In which I take myself on a date to a cat cafe.

I have a complicated history with felines.

Once upon a time in college, I briefly adopted two cats.  Their previous owners had just been evicted and more or less begged me to take them.  I naively welcomed the newly homeless animals, christening them "Dmitri" and "Alyosha" after my two favorite Karamazov brothers.  This arrangement lasted approximately 24 hours at which point the custodian saved my sanity (and very likely my good-standing status with my residence hall) but offering to keep them at his home.

Glares for days

The dating pool at my university was dolefully slim; despite my failure as a cat-parent, I'd always taken a wry sense of comfort in the idea of abandoning men altogether for a life of fiction and felines.  (Besides, being miserable, poor, and cynical as a student are unquestionably en vogue).

Last Monday--years and continents away from college--I skipped my aerobics dance class and took a bus to Seongnamdong.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken myself out for a me-date.

Neither of the movie theatres were playing the film I wanted at the time I needed.  I looked around for an alternative activity and spotted a cat cafe.  I've been in Korea for nearly a year, but I'd never visited a cat cafe.  I liked the idea of absently petting a friendly cat while engrossed in the book I'd brought in my bag.  Smiling at this thought, I descended the steps to the basement cafe.

If looks could kill...

I recognized that distinct cat smell as soon as I got close enough to remove my shoes and enter the establishment.  I scanned the room, counting no less than 17 cats.  The barista handed me a shrink-wrapped cat treat when I placed my order for a pancake and lemonade and I looked around for a vacant table.  (A table vacant of cats, not people; at this point, I was the only customer).  I nearly sat down at an empty booth before noticing an unmistakable puddle of cat pee.  I sat elsewhere.  No sooner had I ripped open the packaging on the cat treat that a pack of cats swarmed my table.  One cat--claws firmly intact--shoved the others aside to leap onto my table.  I firsthandedly experienced those claws (and gained new appreciation for the term "cat fight") as the pack of felines clambered across my lap and table to brawl over the treat.  At this point, my hopes for an quiet, idyllic experience were ripped to shred by the tiny claws that dug into my pants and the tiny teeth that chomped at my fingers.

Unadulterated loathing

Resentment

Condescension

I moved to a quieter table when my pancake arrived. The cats followed.  Attempting to thwart feline efforts to steal my pancake, I slid down the booth and immediately felt something wet on the back of my pants--remember that puddle of cat pee I'd avoided earlier?  Disgusted, I stood up and finished eating my pancake as quickly as possible. I returned the empty plate to the bewildered barista who wondered why I was leaving so soon. I pointed to my watch, "Bus," I lied.

In theory, cat cafes are charming. In practice, there's too little privacy and too much dander. If I learned anything from my experience at the cat cafe, it's am not cut out to be a cat lady.  I simply don't have what it takes.

Teaching is the best way to learn.

Working at a middle school can yield a broad range of experiences. Sometimes, you find yourself as an active participant in a teacher-student breakthrough that feels like a perfect marriage of education and human connection.

Jun and I visited Namsam Tower in Seoul this spring.

Other times, you find yourself wiping down the desks in your classroom with acetone to remove the alarmingly detailed depictions of genitalia that your students have drawn with permanent markers.

It's a matter of yin and yang. I've had to learn to take the good with the bad, swallow the bitter with the sweet. Of course, I don't enjoy the times when my students break things before my eyes. (Last week it was the fan. I don't think he meant to break it, but the plastic propellers shattered and the shards scattered everywhere). I don't enjoy leaving the classroom for a minute only to find that one of my students is hanging halfway out of the third-story window. (Not suicidal, just reckless). And in the girls' classes, I occasionally face eye-rolls and glares reeking of attitude and angst.

But I love these kids. I really do. One method I've implemented to counteract the teenage paradox of being simultaneously antsy and exhausted is a stretching routine at the beginning of class. 

It also helps when I keep my own attitude in check and empathize with their situation. Korean teenagers do not have it easy. Not only is there familial and cultural pressure to study and conform, but the rules at my school have morphed from excessive to oppressive. Students can't wear jewelry. Students can't wear colored contacts. Students must all have the same type of socks and shoes. Students must not dye their hair. Boys can't have long hair.  Girls can't wear makeup. Put simply, the nail that sticks out gets hammered. (Soo told me a story about a friend of hers from middle school with naturally white skin and fair brown hair. The teacher scolded her in front of the class and demanded she dye her hair "back" to black. Apparently the mother--also pale and light-haired--informed the teacher that her daughter's complexion and hair color were natural. The teacher relented).

It's impossible not to feel for the students in light of their situation. In my essay class, I asked which of my students would attend academy classes after our essay class ended. All but one raised their hands. I asked them if they liked academy. Two said yes. Ivy looked at me with sad eyes: "It's like jail."

Ivy isn't the only Korean student to feel this way. I read an article about a poem written by a 10-year-old Korean girl that describes dismembering and eating her mother for sending her to private academy. As disturbed as I was by the poem, I understood it.

I'm thankful to have a platform that facilitates freedom of expression. The students in my essay class have written on subjects all across the board. (So far, they've preferred to write creative work rather than academic work, and I've let them). Some of their stories are funny, some are sweet. Some surprised me with topics they tackled: transgender identity, depression, suicide, lovesickness, murder. I'm proud of the honesty and openness they've exhibited in their writing and in the feedback they've shared with their peers. If anything, teaching this class has taught me that these students want to navigate and understand the tricky questions that life throws their way.

I've enjoyed teaching this semester much more than my first semester, which is saying something because I loved it then, too! Having a textbook has made my ability to plan more congruent. I can alternate between textbook chapters and a creative lesson of my own. I've put the art supplies at my disposal to good use as well.

Currently, we've finished the first six chapters of the curriculum and summer break begins a week from Monday. I've given the students a break and have been showing the movie Divergent in class-period increments. (All of my students seem to enjoy it, and Pudding is already almost finished reading the second book in the series!).

As for me, I'm ready for a break. I have to teach summer camp for two weeks but will get to take my vacation during the first two weeks of August. At the end of August, with any luck I'll finally be out of my moldy apartment (which I have a fondness for, despite the spores) and into a nicer, newer place a few blocks away. I just need my school to finish negotiations and draw up a new housing contract; keep your fingers crossed! There's more I'd like to write about but I think this post will do for now. Peace!