Soi Min Part 3

December 11, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

The Karen clans, Soi Min tells me, fare the worst of all the clans in Burma. Some of Battle Creek’s refugees are Karen. Typically they have almost no education, and they’ve seen unspeakable atrocities. Yet they’re kind, polite and hungry for education.

Having so much experience with well-adjusted Korean ESL students, I tend to approach my Burmese students with the same level of animation that Koreans have. So I’ve walked towards new Karen students ready to shake their hands and pat them on the shoulder.

But when a Karen sees you approach in this way, he has this look about him, this posture that says that maybe you’d better slow down and back up a foot or two. Keep in mind most of these refugees are about five-foot tall. It doesn’t matter. You can sense that it’s best to tread lightly.

It’s like when a good, loyal, loving dog, (let’s say a Staffy-Bull since Staffies are loyal, affectionate and tough), has had to spend his life caged, starved and beaten so that he seems to despise everyone and everything.

And then he’s suddenly released into a new environment. He knows that things are different now, and yet he doesn’t know how to orient his thoughts in this new environment. Everything he knows is based on the abuse. And so you never know how he might interpret your actions or how he might respond.

It’s very sad, to meet Karen and realize how they’ve had it. But like I said, somehow they have this spirit, it seems to me intrinsic, that keeps them appearing positive, and definitely hard-working and caring; their values have not been destroyed by genocide, and they long for the American Dream.

Soi Min Part 2

December 1, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

I asked Soi Min where he was stationed, “Mizoram, Bangladesh and Chin State in Northern Burma.”

I asked what he ate, “Bamboo shoots and snails,” he smiled, like a fox, swallowing a mouthful of buttered yam. I asked about rice, “We carried only rice and matches. Sometimes only matches.”

He said that that the Mizoram, clans from Northeast India, supplied (and supply) medicine and beans. Sometimes his unit and other rebel units cultivated gourd and corn in the jungle. During seasonal Spring and Harvest they bought pigs and feasted with villagers. During monsoon they hid in bamboo thickets so thick that nobody bothered them except leaches and mosquitoes.

I told him that I know all about Himalayan leaches! How they stick like the worst kind of booger! Like sticky white rice, only sucking your blood at a magnificent rate, all brown and hard and swollen on the main vein of your thigh.

He said he had to carry netting with him at all times but had got malaria anyways. I told him I’d seen the clouds of mosquitoes but he just laughed at me, this guy!

He did this for three years, while his wife, also a Burmese refugee in India, snuck into Burma to hand out anti-government pamphlets.

This was in Mizoram State, a border-state full of jungles and no-man’s lands, one of the most beautiful places in the world. One of the poorest – and richest.

Burma has always been one of Asia’s richest countries in natural resources.

Rubies, lots. Oil and gas. Teak. Hydropower. Any gemstone or metal imaginable almost.

And the people in Burma, nothing but poverty, brutality and despair for 99% of the population.

The Junta Formerly Known as SLORC (as I like to call them in honor of the artist formerly known as Prince) uses the methods of George Orwell in 1984. Newspeak. Thoughtcrime.

Newspeak is a clever form of linguistic segregation. Although linguistic segregation exists everywhere around the world and in every culture, the Burmese Junta takes it to it to the extreme.

They use that shifting of words, changing definitions that Orwell wrote about. For example, SLORC or State Law and Order Council. Their actual mission is to break laws and create disorder.

The name SLORC changed after a bit, just as names do in Newspeak. They changed to SPDC, State Peace and Development Council, whose mission it is to be violent and destroy. Eventually this name will change, and then finally there will some man from 1984, beating you to death, until you finally understand his logic. He holds up three fingers and says, “How many?” You answer, “five,” and he tells you that your mind is getting healthier every day.

Understand?

This is Newspeak, and so we will speak new, today. That sort of thing.

Burma’s junta calls Burma The Union of Myanmar. Would you guess that it’s the same kind of union we have in America? No? No – and yes.

The Union of Burma is actually a bunch of warring clans. Each clan, each village, speaks a different language and has different customs. The communication difficulty creates culture shock and xenophobia, and so not only do the clans fight against one another, but each village hates the next village, each family hates the next family, and so on and so forth as it’s been since before written text, in them thar hills; Himalayan Hatfield and McCoy, Bloods and Crips, Blacks and Whites, so on and so forth.

On a national level the government promotes the kind of xenophobia that would make the folks at Fox News envious – with huge rallies against all outsiders at any level, whom they accuse of being, “democratic,” (which in Burma’s Newspeak, means to be a western colonial power like America or England).

Oh yes, the Burmese know all about Christopher Columbus.

The military leaders in the meantime do not allow any minority languages in the schools (like America’s English Only Laws).

This means each minority is bound to fail in school (like in America) because they only know the language that they spoke at home most of their lives, on some giant hill a three days walk from school. In each village the people have spoken nothing but clan languages for centuries and consider it a point of pride to maintain their identity (like minorities in America).

Language segregation has been used, successfully, by Burma’s rulers for centuries also, so it should be no wonder that George Orwell discovered his muse for three different novels, 1984, Animal Farm, and Burmese Days, in those jungly hill stations that Soi Min kept telling me me about.

To Be Continued…..

Soi Min from Mizoram Part 1

November 29, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

I am unemployed, broke, in debt and dependent on my parents. I can’t to receive unemployment benefits for another six months. I have the flu, asthma, possibly a hernia –  and no Medicaid. I ’m not speaking to my brother, and don’t want to speak to my mother. Right now I am hiding in my parent’s basement hoping to get some time to myself. Man I could cry you a river all night if you wanted me to.

But instead I will tell you that this was the best Thanksgiving since my Benjamin was born!

What happened was that I started volunteering to teach English to Burmese refugees this year.

Soi (pronounced Soy) Min, his wife Sui (pronounced Swee), and their daughter May O Wee are Burmese refugees from Delhi. They’ve been in Battle Creek only months. They live on refugee status and cannot work until they have their green cards. They have no transportation, and only a few Burmese friends. So they’re isolated, confused and depressed.

I tell Soi Min I am also confused and depressed, and why, because America seems to me in shambles, because we are celebrating a nation that celebrates Genocide on Thanksgiving.

Soi Min smiles so that his whole face lights up, eyes twinkling. He says he knows about Columbus, and about Pocohantos and Squanto.

Then he says that he wants to tell me some of his stories about Burma, and I want to hear them…

***

Soi Min had been living in India since the eighties because right now a well-armed band of soulless thugs rule Burma.

Soi Min became a Student Leader, which means he spoke for democracy and education, which means he just about marked himself for murder.

He escaped to the jungles between India, China, Bangladesh and Burma and became a guerrilla freedom fighter.

He showed me a photo of him at a camp. He had the shaggy head of a professor, a fuzzy face, a Fu Manchu and the same mischievous, gentle smile. He was reed-thin, set against a background of ancient old-growth tree trunks, and I thought to myself,

“Wow! My Burmese student just made Walt Kowalski look like a pussy faggot Pollock!”

herniated disk and no insurance

November 21, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

I’ve been on ice since June with no medical insurance. I swim, a lot and that helps until it doesnt. The meds are running out and so I went to my doctor for an MRI. I told him about tingling all over, radiating from the back through the arms and legs. He told me about calcium vitamins and glucosomine. 

I insisted we take a look and he agreed to x-rays but not to an MRI, because they’re expensive. 

There is a gel made from cock’s comb, that they can inject into the joints, that might actually be fairly cheap - and I don’t need an MRI to tell me I have a herniated disk. All signs say so. So I’d just as soon they oil my bearings, chains and sprockets with that stuff, each and every vertebra, the hips, knees, ankles and toes.

But for some reason it is not that easy. First I have to take the MRI. I have to do lot’s of other things promising to be too damn expensive for me to do, so instead I get ice and a calcium pill.

In Korea, right now, all of this bullshit would cost me about six dollars maximum. I’d be back working within the week.

If worse comes to worst I’ll fly over to Korea for a medical holiday because the round trip plane ticket would cost me a lot less than an MRI or surgery here in Battle Creek, and plus I’d get to visit Korea, maybe even teach some classes, working for cash money on the barrel head.

I miss that too, the feel of having money in my pocket. Of paying my way and paying for others, sharing the wealth. 

And respect, not just because of the money but also because in that region of the world they venerate teachers, they pray to teachers just as they do the Buddha!

Here, as a substitute teacher, I’d get more respect shoveling shit.

Original Mother-In-Law Diary

November 3, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Sometimes I look at the other expats here, living the wild single-guy lifestyles we westerners imagine so unique, edgy, cool. Booze and broads and late-night drunken motor-scooter adventures in our Korean-Western micro-culture here in Busan. Then I wonder if my lot is rather dull. I am not one, as much as I have tried at times, to enjoy the Gonzo, too-cool lifestyle. I‘m married, with two kids, and live with my mother-in-law. I work a hellish schedule, hoping to one day afford economic opportunities for my wife and boys, and of course for me. It‘s dull. I get sick of the brats and mothers, and college class-skippers and crying babies, day in and day out, a seemingly never-ending cycle.

But occasionally I slow down enough to really look around. I sit on the floor next to my mother-in-law and we nibble pickled pigs feet before bed. I do live with my mother-in-law. She‘s a dongdongju bootlegger for neighborhood oldies, brewing it in the kitchen with rice, molasses, barley and yeast. She checks her potion by holding a flame over the crock, watching how it burns. It is ready when, if the cap is on too tight, the wine bottle bursts from the pressure of excessive fermentation. I look into the unheated, brown honey-pot of rice wine. The potion is in motion, fermenting, churning as if the crock were still simmering on a low heat. Above the humid and sweet-smelling crock, swarms of tiny drunken fruit flies blissfully dance about.

Every morning at ten o‘clock the house is rocking with elderly drunk-junkies cheering on my son, who is center stage, dancing on the table among the butts and ashes, pork ribs and fish bones, and various Korean liquors. Holding a spoon in his hand for an impromptu microphone, he blurts out his new versions of mommy-daddy trot music and wiggles his butt as the drunken old women clap, howling in hysterics.

My neighbors get drunk two to three times a day after retirement, and seem the happier for it aside from the racking coughs and occasional rheumatic attacks. And of course there are those neighbors who should never touch alcohol. One neighbor binges once a week. He‘s nice until the dongdongju takes hold, then he is a sleepless, quarrelsome vandal for three days and forces all the neighbors to kick his ass or chase him out with a broom. Even my young son is allowed to hiss at this local wino. In a few days the man sobers up, disappearing for a week, preparing for his next humiliating episode.

On summer evenings, when all the neighbors sit outside drinking and barbecuing, perched upon homemade tables, avoiding the musty heat of their cramped little jutek houses, children, furtive and fearful, peak into our dusty old courtyard. It is a maze kimchi pots, ramyun boxes and massive spider webs within which roost goblin-black spiders big enough to gobble up a large roach. Occasionally in our bedroom, a seemingly arm‘s-length centipede treads up above us. We hear his feet softly click upon the wallpaper. The wife kills him with a hammer. She shows me its fangs before the bug disappears into a broth for dinner‘s stamina side dish.

Down the street is a gang of neighborhood thug dogs. Not the American gun-totin‘ thug dawgs, but a pack of half-wild heel nippers. There‘s even a burly miniature Doberman. But he‘s not the top shit-dog. The top shit-dog couldn‘t give a fuck about tough looks, papers and lineage registry. The top shit-dog is a young pup whose mom is in heat a lot. They all flock around this bitch‘s house, wiry, willin‘ and free, while the feral dingo-like Jindo dogs remain chained up and pacing in the courtyards. One neighbor has a tiger-striped Jindo that looks part wolf. We keep our fair distance, he and I.

In the morning on a cool spring day with a warm summer breeze, my wife kisses me goodbye, ties my oldest kid to my back and I step onto the side of our little mountain. The hills are terraced, blooming with kale and cabbage and soybeans. A small park sits on top. If I squint and avoid gazing too far into the smog; if I suck in deeply the pungent aromas of vegetation after a light rain, it seems I have found a tiny piece of Tibet or Nepal right here among the whirling racket of industrial Busan. I have no hangover and the boy on my back is singing his self-made family love song. Finally, I clearly recall what life as a young bachelor really was. Desperately, drunkenly crawling from pub to pub with loneliness and frustrated yearning churning within and without my self, a churning not dissimilar to the churning of my mom‘s freshly brewed dongdongju. Finally, I realize that dongdongju churning, bubbling and brewing beside me fits so much better inside me.

Benny Benny

November 3, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Benny Benny

Written in some Hawaiian and English

Benny Benny

Buddha Belly

Surfing Nui

Nani Keiki

You make you

Fish white

Father Hau-oli

When you hula

On kahakai

 

 

Benny Benny

Buddha Belly

Surfing big

Beautiful child

You make your

Fish white

Father proud

When you dance

On the Beach

Workin’ in Korea Blues

October 23, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Workin’ in Koree Blues

Scott Morley

 

In Korea

I made money

In Korea

I made money

Like a pizzeria

It was so funny!

 

Didn’t wanna go home!

Wa’ stay in Koree

No love at home

Wa’ stay in South Koree

Korean girl at home

Now America is where I be

 

Working hard

For soft pay

Working hard

For soft pay

Wanna work hard

Just don’t wanna play!

Poem Dedicated to Asians

October 23, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Asians

Scott Morley

 

Asian persuasions

Ambiguous confrontations

Constant Fixations

Terrible Temptations

Joyous Ejaculations

Bliss filled relations

Asians Asians and Asians

 

Blue-bottomed reindeer herders

Grain and gourd growers

Minnesotan dugout paddy pickers

Hoarding Mongol horse slickers

Slaving Apache lizard lovers

 

Gurkhas draped in boorkhas

Porting punkas up a steep Pun pitch

Munching sorts of radish pickles

From a small dish

 

Boiled soy-salted meat on soft pork feet

Or dog in a soup of sesame and leek

Wine made of horse milk, kumis is so sweet!

Momos of yak in pie crust of wheat

 

Gongs, and gold pagodas

Cuneiform Coca-Colas

Golden Eagles and

Yak-buttered biscuits

 

Seagulls, Silk and stole

Pestilence and plagues

One hundred-year old eggs

Sweet potato dregs

 

Bald begging bowls

Bon. Bokonon

Tibetan bulldog breeds

Wild spitz pees

Samoyed sled dogs dance

 

Matriarchal mommy’s thin little pants

Fringed and fishy shaman’s prance

Big foreheads – and narrow slants

 

Broad cheeks and seven weeks

Taught teats and tiny feets

 

Yes,

 

Asia’s where my heart still beats

Korean Mother-In-Law Blues

October 23, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Korean Mother-in-Law Blues

Had a mother-in-law

From Korea

Yes! My mother-in-law

Lives in Korea!

But me, I’m stuck back here

Without my mother-in-law

 

She had veggie gardens,

And homemade wine

She had veggie gardens,

And homemade wine

I loved those veggie gardens

And where’s my sweet rice wine?

 

See my mother-in-law

She’s funny and sweet

My only mother-in-law

Just cannot be beat

She only four-foot tall

And such a lovely treat!

 

I work so hard

And never see,

What it is I want

But long as I is free

I’ll go back from

Whence I once come

Why Come Home?

October 21, 2009 by mykoreanmotherinlaw

Okay, so my first post was a bit gloomy, and returning to America after ten years in Korea, has not been easy, but in the end, after all options have been weighed:

Stay in Korea Pros:

  • cash for the whole family
  • work for my me and my wife
  • entertainment for the whole family
  • friendly neighbors and family
  • thorough and quality education for the boys

Korea Cons:

  • pollution for the boys
  • less athletic outlets for the boys
  • less natural surroundings for the boys
  • long work hours so less time with the boys
  • long school hours for the boys
  • less educational freedom for the boys
  • family obligation for all of us
  • limited english language exposure for the boys
  • limited opportunities to advance my/mia’s education
  • Prejudice or jealousy against the boys

America Pros:

  • english language exposure
  • multicultural exposure
  • comfie suburban living
  • little pollution
  • support from my parents
  • education for me and my wife
  • high grades in school for the boys
  • chance for the boys to get to know their american grandparents

America Cons:

  • little work for teachers
  • less pay for teachers
  • no respect for teachers
  • more difficult to support a family
  • violence
  • prejudice
  • less exotic scenes for me to write about

Two things trump all else. The boys need English fluency, and their parents need more college education.