Teaching English Overseas
May 3 2009


I smile and nod a lot.
Point at things.
Feel eyes, discreetly size me up.
I surprise children,
who stare
at pale-skinned strangers,
as if aliens had come to earth.
And the light, this time of year
seems slightly off-kilter,
the sun
an unfamiliar star.

I feel clumsy, lumpy
among these nimble people,
looking up at me
with bright brown eyes.
I long for conversation,
to go unnoticed,
for the plain food
that gives me comfort.

Here, I spend too much time watching satellite stations,
depend
upon the kindness of strangers.
Where we bow, backing away.
Handshakes are limp
and feel unfinished.
No way to hug
or be embraced.

Even my hair has gone uncut.
When the most meagre touch
would make this so much easier;
how close I’ve come
to running away.

But the ocean
might just as well be inter-planetary space,
and me, an extra-terrestrial
— stranded
light years from home.



Each weekday In the Globe and Mail, in the "Life" section, on a page called "Facts and Arguments", they publish a personal essay submitted by a reader. Today, it was "Lost in translation and losing my hair" by a contributor named Leah Giesbrecht. Her story takes place in Korea. (I've assumed she's there teaching ESL, although this is not actually specified.) She evoked a sense of displacement and distress that I wanted to have a go at in the form of poetry.

The hair loss in the story is both literal and, I assume, metaphorical. When she finally finds an English speaking hair-dresser -- in the most unlikely of places -- and gets the best and most luxurious feeling hair cut ever, she not only feels restored in terms of appearance, not only as a result of the effortless communication, but even more so by the intimacy of touch. I think this is what made her story powerful: how this small crucial intimacy made all the difference; and how its absence intensified the sense of isolation. (Of course, the fact that she had blonde hair was also a great literary device, making her that much more noticeable and self-conscious.)

I suppose my effort demonstrates a distinct lack of imagination, in that I've also made it about a foreign teacher in Korea. (Yes, it is Korea; or at least as I imagined it. And the "limp handshake" is Korean as well (I looked it up!): apparently, they go in for longer handshakes than are customary in the West; but the firm handshake is deemed tasteless and impolite.)

I'm kind of pleased the way I echoed the references to aliens and extra-terrestrials in the astronomical imagery: the sun (especially re-framing it as just another star); along with satellites, extra-planetary space, and light years. I think it's especially alienating, in this era of easy and unthinking intercontinental flight, to see the ocean as it was seen through most of history: as impenetrable, as a barrier as absolute as space travel is today. I also like the self-restraint of having saved the word "home" until the very end, where it really resonates, lingering in the ether for a few extra beats in that privileged position. Because ultimately, this is as much a story about the notion of home as it is about displacement and isolation.

Here is an excerpt from the essay, ending with the one short line that seems inconsequential in the story, yet brings the whole thing home:

"Armed with a Korean phrase book, I navigated streets and back alleys until I found the shop. All the stress of the past 12 months welled up in me as I stammered out the phrase I hoped would get me into the hairdresser's chair. The young man behind the counter looked at me a moment and said, "Don't worry, I speak English. I trained to be a hairdresser in London."
Soon-jin, the hairdresser, swiftly chopped off my long ragged ponytail, let it drop to the floor and kicked it aside. He lathered my head in warm water and shampoo that smelled like cinnamon and massaged my ears. As he trimmed my bangs, I realized this was the first time someone had touched my face in a year."