A Boy Named Tim

Most Koreans have English names, and this is about an encounter I had with Tim and his mom. I’ve been debating whether or not I should write about this particular event, because you see, it’s been a struggle for me to deal with and I am wary to put others through it as well. But if I am true to my word and indeed report on my experiences while teaching English in Korea, than this is a situation that needs to be told. After all, it is about cultural differences.

To start with, I think I should mention teachers in Korea have the power to practice corporal punishment, though, as a foreigner, I’m not expected to do so. That being said, if it is acceptable, and even promoted, for a teacher to strike a student, than you can well imagine what liberties parents may have with their own children.

The receptionist of Sky English Academy has 2 sons, Matthew who is 10, and Tim who is 8. Because my classroom is apart from the rest of the school, I rarely go into the lobby where the receptionist works, but a couple of weeks ago I did. As I walked through the sliding glass doors, I saw the receptionist pulling the hair of her youngest son. She roughly pulled his head from side to side, stopped, then did it again. Of course I was taken aback. I’ve never seen the receptionist angry. I’ve never seen a Korean teacher or parent physically punish a child before. And the force she pulled his hair seemed both extreme and excessive. But it didn’t stop there.

In the time it took me to enter the room, she had stopped pulling his hair and started to repeatedly slap and scratch his face. I can’t be sure if they were open handed slaps or not, nor can I be sure just how many blows he endured. By the time I reached the desk she had moved on to punching him in the stomach. I just stood there. Her back was to me, and the boy faced me. I stood there holding out the tests I had come to give her. I stood there and did nothing. Said nothing. I just stood there and watched. The boy looked at me, which notified his mom I was there. She turned, took the tests from my outstretched hands, smiled, and turned back around. I dazedly walked back toward my classroom.

Before I left the room I looked over my shoulder to see her kick the feet out from under him, where he fell and was no longer visible from behind the reception desk. I can’t be sure, but I think I she continued to kick after he fell.

I got to my classroom and my head was reeling. I couldn’t believe what I had just seen. I wanted to make sense of that encounter, and more so, I desperately wanted to understand my complete lack of action. I turned around and went back to the lobby.

No one was there. I stood there once again, not saying anything, not doing anything. I became aware of the time and the fact that I had a class in a few minutes, so I walked back to my sanctuary. My classroom. There on the stairwell, was the little boy I later learned was named Tim. He was looking out the window, silently crying. He saw me and took off down the stairs. I followed him.

I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know how much English he spoke. I just said, ‘Wait. Wait.’ He did not wait. I caught up with him at the bottom of the stairs. I had no idea what to do or what to say. I had no idea what he could understand. I looked at his little face, tear stained, bloody lip, and scratched on the left side, and hugged him. It was clear he didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want me to hug me. It was clear he had no idea where he wanted to be. So I just continued to hug him. I wanted to say something comforting to him, but as I said, I don’t teach him, I had no idea what his language skills were. So I said the simplest sentences I could think of.

‘You’re a good boy. I like you. You’re a good boy. I like you.’

I repeated that over and over. He eased up a little and said, ‘I’m okay.’ I went back upstairs and he left the building.

The rest of the day I was proctoring tests, which gave me time to obsess about what just happened. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what really disturbed me. First of all, the mom was not beside herself with rage. She was not inconsolable; she was not full of hatred or malice. She looked like she was performing just another mandatory parental task. Nothing more. Secondly, there was a Korean teacher less than one foot away from both mother and son. She did not look stunned as I was. She was nonplussed. I don’t know what disturbs me more about that.

After my day was done I called Mr. Shin and asked him to meet me at my classroom. I don’t know what I wanted him to say. Maybe I wanted him to explain why Koreans think it is okay to hit children or that her actions were unwarranted. He didn’t say much; mainly he listened to my account and reiterated the cultural differences between Americans and Koreans. I felt it was necessary for me to tell Mr. Shin that, A. I saw this happen and did nothing to stop it, and B. I hugged a student. I’ve never been told not to show affection with students, but beside an occasional high-five, I’ve never touched one of my kids before.

Even though I would have liked to write that I interceded and fought the just fight, I did not. I saw something I disagreed with and did nothing. My lack of action was not because I feared what would happen to my job. My immobility had nothing to do with understanding cultural differences. There was no thought process whatsoever. It’s important for me to say that.

It’s been a couple of weeks since this happened, and in that time period I have come to understand a few truths about the situation: If I had intervened I would have made the situation worse. Koreans are big on face, and if I had caused the mom to lose face, I think I would have made things worse. Actually, I know I would have made things worse. Also, when we act on a child’s behalf in the states, it is with the end goal to make things better for the child. If we witness child abuse, we contact children services and someone acts as a mediator. This is not the case here. If I had gotten involved, no one would look out for the little guy’s best interest. There would not be the slightest possibility an interpreter would have taken my statement and the boy would be removed from custody or the mother would be instructed to take parenting classes. There is not a system in place to protect children from the very thing that is not only permitted, but encouraged, in the classroom, let alone the home.

That being said, I do feel obliged to stress, none of those things prevented me from shielding the little guy. If, for some reason, I lose my job, there is another one a block away, and another a block away from that. My particular sets of skills are in high demand, and finding a job would so very easy.

I saw the little guy the next day, and he was his usual cheerful self. He popped his head into my classroom to say hello and goodbye, just as he always had. We’ve never spoken of that day.

I teach his brother, Matthew, and on more than one occasion I have wanted to strangle that kid. Generally, my students are well behaved, but Matthew has been disruptive since the beginning. He tends to act out, makes unwise decisions and doesn’t focus. If any good can come from this, it is having a better understanding about the root of Matthew’s behavioral issues. I since then have adapted my approach with him. Instead of being stern, as Mr. Shin would prefer, I praise and positively reinforce his appropriate behavior. And it’s paid off. He’s gotten better at focusing. He beams with pride when I praise him. He’s a good boy too, it’s just harder for me to see that.

Yesterday I started private lessons with Tim. That is how I learned his name. We have class once a week for an hour. He is a bright kid with a natural aptitude for English. He is polite and respectful, and outshines both his brother and mother in English. And it’s impossible not to smile when he says, ‘See you rater teacher.’ I know I am limited to help him with his home situation, but I can teach him English to the best of my ability and praise and commend him for an hour a week, so that’s something. I’m glad he’s my student.