More than two years have passed since I taught my last class at a hagwon in Daegu. It is human nature to remember the good and forget the bad, and I am no exception. Some of those kids, I loved them dearly. In fact, I think about them almost every day—wondering how they are, what’s going on in their lives and whether they have completely forgotten me. I fear that many of them have.
During those sometimes aggravating but often endearing 14 months (mid-November 2007 through January 2009), I did little things to make my classroom different. I was in the Chilgok LIKE school until April 2008, at which time it closed and I was transferred to Yongsan. At Chilgok, a kind old gentleman made his living as a fruit vendor on the street nearby, and I began purchasing some and bringing it to class. I would buy oranges, bananas, grapes or strawberries and put them on a platter to the side. Those students who wanted could take, eat and enjoy. I remember one boy in particular, to whom I appended the English name Jimmy. He would come rushing into my room, look for the fruit and with bright, brown eyes, ask, “Teacher, please?” Go right ahead, I told him.
The fruit seldom lasted beyond the third class, which meant the children in the last five got none. So I changed to candy when I moved down to Yongsan. (That LIKE school was run in a much better way than Chilgok, and I had fewer rebellious students. But I still had to raise my voice often—much too often.) At Home Plus, I bought bags of cheap, individually wrapped candy, and made it available to every kid in every class. They came to expect it, which was fine with me. As with the fruit before, the gift of candy to my Korean students was nothing more than the natural and spontaneous action of a loving heart. Sometimes, when I was teaching a class with the door open a kid would wander by and say, “Teacher, candy please.” How could I say no? I reached into my desk, pulled out one or more pieces, depending on how many children were at the door, and tossed them toward eager and appreciative hands.
I occasionally grumbled when, after a class, I found candy wrappers or sticks that had been cavalierly dropped on the floor. And I was quite displeased when I twice caught students stealing candy from inside my desk. While I threatened to call an immediate halt to this otherwise innocent habit, I just could not. Some took advantage, but I failed to see why others should be unfairly "punished."
The third and final way of dispensing love was what I dubbed the Socks-for-Kids program. The name derives from the hopelessly corrupt Oil-for-Food program operated by the United Nations between 1995 and 2003 wherein Iraq (then under international sanctions due to Saddam Hussein’s militaristic ways) was allowed to sell oil on the world market in exchange for food, medicine and other humanitarian needs. On my way to the school one day, I noticed that a nearby store was selling children’s socks at the very low price of 500 won per pair. These socks, which featured a number of different colors and designs, were mostly for small feet. I bought about 10 pairs, took them into my classroom and offered them to the kids. Needless to say, they did not last long. I purchased more the next day and more in the days to come. Before all was said and done, I had probably bought 100 pairs of cheap socks and given them to the little darlings. I do not doubt that some boys and girls got more than one pair, but all who wanted free socks received them.
I was standing at the board one day, teaching a group of third-graders. One of them, a girl named Bo-Hyun, sought my attention—as she often did. “Teacher!” she said with a sparkling smile. I looked at her and saw her reaching down to show off the new socks on her feet. However much money I spent on socks, candy and fruit for my students at those two schools, it was well worth it. I gave freely, and considerable happiness accrued to me in the process.
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