It was my third day on the job. I stood outside my door waiting to meet my students. The first boy approached me and said, “I’m here for 69.” Pause. “I mean, 6/9.”

Like a flight attendant introducing passengers to the friendly skies, I said, “Welcome,” and gestured to the classroom. Thus began my initiation into teaching high school in Thailand.

Requisites for teaching: Hand sanitizer, disinfectant soap, alcohol, and instant Nescafé.

From government hospitals to government schools

In my last post, Two Hospitals, Two Ferries, Two Showers, I described how no school in Thailand would even invite me to interview because I am too old and not white. I nearly moved to Taiwan to teach, but unfortunately, got mired in bureaucracy by the Taipei Economic Liaison Office in Bangkok: One clerk told me they would issue me a work visa, another said they would not.

By this time, it was mid-July. Schools in Thailand had already started, and administrators realized they didn’t have enough teachers. Only then, my resume started getting traction and I started getting calls to interview. Schools were desperate, and I was desperate. Ahh, ingredients for a match made in heaven. Early in my job search, I vowed I would never work full time for a government school in the middle of nowhere.

I now work full time for a government high school in the middle of nowhere. 

What do I have against government schools? The pay is much lower than private language schools, plus there are embedded obligations that do not exist at language schools, such as having to do “Gate Duty.” This means clocking in a half-hour early to stand at the front gate of the school and greet all of the students and teachers—in our case—3000! We foreign teachers join Thai staff outside the gates, to advertise that the school has foreign teachers.

What do I have against high school? Teenagers, teenagers, and emotional melt-downs (mine).

During my interview, I specifically chose this particular school because the English classrooms have air conditioning, and class sizes are limited to 20 students (unlike the usual 40-50 students per class). The teaching hours were reasonable, with a good balance between active teaching and breaks. It seemed very civilized. Then the real relationship revealed itself.

Hotel chic

I let my school’s administrator select an apartment for me. What a disaster. It had it not been cleaned since the last guest—by looks—five years ago. After spending an hour cleaning someone else’s hair from the drain and poop from the toilet, I peeled back the sheets only to find bedbugs! I scrammed out of there and called the administrator to come pick me up. It was quite a scene with the landlord’s daughter resisting me and trying to make me feel fussy and picky for wanting to leave over “some bugs.” The place was decrepit, and run by her parents who are apparently slum lords.

The administrator asked me if she could show me another apartment? “No!” I said, “I want to go to a hotel!” meaning—I want to go to a hotel to clear my head, get the hell out of this town and quit my new job before I even started it!

But once settled into the high-standard-hygienic hotel, my nerves calmed. I found out a couple of other English teachers also live at this hotel, and so that’s exactly what I elected to do. It’s a proper business hotel, with a fitness room, swimming pool, and breakfast buffet. Sure, it’s twice as expensive as an apartment, but no amount of savings is worth living in filthy digs. I need my home to be my sanctuary.

 Ladies whipping up local favorites: Pad Thai and seafood omelette.

Teacher Tom getting his dinner, fresh from the wok.

The Covid-19 Curriculum: Cram, cram, cram

Due to Covid-19, schools in Thailand were forced to stagger students to attend on alternate days. This impacted our department in that students only came to English class once every two weeks. With midterms looming in just one month, we had to teach three or four lessons in one class period. Factor in that students are routinely five-ten-fifteen minutes late, and it became a break-neck-cram-school-course.

Below: Teacher Greg using a light saber to swat tardy students.

You won’t see this in America!

Resuming the Abnormal-normal: Cram, cram, cram

The week began with a crazy Monday morning. It is a not-uncommon occurrence that during the monsoon season (now), there are power outages. Such was the case my first period on Monday, when our classrooms suddenly lost power in the middle of our lesson. It means we also lose power to our PowerPoint presentations, which are cast on a screen. I ran down the hall to tell the head teacher. He told me to read the answers out of a book. My students sat quietly in the dark, with no lights, no air conditioning. They didn’t complain! 

Then, literally, overnight, the Thai government instructed all students to go to school every day, and for all schools to accept 100% capacity. Our classrooms only fit 25 desks! Now we had to accommodate 40+ students in one room! In addition to cramming lessons, we had to cram students into our classes.

What happened was, whenever a teacher had a free period, that teacher would teach the other half of another teacher’s class. We teachers were in the hallway yelling to one another, finding out who had a free period; yelling to the students which classroom to go to—it was chaos. Some teachers had no choice but to stuff 40+ students into their rooms. It looked like an overcrowded train, and trying to teach in one!

Lunch was reduced to 40 minutes, and that wonderful balance between active teaching hours and breaks unceremoniously crumpled as we sprinted through Period 1—Period 10.  Eight-plus hours on our feet, teaching all day.

Due to this experience, I met many more students. They gasp, cheer, and clap when I tell them I am Korean (they all ask me about my ethnicity). When I said, ” 안영하세요  an-young-haa-sae-yo,” one girl performed such a deep bow, she nearly smacked her forehead to her knees! 

Teachers on WTF-Day

Chairs dragged outside to make room for students. They sat on the floor.  Teacher Charles grimacing after teaching to a packed class of 45 students.

Oh, the happy faces.

Teacher Greg now using a broom to swat tardy students.

Students swarming in the halls; pandemonium, chaos!

Teacher David walking his students to the canteen. He has no choice but to teach his students there due to space limitations. Not happy—no air conditioning!

Thai teachers also use the canteen to teach their students. Here, they are taking a test.

Korean Obsession

It began with my very first class. A boy asked me where am I from. I told him to guess, and he guessed China. Another guessed Japan. When I told them I am Korean, the entire class erupted. When I said, “an-young-haa-sae-yo,” they cheered and applauded. When I said, “sa-raang-hae,” they flashed the sign back to me. They treated me as a K-idol. 

This scenario has repeated itself in nearly all of my classes, where students ask me where I am from, and are delighted to discover their teacher is Korean. In some classes, when students find out that I am Korean, they text their friends. Thus, when students enter my class, they immediately greet me by saying, “an-young-haa-sae-yo,” instead of “Hello!”  Random students who are not in my classes flash me the “sa-raang-hae” symbol, so word is out.  Some students want to practice their Korean with me, which has prompted me to spend my weekends brushing up and studying Korean. Bye bye Thai lessons.

“사랑해 sa-raang-hae!”

High school = hormones, hormones, hormones

Honestly, I had forgotten about high school hormones. I’ve been told I look like a Japanese movie star, a princess. During one class in which I was giving a test, one boy called me over. “Teacher, you ________   _______.” 

I didn’t hear him, so I leaned over and said, “I didn’t hear you, can you repeat that?” He became bashful, and refused to speak. 

The girl seated next to him announced, “Teacher, he says you are BEAUTIFUL.”

“Thank you!” I said to the blushing boy. Then I pointed to his test and said, “We are on number 9—fill out your answer sheet!”

After struggling for months, losing hope of getting hired in Thailand because I am too old and not white, and feeling pretty worthless, I admit to being unprepared for teen crushes. On me.

Student rocking the mic like a veteran MC.

Shoes lined up outside classrooms. 

Forced to evolve

Not one country, not one person has gone unscathed from the impacts of Covid-19. I understood in a flash that the pandemic was the Universe’s way of forcing people to evolve. We humans need to have our feet put to the fire, to be squeezed into extreme duress before “letting go”. Before taking the leap into the unknown. Before facing our biggest nightmare.

I had been living a cush-life in Chiang Mai, surrounded by myriad comforts, such as accessible markets, cheap prices, and an embarrassing riches of choices: Do I want an espresso, a macchiato, an au lait, a flat white, a long black, a cappuccino with extra dry foam, a latte with no foam?

Transportation options: tuk-tuk, tri-shaw, motorbike taxi, regular taxi, songthaew, mini-bus, big bus. Contrast that with the dearth of options here: I ordered a Grab taxi to take me to the one mall in town. It took fifteen minutes for the taxi to arrive. When I again ordered a Grab taxi to take me home, the app kept saying “searching for a driver” and “unable to secure a driver” for thirty minutes. Finally, a driver accepted my order. Guess what? It was the same driver who drove me to the mall. So now I know that while this town does have Grab taxi service, it boasts a driver pool of one.

I had been living my expat dream in Chiang Mai: studying Thai, spending afternoons in an elegant library, pouring over art books, getting a facial with options such as jade rolling, coconut-milk-masks, or yogurt-honey masks.

Then Covid-19 hit, and so did my finances. Schools suddenly closed, and there would be no refund of my tuition. I needed money. I needed to work. I had to face the reality that I would not get a $30/hour job tutoring adults for a couple of hours a day.  For me, it truly was swallowing the nightmare of a ten-hour-a-day government high school job, and living in an unaesthetic, un-hip small town. 

Students in their “Scout Day” uniforms.

However, working this job has been one of the biggest revelations of my life: I don’t like it—I love it. I had no idea how much I would fall in love with my students. I had no idea I would adore teenagers! I laugh all day long, all because of my students. I endure all the over-time, the chaos, being under-prepared, all because of my students. 

When I took over half of another teacher’s class, that teacher pointed out one boy and said, “Watch out for him.” Him—the boy—it turns out, is extremely bright and clever. Because I never scolded him for his rowdiness, but praised his intelligence, he has become diligent in following my lessons. Because he is a natural leader of his class, the entire class had to fall in line. Yes, they are rowdy—they are 12-13 years old. However, they complete every task asked of them, and they now salute me at the door with ornate, creative greetings. One boy has begun to perform a dance that includes hip gyrations… .

If not for Covid-19, I never would have left my creature comforts in Chiang Mai. I now live a life in which I am drenched in gratitude, blessings, and laughter, all day long.

School dog.

Unfortunately, I splattered curry on my shirt and tried to wash out the grease. Unfortunately, it then looked like I was having a lactating nightmare, and I had a class to teach in ten minutes. Note to self: bring a spare work shirt, or wear a bib when eating lunch.

In my mother’s shoes

My mother was a house wife for twenty-five years. She started her teaching career in her fifties.

Accepting this teaching gig has brought me closer to my mother in a way I never imagined. I feel as if I’m walking in her shoes—but only for a fraction of it.  After long, grueling days of being on my feet all day, the only energy I can summon upon coming home is to take a shower, and stagger into bed. I can hardly take care of myself, let alone another person. My mother, however, did the same thing except she had a near 70km commute (1.5 hours each way), and she came home to three kids! (two of us were already in university). And she had to organize breakfast, dinner, laundry, and a million other needs.

I only experience my mother’s level of sacrifice to the tiniest degree. When my L1 students (11 years old) converge upon me all at once, I am overwhelmed, wondering, “How will I attend to all of these students? And why do these little people have so many needs?”—eg—“Teacher, I am cold, Teacher, I need a pencil, Teacher, I can’t write my name, Teacher, what day is today?”

More than ever, my mother is my role model and mentor.  She continues to advise me regarding lesson plans and creative games to play. I now understand her obsession with Simon and Garfunkel (lyrics). Our home was a living workshop, with lessons in various stages of design and production strewn across the kitchen table, couches, and floors. My mother had a long and successful career, and her students—US military now stationed in bases in South Korea—are testament to her dedication, creativity, and sacrifice.

어머니 감사합니다!

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