy, I always feel a pressure to smile as big as she does. I don’t want to seem unengaged. After many grand attempts, however, I’ve decided that I simply cannot equal her smiling power.

Still standing in the kitchen, I tried removing my finger from my throat.

“Joshua,” she said, her voice stern. “Keep press.”

I keep press another five minutes.

While we talked small, she mentioned that she did acupuncture. I nodded and smiled, but then I realized she was offering to do it to me and I quickly said, “No, that’s okay.”

Disappointed, she released me to go tutor the students.

When I came back up an hour later, she asked, “You feel better?”

“A little,” I lied.

“Not better?” She seemed shocked. But then she smiled. “I do acupuncture after dinner.”

“Okay,” I said. Why did I say that? I don’t know.

“I put needle in throat and ear.”

“Okay,” I said.

She studied my face. “Fear?” she said.

“No.” I lied again.

Throat and ear? Before yesterday, I’d had no experience with acupuncture. The pictures I had seen were all of people lying facedown on a clean white sheet, needles protruding from their backs. On the list of places I wouldn’t want a needle, throat is third (eyes and crotch claiming gold and silver, respectively).

Dinner was a short reprieve from the building tension. We were having one of my favorite Korean meals—Bulgogi, a kind of Asian barbeque lettuce wrap. (Note: Don’t verify this definition with a Korean.)

Joy finished eating last, which meant that I had a lot of time to observe her deft use of chopsticks. I kept imagining her plunging one into my neck.

She ate with careless delight, and I began to hope she had forgotten. But after rinsing her plate, she washed her hands and said, “Ready?”

She motioned for me to wait on the couch, and a few minutes later she returned with a tray, loaded with foreign instruments and needles.

“Fear?” she asked again.

“No,” I laughed.

She gave me a container of vitamins, and I ate one. She gave me another container. I ate another vitamin. She gave me a small packet like one Americans would use for sweetener. I tore off the top and choked down a chalky substance. She gave me another packet, this one bigger. I tore off the top and tipped it back, spilling tiny beads into my mouth. She told me to hold them in my mouth for one minute, then chew and swallow. Then she added:

“In one half hour, you will… very sleepy time. Your nervous system… down.”

It was at this point that I began laughing uncontrollably. It was like a case of the laughing hiccups for the next fifteen minutes.

She prepared her instruments, removing tiny needles from a package as she described how she had learned acupuncture. “In Korea, I am healer,” she said. Later, she added, “I do five years ago.” I wasn’t sure if this specified the last time she’d done acupuncture, or the year she graduated from healing school in Korea.

“I learn healing from Dr. Wong,” she said.

Ah yes. Dr. Wong.

I know all about Dr. Wong.

Dr. Wong is to South Korea what Steve Jobs is to America. His name has popped up in conversation throughout the year I’ve worked with the Koreans, always spoken with a hushed sense of awe. Throughout the house, you will not find a single picture of the Kim family—but you will find several of Dr. Wong and his family. When you eat dinner, Dr. Wong looks over your shoulder like the dining room’s own personal Chairman Mao.

Somehow, Dr. Wong was the one who had taught Mrs. Kim acupuncture. I didn’t know what to feel about that.

“How does it work?” I asked.

She tilted her head, confused.

“The acupuncture. How does it work?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How do you do it?”

Nothing. I tried again. “What happens when you do the acupuncture?”

“Huh?”

“Like… what does it do to make health come back?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “It make blood cells come together and heal you.”

Thank you, Dr. Wong. I watched Joy compile the needles. Have you ever taken apart and reassembled a pen? It was kind of like that. She loaded each needle into a metal socket, and then affixed a spring over it, followed by a metal, torpedo-like canister. Each was about the length of my thumb.

Watching her, I felt myself getting light-headed, and I remembered how many times I’d passed out because of needles. (Three times. Twice while giving blood. Once in health class watching a video of a heroin addict shooting up.)

Assembly complete, she brought the first torpedo toward my neck. She whispered, “Very dangerous!”

I burst out laughing and pushed her hand away from my neck.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to calm down. She looked at me, confused. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

“Be very still,” she commanded.

I felt the metal tip against my throat, which was still sore from finger pressure. Four quick needle stabs burst through my skin, and then it was over. I cautiously reached to feel the needles protruding from my neck, but there was nothing there. Apparently, this kind of acupuncture only pierces with the needle, but doesn’t implant it.

Next, she started applying tiny needle pads to my ears. These are like miniscule Band-Aids, with a needle protruding from the center. The pain was minimal, and after a few minutes my ears were covered in the little things.

She looked at me straight on and grabbed an ear in each hand. Then she squeezed so hard that I felt the pain in the back of my neck.

“Hurt?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes!”

She seemed pleased. Perhaps this is the Korean version of a knee reflex test.

She brought the needle-torpedo to my left ear and punctured the top. Then she fled from the room and returned with a paper towel. “Bleeding,” she said.

She did the same to the right ear, but this time she looked concerned. “Dark blood.” Her face dropped, and she gazed at my ear as if seeing a bad omen. “Daaark blood.”

I nodded solemnly to show her I appreciated the gravity of the situation.

She replaced her tools in the tray and grabbed my left hand. She singled out my index finger and stared intently at it. After several beats, she met my eyes and said, “Intestine, not very good.” This she said with a motherly, scolding tone. I almost wanted to apologize. But then she looked at my pinky and smiled. “Kidney good.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Finger shape… color…” Trying to reassure me about the intestines, she said, “Many Korean, their intestine very bad. Yours, a little bad.”

“Oh good,” I said.

“Feel better?” she asked.

“Yes,” I lied. "I feel good."

Hitler, Toilets Again, and Every Home for Christ

So Hitler was this bad dude with a neutered mustache who only liked people who looked like Matt Damon. He didn’t like Jews or gays or people who watch Dancing with the Stars. He wanted everyone to be like him (which is strange, because Hitler didn’t particularly look like Matt Damon).

If you were Hitler’s pal, he might pull a gun on you for suggesting a viewing of your favorite foreign film (not really a fan of Life is Beautiful, apparently). You should avoid bringing your crippled aunt over for dinner. Or your black friend. Also, you might want to avoid mentioning the Bonhoeffer biography you’ve been enjoying.

And though you’ll be sorely tempted, avoid calling him a “Negative Nancy” or “Debbie Downer.” Hitler hates being compared to anyone named Nancy—and Debbies are worse.

It’s going to feel like you’re walking on eggshells around him. But that’s the price you’ll have to pay to be his friend. Hitler’s found out the kind of person he likes best, and he can’t stand it if even one person doesn’t conform. His friends are yes men. His co-workers are as uniform as the uniform they wear. Anyone wanting to get close to Hitler has to play by his rules. He’s a very strict bouncer, letting few into his disco of trust.

The thing about Hitler is, he only feels safe when everyone looks, acts, and thinks like him.

Am I about to compare myself to Hitler?

Yes.

Is that comparison a bit of an exaggeration?

I sure hope so.

Do I sometimes overuse the question/answer format in my blogs?

Absolutely!

But back to the point: Hitler typifies our human impulse toward sameness. In his case, this was a brutal ethnocentricity that resulted in millions of deaths.

It’s unfortunate to have to admit, however, that I exhibit this same tendency, albeit in small, less lethal ways. (And I’m not alone in this. Why else would so many people find mates who look eerily like themselves? And why, according to many psychologists, are we comforted when a person mimics our facial expressions and tone in conversation?)

Let’s admit it: we feel safe around people who have a lot in common with Numero Uno.

I thought I had a handle on this though. Having grown up with a Peruvian, a Filipino, and a Ukrainian (is this the opening of a lame joke?), I like to consider myself foreign-friendly. It is true that I tend to be fairly welcoming toward people whom others might consider foreign or strange.

Which might explain why this desire for sameness hasn’t primarily emerged in my work with the Choe’s, who differ from me in more ways than I can count. I expect the Choe’s to be different, so it’s easy for me to remain open-minded and gracious. I began our relationship with a healthy inquisitiveness which has grown into joy, and I now find myself at home with these people who use strange toilets.

Surprisingly, the biggest opportunities for tension have occurred at my full-time job, where I work with white, Protestant Americans—like me.

That “like me” is very important. How often I’ve expected these people to be my people, people among whom I can find a home. Sadly, this expectation has often led me to offense, bewilderment, and unnecessary difficulty.

If my time working with Koreans has often seemed a baffling experience, this new role at Every Home for Christ has been more so. Both cultures are foreign to me, but the foreign nature of EHC was largely unanticipated. I was caught off guard, and I found myself populated with unforeseen Hitler characteristics. (Perhaps this would be a good time to drop the Hitler metaphor, lest my co-workers become anxious.)

When I accepted a full-time position with the ministry, I thought I was setting out on a journey with like-minded people, all of them ablaze with the same vision that so excited me. (All those who have worked for a ministry for any length of time now roll their eyes and say, “Rookie.”)

What I found instead was an assortment of strange individuals, most of them head-scratchingly different from myself. In the midst of these foreigners, I must ward off anxiety, a foe that looms larger at EHC than at the Choe’s. For some reason, although I’m an alien at the Choe’s house, I rarely feel alienated. I try not to commit any blunders, but even when I do, I am not crippled with insecurity. I cannot say the same at Every Home for Christ, where I can easily fall prey to insecurity if I don’t keep a close watch on myself.

A smile I offer while passing in the hall is not returned. Conversations I launch with the hopes of generous head nods are greeted instead with confused stares—or worse, a zombie-like lack of lucidity.

One of my co-workers greets me at my cubicle with a friendly, “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” I say.

His smile wanes. “Well that’s not good! You should be busy working hard.”

I nod awkwardly, unsure of a response. “…What’s up with you?”

I can’t seem to find my way in this culture! These people were supposed to be like me, but they’re not. The disappointment is familiar. I’ve experienced the same with good friends. There’s a stage in which it seems we have everything in common, but over time I start to recognize glaring differences, and I think, Maybe they’re not like me after all.

I feel betrayed. I feel like people are failing me. But the truth is, I set them up for failure when I imposed my unrealistic expectations.

Among strangers, foreigners—Koreans—I make no such claim. Every interaction is a game show—“What’s behind curtain number one?” Furthermore, my role in this community is clear. I’m the white guy whose fingers cramp when holding chopsticks. My differences are substantial, and because of that, I am able to find my role with relative ease: I’m the American tutor.

At EHC, I expect to find “my people,” which is why it’s so jarring when I find that here too I must find my own way.

The difficult truth is that each person is an entire universe of unforeseen possibilities. I must avoid the temptation to lash out against others' differences (pride), as well as the temptation to isolate myself behind thick walls (fear). At every juncture, I can choose to welcome the people in my life like that mysterious bidet, finding myself unexpectedly cleansed in the process.

When I look to each interaction with a spirit of inquisitiveness and intrigue, I let go of hurt and offense. Through this disposition, I’ve found an exciting new world at the Choe’s. But this new world is equally available at EHC.

At the Choe’s, Daniel may stop a story mid-sentence if Bella enters the room. At EHC, a front desk conversation may similarly stop if a third party approaches.

At the Choe's, heated arguments in Korean grind to a halt the moment I ask for translation, and the only thing I know for sure (I think?) is that the disagreement had to do with card tricks. At EHC, dealings may just as well be in Korean, for all the insight I’ve attained.

The withering looks I receive at the Choe’s for committing an unknown faux pas may be turned to me at EHC for saying the name Barack Obama.

Whether I like it or not, Every Home for Christ is run on a series of unspoken guidelines and intricate, unwritten systems that I am only beginning to comprehend. I can ask for translation, but most understanding will come only with passing time.

If I’m to make a home among my community, I must allow my co-workers and friends the individuality they deserve. Historically, rulers have committed awful crimes whenever expectations of “sameness” become too high an ideal. Although my sphere of influence is small, I commit a comparable injustice whenever I expect those around me to conform to my molds.

We are all marooned in our own bodies and thoughts, aliens to one another. The only way we can get along is by acknowledging the vast spaces between us, finding our place as aliens among aliens, sojourners among sojourners.

Oddly, it becomes easier to find my role when I admit that I am different. In a clique, every difference is a threat to acceptance. No such threat exists where differences are honored and cherished.

At the Choe’s, I catch little glimpses into the lives of this ragtag group of Koreans: Prisca quietly dreams of becoming a worship leader. Josh feigns illness when he and Elisha can’t resolve an argument. Bella prides herself on coming from Gangnam, of the famed “Gangnam” style.

At EHC, a co-worker boasts about Rascal and Cutie, and when I ask who Rascal and Cutie are, she points to two beagles embossed on the shoulders of her jacket. I tell another co-worker that I’m having a bad day, and she gives me a ten minute pep talk, along with a book on how to overcome grief.

Let me close with a quote from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Toula’s father, Gus, is making a wedding speech. He compares his family’s last name, which translates to “orange,” to the groom’s family name, which translates to “apple.” Gus ties it all together by saying, his wisdom accentuated by his accent, “We all different, but in the end, we all fruit.”

Which is cute and funny and makes us all feel good. Because it’s true. We are all fruit. In spite of our differences, which can never be measured, our shared humanity is as familiar as the sun and moon. We want so badly to be known, but not figured out; understood, but not solved. We want to be ourselves—with each other.

New Culture, Clean Bum

At the Choe’s house (click here if unfamiliar with the Choe’s), there is a bathroom with a strange toilet in it. The toilet has an arm with about a dozen buttons, some with a symbol (a butt with water spraying it, for example), others with a word (“massage” and “dryer” are two options).

If you’re familiar with a bidet—pronounced “bid-A”—you know what I’m describing. Bidets are common in parts of Asia and Europe. They’re like normal toilets, only more high falutin. These toilets do all the dirty work for you, making toilet paper superfluous. They shoot a refreshing stream of water to clean your nether regions.

I had heard rumors of such a thing, but had never had the chance to use one myself. So when I saw that the Choe’s owned a bidet, I knew I had to take this opportunity.

Even so, months passed before I worked up the courage to try it.

My fears were legion: Where is the water coming from? Is it recycling the same water I just used for my business? What if the water pressure is too much? Or too cold? Or unbearably hot? What if it makes a loud noise, and all the Korean students turn and give “Mr. Josh” a knowing look when he leaves the bathroom?

Finally, I overcame my fears and made the decision. It was D-Day.

All through tutoring, I could feel my nerves winding tighter and tighter. I worked through math problems with Bella, but in my mind all I saw was THE BIDET. I was planning to excuse myself and go to the bathroom before dinner, but chickened out at the last minute. I sat down at the dinner table, almost too nervous to eat. Luckily, my lack of dexterity with chopsticks meant each bite was tiny and easy to digest.

Dinner ended, and it was time for me to leave.

Now or never.

I walked into the bathroom, shut the door, and attended to my fecal function. (Sometimes, euphemisms make things worse, not better. Sorry, ladies.)

Finished, I studied the panel beside me and ASSayed which BUTTon to push. (See what I did there? I’m so clever with LANGuage.)

I decided to go with the straightforward choice of the butt emblem with water spraying it. My finger hovered.

My biggest fear was that the spray would somehow gush out of control. I lacked an instruction manual, which is fine for common household items like blenders or toasters, but terrifying when your bum is involved. My bum was involved! I could imagine the spray launching forth like a fire hydrant, ejecting me from my position on the porcelain, soaking me head to toe. I imagined myself exiting the bathroom, dripping toilet water onto the hardwood floor, Korean eyes cinching shut with disgust and laughter.

I lowered my finger, pressed the button.

…Nothing happened.

I pressed it again. Nothing. I pressed a different button. Still nothing. All that anxiety and it doesn’t even work! I thought.

I drove home. Before visiting the Choe’s, I had texted John Mark, “I’m going to use the bidet today.” (Yup, that’s my life.) Now, I sent a new text, embarrassed and defeated: “It didn’t work.”

In the wake of such failure, his reply was maddeningly practical: “Did you wipe?”

Of course I wiped! It’s not like, “Oh no! The bidet didn’t work! If only—OH GOD IF ONLY—there were some other option I could use!”

Later, we discussed possible reasons why the bidet had malfunctioned, and he suggested that it wasn’t plugged in. Which seems absurd, but turned out to be true.

A few weeks later (I had drained my courage tank on the first go, and had to refuel) I tried again. This time, I made sure it was plugged in before ascending the throne.

When I was finished with my you-know-what (Is the vagueness really necessary at this point? I pooped, okay?), I was ready. I pushed the button. A stream of water immediately rinsed my hind quarters like a… river flowing through an... upside down canyon…? (Metaphors are hard, yo!)

It was not scary. Neither was it the pinnacle of European comforts. It was actually… remarkably unremarkable.

After fifteen seconds of washing, I thought, Surely I must be clean by now. After thirty seconds, I thought, Seriously, who has time for this? After a minute: Am I stuck here forever?

Finally, I noticed the red STOP button, the most noticeable button on the whole panel. I pressed it and, with a single wipe to dry myself, I was done.

I had conquered the bidet.

(Come back soon for the epic conclusion: “Hitler, and Toilets Again”)

Becoming Korean

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I tidy my cubicle, draw the blinds, shut down my computer, and drive ten minutes up the road to a large, cozy house, where I am suddenly transformed by untucking my shirt, tossing my shoes on a pile outside the front door, and stepping into a house that smells of fish and a spice I can't quite name.

I am now Mr. Josh. I eat seaweed, applaud card tricks, fumble chopsticks. I give guidance, sip soup, and, most of all, I pretend I’m Korean for an evening.

In September, I got a job as a part-time tutor for nine Korean students living together with a host family, the Choe’s. Along with my friend John Mark, I go twice a week to help these students with their homework. Most days I am only with them for two hours at a time, but in November I had the opportunity to join them for a Thanksgiving retreat. It looked a little bit like this:

When I come to the hot tub, Kevin, an 11-year-old boy who is small and sprightly like a Korean Peter Pan, greets me: “Mr. Josh! Take off your shirt!”

I look at him quizzically but oblige. Then we round a corner, and I discover that all those in the hot tub are wearing shirts, some long-sleeved. Kevin smiles at me mischievously, and we dip into the bubbling water. (Later, Kevin, inspired by my precedent, sneaks around the corner to take off his shirt—but then he tucks the bottom into his trunks and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders so his front is still covered.)

After an hour-long game of Signs that shrivels my skin and saps my energy, I’m ready to leave the hot tub. But one of the girls suggests we play another game, and I decide to stay, since this may be my one opportunity to join Korean teenagers for a hot tub game of Truth or Dare.

It doesn’t take long to discover that they haven’t quite mastered the basics of Truth or Dare. When one of the girls starts the game off with “Truth,” she is asked the strange and slightly off-putting, “Is it true that you woke up without any pants on one time?” The girl gives a puzzled “no,” and we move on to such questions as “Have you ever skipped a day brushing your teeth?” and “Does your room smell really, really bad?”

The dares are more traditional. By the end of the night, I’ve pirouetted and twirled my way around the hot tub in a 30-second dance and one of the girls has pressed her face to John Mark’s wrinkled and sweltering foot.

When the game becomes too truth-heavy, with no one brave enough to request another dare, we retire to our rooms for the night. John Mark and I have been paired with the two youngest boys, Kevin and Daniel. They are equal in age, but while Kevin is outgoing and has a voice reminiscent of a Disney mouse, Daniel is heftier and speaks with a throaty warble. (At his sixth grade choir concert, you can easily discern his voice: he’s the only bass.)

Daniel loves playing cards. Whenever I sit down at my tutoring desk, he sidles silently to my side and whispers, “Pick… a card.” Sometimes the trick is impressive, but more often than not he botches it or, more strangely, walks away without warning.

That night, we play Blackjack. John Mark and I aren’t familiar with all the rules, so we are forced to rely on the instructions of 11-year-olds. Somehow, Kevin keeps winning. He’ll collect eight cards or so, pick three that he likes, and then discard the rest. When I ask why he discarded the other five cards, he answers simply, “They don’t count.”

Never play Blackjack with a Korean.

Before bed, I hand out Aquafinas and tell the boys they have to down their whole bottle before going to bed. They ask why, and although we’re only worried about dehydration, John Mark sarcastically answers, “We want to make sure you pee the bed tonight.”

They look at us with shocked expressions, and he quickly reassures, “Just kidding.”

But then I add, “Mr. John Mark is going to pee the bed though.”

“Really?” Kevin says earnestly.

“No, I’m just teasing you,” I say. I try one more time, “But I will if John Mark does.”

They gasp a third time, a sarcasm strike-out. Maybe it’s the cultural barrier, or maybe it’s the hierarchical gap—I am ever and always “Mr. Josh”—but sarcasm has yet to connect.

Despite the comedic disconnect, my time with these Korean students has been filled with laughter. After I’d worked with the Choe family for two months, Daniel asked me, “Mr. Josh, are you special forces?”

I stifled a laugh and shook my head no.

“Army?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not in the military.” Suddenly, it made sense why on so many occasions he’d greeted me with a salute. A typical American, I’d just assumed it was a Korean thing.

“Not any military?” Daniel asked, squinting up at me with a sad, betrayed expression.

“Nope,” I said. “Sorry.”

In my time with the Choe’s, my civilian status isn’t the only way I’ve come short. I have been called “geeky.” Worse, in an inadvertent insult, Kevin one day exclaimed, “Mr. Josh! You are growing a beard!” (I had had one since I started tutoring.)

That observation was the only comment about my appearance, a fact that wouldn’t have bothered me if John Mark hadn’t marveled at how many times the students commented on his good looks.

Last month, Pastor Moses, the leader of this group of students, made up for this lack by announcing three times how privileged he was to have such “Handsome, godly, handsome, servant-hearted, handsome men of God helping with the program.”

I don’t know who bribed him to say this, but I can only say a sincere, “Thank you.”


(Check back Sunday for a follow-up post: "New Culture, Clean Bum")