Growing Up Clean

My adolescent years were certainly not my proudest decade. Although a little rebellion and teenage mischief are to be expected, and even encouraged in some families, the war I waged in my parents' house was hardly that of the teenage status quo. Other than staying out past curfew, lying about sleepovers at girlfriends' houses, pushing my car in neutral down the street so as to prevent waking my parents by starting my muffer-less vehicular after sneaking out to rendez-vous with whoever may have organized some beers for the wee hours of the morning, I also constantly fought with my mother on any request, big or small (and often they were small), she may have asked of me.

Although my weekly chores were no hassle in my prepubescent years, it seems my pituitary gland not only alerted my hormones, it also triggered a violent reaction to all household duties. Each Friday, I would have to clean the bathrooms, clean and dust the bedrooms, clean the kitchen, and vacuum the house. Chores I shared with my older brother until he left for university. Flying solo on my chores not only encouraged shortcuts to complete the tasks quicker, it also made 'cheating' easier, as my always-honest-brother wasn't there to shake his head in disapproval.

I remember switching the toothbrushes and soap around on the bathroom sinktop, intentionally not spraying or cleaning the surface, reckoning that my mother would see the items misplaced and assume that I'd cleaned sink and merely replaced the items incorrectly. I failed to understand that my mother could see straight through these attempts, as a dirty sinktop looks dirty regardless of toothbrush and soap position. I can also recall crawling on my hands and knees picking bits of lint out of the carpet, and using my hands to push and pull the carpet in rows, so as to trick my mother into thinking that I'd vacuumed. This tomfoolery almost certainly consumed more time than simply pulling out the vacuum and completing the chore correctly. However, in my adolescent brain, it was sensible to work harder if it meant somehow getting around the requests of my mother.

As I've grown into my own womanhood, I find shadows and reflections of my mother in nearly all aspects of my life. Our remarkable resemblance is one so similar that aged grandparents and great uncles cannot distinguish 29 year-old me from their memory of my 29 year-old mother. We also walk, stand, and speak similarly. My father (long since divorced from my mother) recently told me that it must be strange for my mother's family to see so much of young woman her in young woman me. To which I asserted that surely it is stranger for him.

Remarkable resemblance and all exterior similarities aside, my mother and I also share similar personalities. And although adolescent Arielle surely would have never expected it, I have become a weekly house cleaner. However, in my own house, I am sure to actually wipe down the sink and use the vacuum to clean the floors.

A few months ago, when back home visiting my family in the states, my mother, step-father and I traveled to my mother's hometown of Birmingham, Alabama, where my 89 year-old disabled grandmother lives with my not-so-clean uncle. Before my mother even set down all of her luggage, she managed to take out the trash, put on a load of laundry, clean bathrooms, and get the dishes in order. Needless to say, my weekend task was to clean, clean, clean anything my mother thought appropriate. Fortunately, my rebellious years are over and I did each task my mother asked of me with a smile on my face, breaking only to eat or walk the dog with my step-dad.

Upon finishing cleaning my mammaw's room, my mother came to me, a little teary eyed and expressed how appreciative she was that I was there to help. She hugged me and said, "I'm so happy you're here, and you don't mind cleaning." To which I responded that I was sorry my willingness to help came as such a surprise.

It's moments like these that show me I'm actually an adult now. Doing things for the people we love because we love them is far too simple an idea for the scheming mind of an adolescent. I wish I'd always cleaned my mother's house the way she wanted it. I wish being kind and respectful of my family had been an easier thing for me when I was younger. And although I cannot change my past behaviors, they still bear some utility as a great gauge of my own maturity.

No Short Cuts

I am not of the opinion that anxiety is completely hereditary. Dr. Gabor Mate wrote an extremely informative book which covers (among many others) this subject, entitled "In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts". In this book he discusses the development of the incredibly sensitive, highly evolved human brain during its most crucial period in the womb and the following first year of infancy. Mate reckons if pregnant mothers are stressed, depressed, scared, or anxious for any number of reasons from starvation to a crumbling marriage, their bodies will produce different chemicals that essentially prepare a baby's body and brain for a stressful world. As Mate explains, unborn babies literally swim in the stresses and insecurities of their mothers.

And so must have been the stressful case for my grandmother in my great-grandmother's womb 89 years ago. My Mammaw's (as we say of our grandmothers in Alabama) losing battle with anxiety pains her shoulder, leaves visitors at the door, and causes those who love her to keep possible dangerous information away from its grip. I can remember, when I was younger, gearing up for the 9 hour drive south, and my mother specifically instructing my brother and me to keep the visit a secret from Mammaw, so as to save her the grief of worrying over our very-unlikely-yet-possible car crash on the way down.

When my mother was 9 years old or so, she was bitten by one of the neighborhood dogs; as my mother screamed and cried from the bite, my Mammaw, unknowing of the guilty dog, ran to my mother's aid, offering from her terror-filled expression sound advice, "Oh, Margaret, rabies is such a terrible death!"

And while I cannot bring myself to believe that the gene for an unhealthy dose of anxiety passed from my mother and on to me is the sole cause for my irrational anxiety, nail bitting, sore stomach, bad sleep, and headaches, I'm fairly certain I was born with a predisposition for my irrational unease of common and distressed situations alike.

My anxiety has always been the precursor to every aspect of my personality. When I was 4 years old, stretching for my first ballet class, my mother watched as all the other uncoordinated 4-year-olds laughed and chatted to one another, and I stood alone, rubbing my hands together and bitting the inside of my mouth, terrified that I'd fail in a ballet class for 4-year-olds.

In my elementary school days, I was a swimmer. I was certainly not the best young swimmer, but I was fast enough to win a few heats and take home the occasional ribbon here and there. But racing gave me such angst that I'd spend the night before the meets, tossing and turning, with my stomach burning completely unable to sleep, fearing the races, fearing losing, fearing everything.

And then one day, in my late adolescence, a doctor gave me a little pill called Paxil. It knocked me out, allowing me to sleep more heavily than I'd ever slept, and when I awoke, I felt no stress. For the first time, in my young, nail-bitting, ulcer-making life I felt no stress. Weights lifted from my shoulders; my head stopped ringing with 'shoulds' and 'shouldn'ts'; I could breath before I spoke; life seemed doable.

But like all synthetic, man-made things, the pills' effects were short-lived. Eventually, my brain built tolerance to the increased release of chemicals, and while my stresses never returned, a numbness blanketed over me. Numbness, for those of us accustomed to living in the extremes, is a far greater sentence than a life plagued with irrational anxiety. So off the pill I went.

The past 10 years of my life have been a slow progression toward finding natural ways to ease my anxiety, and so too will be the next 10 years, and all of the following decades of my life. And while I don't mean to completely discredit the importance of a pill that can show a never-been-calm brain how easy life can seem, I am a firm believer of there being no short-cuts to healthiness. Just as we cannot take pills to lose weight, or have our fat liposuction-ed off of us and truly be physically fit, neither can we take mood-alternating drugs and expect that this alone will help to find peace within our minds.

Secular meditation has been the single most beneficial aspect to calming my mind, though it has not been an easy accomplishment. Asking a constantly fluttering adult mind to sit still and concentrate on nothing is on par with asking grandpa to learn to ride a unicycle. Stillness is something my mind has never known, and teaching it to undo decades of learned behaviors is quite the task. When I began meditating, I could sit still for maybe 1 minute, on good day. But each day, stillness becomes more and more attainable. That said, I've been meditating daily for nearly 3 years now, and 15 minutes pushes my maximum for truly remaining still and thinking of nothing other than the constant inhaling and exhaling of my breath.

When we stop working, stop socializing, stop exercising, stop eating, turn off the TV, put down the books, turn off the music, shut down the computer, get off the phone, and turn off the lights, what's left but the constant inhaling and exhaling of breath? If peace cannot be found in this space, it'll never be found while surroundings buzz.

Reading and Feeling, Feeling and Reading

I am highly effected by everything. Sensitive may be a better word. When I was a kid, I couldn't use but a few types of soap for fear of all-day itchy repercussions. My mom had to buy and use expensive 'for sensitive skin types' detergent to wash my clothes or my skin was sure to break out in itchy welts. My Aunt Kim once sent a big, perfumed, birthday doll to me and after spending one night snuggled up to my new stuffed friend, I awoke, itching, red faced, miserable, and down one stuffed friend.

I am also allergic to penicillin; every Dr.'s appointment I can remember included my mother's retelling of my first and (then) only experience with penicillin. As an infant, infected with some sort of bacteria capable of penetrating all my body's natural attempts to create antibodies, a Dr. prescribed kiddy penicillin to me. "So maybe you were allergic to the suspension, and not the actual drug," my mother always explained. Recently, however, in Korea, my allergy to the drug was confirmed by a Dr. who failed to ask about my medication history and so prescribed me something in the penicillin family. When the glands around my neck swelled up so big it hurt to open my mouth fully, and breathing became a task, I figured it wasn't the suspension.

In the same way that my skin and blood are highly effected by various common elements, so too are my preceptions, feelings, emotions, and awarenesses. A few weekends ago, I was staying alone, in a Hotel in Seoul. I awoke hours before I assumed my mates in the next room would begin to stir, so I flipped on the TV and searched for the few English-speaking channels. I came across a movie, that had I been in an English-speaking country, I surely would have flipped past, however, I decided to watch Armageddon this early Sunday morning. Two minutes later, Liv Tyler is crying as she talks to her oil drilling, recently-made astronaut, hero, father, Bruce Willis, over the NASA TV phone, and I started crying. I wasn't crying heavily, I don't even remember my breathing getting much deeper, but tears definitely fell out of one of my eyes.

When I was in High School (it may have been Jr. High), I was reading a book about a woman who was domestically abused by her husband. I can't remember the specifics of the story, but I can remember reading the book in my parents' music room, and setting the book down one afternoon, when my step dad suggested that I stop reading the book. He insisted that it was changing my moods, which I refused to knowledge in my stubborn teenage self. But if I can cry over 2 minutes of Liv Tyler saying good-bye to Bruce Willis as he is about to die saving the Earth, I'm sure I was moody, mean, angry and sad while reading an entire book about a woman regularly being smashed into by a person she once loved.

Recently, I've been tearing through books, in the past three weeks, I've finished an atheist's manifesto on how 'religion poisons everything'; a short story suggested by a friend about a fella who has no real substance thus faking everything he does in life, from his relationships to group meditation; the published journal of a man who, in the 1950s darkened his white skin, so he could travel through the racist south as a black man; David Sedaris' hilarious accounts of his ordinary life in his not-so-ordinary accounts of life; and I am 50 pages away from finishing a book that discusses ADD in such great detail that I've made mental lists of all the people I need to send this book to.

When I was reading the atheist's manifesto (God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens), I found my mind constantly considering ways that secular society could work harder to provide some of the invaluable services that church societies (for example) notoriously do well. I even envisioned conversations where I would passionately prove to some devout believer that the (few) benefits of religion can exist without all the scary lies of an 'invisible man in the sky' (to quote my partner) and eternal burning hell for sinners.

As I read the published journal of John Howard Griffin, entitled Black Like Me, I couldn't help but constantly think and talk about homogeneous Korea and its overwhelming problems with racism. Usually, westerners feel 'positive' racism here in Korea. Store owners give us freebies just because we are the first westerner to walk into their store; Children say 'beautiful' and 'pretty' in Korean with looks of awe across their faces when we walk past. However, we do get a fair share of mean stares from the older generation who'd rather English not be such a priority for their country's future.

Additionally, when I showed a picture of black South African children to one of my 5th grade classes, they couldn't stop laughing. And when I showed them a picture of white South Africans, they didn't believe that these people were African. A friend of mine while teaching an adult class, was explained by a Korean adult that a black person couldn't swim to safety off of a deserted island, because black people can't swim, they just sink. Regardless of whether the treatment is positive or negative, the motivation behind the behavior is one based purely upon race; and so is racist.

Furthermore, I couldn't help but imagine someone performing this same experiment in Asia; Korean Like Me, we'd name the book. Some westerner would disguise as a Korean, speak the language fluently and take note of all the differences felt by Koreans if they considered you 'one of them'. Upon completing this book, I vowed to study Korean harder!

While I was reading David Sedaris' latest book (or at least I think it's his latest), When You Are Engulfed in Flames, I couldn't help but narrate my life in short stories that started and ended with the same funny sequence. I began noticing the hilarious irony in everything mundane,. I couldn't help but think and rethink about those various stories that I'd told and retold to friends, which were capable of eliciting some sort of laugh; hence the increase in my blogging over the past few weeks!

Currently, I'm reading Scattered by Gabor Mate, M.D. He discusses, in detail the importance of unstressed, loving parents for the brain development (to avoid developing ADD) of infants. I find my mind wondering to stories of my own infancy, my partner's, my brothers, my mothers, my fathers, my step-brothers, my nephews, my step-mothers, my step-fathers, my friends, my friends' partners, my friends' partners' families, and so on. Not to say that I believe everyone in my life and in the lives of everyone I know to have ADD, but in my wondering mind I am certainly assessing why people I know seem to have more stability versus other people that I know.

This book has made me infinitely more thankful for my mother and her innate kindness and empathy, and it is scaring me silly at the prospect of one day becoming a mother as well.

I suppose a less-sensitive person could be more sensible with their thoughts and feelings; able, possibly, to read a book without transforming their every thought into the issues discussed in the book (or heavily feeling a senseless, overly dramatic good-bye scene in a 2 star action movie). But I'm certain that were I to become less sensitive, it would only numb my feelings, rather than make them more logical!

What's in a Name?

When I was a young girl of just 5 years old, entering a whole new life of public schooling, I was sorely disappointed to learn that despite how special I may have felt leaving my house, in my brand new blue skirt, complimented by adorable blue suspenders, I was merely just another 'Nicole' in a sea of adorably dressed 5-year-old 'Nicoles' placed in Ms. Wachimici's class for morning kindergarten that year. And out of our Nicole posse, 3 of us were 'Nicole B.' My name every weekday from 8:00am - 12:30pm, therefore went from Nicole, to Nicole B. to Nicole Ba.

I can't say that it was at this 5-year-old moment that I decided to change my name, but just 3 years later, when my family decided to move to a new city, I decided to push Nicole aside and use my unique, rolls-off-your-tongue middle name; Arielle. At the time of my decision, my biggest concern with name changing was the similarity between the sounds of Arielle (long 'A' sound, 'E' in the middle and 'Elle' at the end, sounding more like the three letters R-E-L) and Oreo cookie. Despite my desire to be as unique as possible, childhood name teasing was high on my list of angst as well. Fortunately, the 'Oreo' vs. 'REL' similarity only occurred to a few, and so never caught on as a source of childhood torment.

However, I could have never foreseen the Little Red-Headed Mermaid flipping her way to ruin my childhood; and certainly couldn't have predicted her everlasting effect of the mispronunciation of my name for decades. Even now most people choose to hear me say, Ariel (Air-E-ul) when I introduce myself. And then I have to awkwardly, even snobbishly correct the mispronunciation, 'No, Arielle, more like the tree letters, R-E-L.' And most people, I imagine, envisioning that beautiful red-headed mermaid princess, nod yes, yes yes, and say 'I see, Air-E-ul'.

After we moved, when I was in forth grade, there was a great rumor about the new girl, 'that she loved Disney movies so much, she'd changed her first name in honor of the mermaid, and her last (Ballou), to represent the Jungle bear.' Years later, I had a friend tell me that my names were more like a Disney catastrophe, a Mer-bear, all flippers and scales on the bottom, and all gilled bear on the upper half. Or perhaps a Bear-maid, if you will.

These days when I reveal my name change, friends always insist that I seem more like an 'Arielle' anyway. As if to suggest the common 'Nicole' is inferior in some way to the more unique and more often mispronounced 'Arielle.' And I have to consider, if I am more of an 'Arielle' than a 'Nicole' more unique in character in some way than all those other Nicole B.s from my kindergarten posse, then need I have changed my name anyway? Could I have not been just as unique in character had I gone by Nicole Ba all my life?

Min-Ji

As much as teachers like to pretend to be fair and loving toward all their students, every teacher has a favorite. In this case, I'm not referring to a teacher's pet, possibly a student, per class, who answers all the questions, sits quietly, and gets perfect marks. Rather, I'm referring to that student, often from the very beginnings of the teacher's career, who remains fixed in the teacher's memory for the rest of their career, 100s or 1000s of students later, no student can replace that one.

That one for me is Min-Ji. She was in my kindergarten class of 4-year-olds my very first year of teaching in Seoul. When I first met her the only English feelings she could explain were, 'water' and 'bathroom' and 6 months later when my 1st year contracted ended and I headed home, she could speak in full sentences about how she 'needs to eat all the little tomatoes at snack time, because her friends don't like them.'

Min-Ji loved food. Everyday when snack and lunch time hit, she'd be the first to remove herself from playtime, and rush to the table, take a look at that day's feast, anything thing from cherry tomatoes to fried pork cutlet to dried squid and say, 'Ahhh, mashi ket da.' And everyday I'd tell her, 'Min-ji, in English we say, 'It looks delicious,' not mashi ket da.' And everyday, she'd nod her head and say something like, 'Yes, teacher, I know 'it looks delicious,' but this is food, not English.'

For Min-Ji playtime was different than that of the other students. She'd often play by herself. Not because the others excluded her, but because she didn't want sit in the corner with the girls and giggle over boys, and she certainly didn't want to play Yugiyo cards (a little like Pokeman cards) with the boys. She'd often grab a story time book, sit in my spot on the carpet and make nonsensical 'English' sounds. During class time, Min-ji could manage to stay in her seat, as long as the craft or lesson interested her. She'd often get up from her seat, walk into the hall way, get some water, or talk to the ladies at the front desk, all because she found class 'jami obso yo', boring.

Min-ji was also a little gross. During story time, I'd catch her sniffing her classroom slipper (Korean kiddies wear slippers at school), and when I finally reprimanded her a little for the strange social faux pas, she said, 'Sorry teacher,' and motioned with her slipper as though she were giving me a chance to sniff it too. She understood that my tone meant reprimand, but thought herself guilty not of being gross, but rather of not sharing the slipper that was giving her so much pleasure!

She also occasionally ate her boogers, and I would always discretely hand her a tissue when I'd catch her digging away at some treasure up her little nose. When I finally had to explain to her that we don't eat boogers in class, she said, "But, teacher, Jjan got." To which I responded, that I still didn't speak Korean very well, so I didn't understand. At this, Min-Ji's look was one more of determination than discouragement. The next day, in class, as her finger slowly met her nose, a light bulb went on in Min-ji's head. She excitedly raised her hand, nearly fell off her little chair and repeated, 'Teacher, teacher, teacher!" She explained, in her not yet perfect English, "Yesterday, Min-ji, home go. mom and dad, 'Jjan got' English ask. Salty thing!" I took this to mean that she'd gone home after our booger consultation and asked her parents how to say 'Jjan got' in English so she could explain to me that she didn't want to stop eating her boogers, because they were salty and delicious!

I often wonder what shoe Min-ji is sniffing today, and hope that she's still reading stories at play time because it's what she wants to do. But I fear, especially, in this incredibly homogeneous society, that Min-ji's uniqueness has been sucked out of her. But in my memory, she'll always remain a shoe sniffing, booger eating, always hungry, story reading individual. Min-ji.

Sauna Sagas...

I find it strange that in our language these words with seemingly polar meanings differ in spelling by only one wee letter. Amuse. Abuse. Likewise, the pronunciation of ‘b’ versus ‘m’ is quite similar. We press the front part of our lips together to initially produce both sounds. However, to differentiate, the ‘b’ sound, (much like my word of focus ‘abuse’), is a bit more forceful, requires more action to produce, and necessitates pushing air from your mouth, whereas the ‘m’ sound (as is true for my other word of focus ‘amuse’), creates a softer sound, lips remain closed; one can possibly even transition easily to a smile from the softer ‘m’ sound.

 

Linguistics aside, these words conceptually dance (shower? swim? sweat?) a paradoxical jig. This paradox, recently smiled, then winked at me, pointed her long thin finger my way then politely asked of me to join in her dance (shower? swim? sweat?).

 

If not for Korean bathhouses, I may never have returned to this wee peninsular nation (and to be pedantic, I am not actually on the peninsula this year, as I am living on Korea’s answer to Hawaii, the tropical island of Jeju Do). Bathhouses, Saunas, Jim Jil Bongs, call them what you like, to me, they are hot and steamy, egg smelling, salt rubbing, nude bits of heaven. I frequent the bathhouse near my apartment at least four times a week, cancel plans with mates to allow for my alone, naked, self-indulgence, and wake up hours before work just to make time for at least an hour of a sweating/frigid cold-water dipping combo. I even have my own Korean-style plastic basket complete with shampoo, mineral soap, loofa, salt, lotions, baby oil and the like. Women on their way to the sauna are easy to spot in Korea, they walk the streets, basket in hand, sandals on feet, often clad in velvet tracky-daks, spirits noticeably high.

 

All people are welcome to join in the gender-separated, naked bathhouse experience in Korea. Though most Koreans are of the opinion, and I reckon correctly so, that Wae-Guks (Westerners) are not so comfortable with their nakedness in rooms, baths, saunas, whirl-pools, stem-rooms, icy tubs, and showers full of same-gendered naked people. Beyond calming your ‘exposed’ nerves, the bathhouses encompass a variety of rules, that seem quite second nature to Koreans, but certainly become the learned affair for the Wae-guks.

 

Mind you, not all Jim Jil Bongs are the same, but essentially, when you arrive and pay your entry fee (anywhere from 3,000 won to 10,000 won), you are handed three very small towels and a key attached to a bit of plastic that can easily wrap around your wrist or ankle. Then enter through some glass doors, where you have to take off your shoes and put them in the very small box that matches your key number. Proceed past the shoe storage area into the locker rooms find the locker to match your key. Completely undress, leave one towel in your locker, that plastic key ensemble locks your locker, key around wrist, grab the remaining two towels and head to the saunas. Just as Wae-guks do for public pools, you must rinse off before entering the stem rooms or whirl-pools. While rinsing off, wet both towels, one towel goes atop your head, one is used to keep your bum from burning when sweating away in the stem rooms. After rinsing, your next step is completely up to you. Stem-rooms? Whirl-Pools? A scrub down by an Adgema (Adgema means Korean for older woman, scrub downs cost extra, but basically entail laying naked on a soft plastic bed where an (often saggy) Adgema dressed in lacey black underwear and bra uses various soaps, yogurts, milk, and lotions to scrub every last bit of dead skin off your entire body)? Room-Temperature Bath sit? Mineral Water soak? Icy Bath sit? The status quo of a sauna adventure materializes along the lines of somewhere really hot, then really cold, hot and stretch, cold and swim, hot, cold, until you’re too light headed to continue. Shower thoroughly, scrubbing away all your dead skin (if the Adgema think your scrub-down efforts poor, you may be lucky enough to receive help from them al la a full body scrub from a complete-stranger, customer!), brush your teeth, wash your hair, shake the water off. Return to your locker, dry off, use one or many of the various lotions/hair products left for customer use, dry your hair (again if an adgema thinks your hair drying ability sub-par you may get a free hair styling!), get dressed, grab your basket, unlock your shoes, head home/to work/to a date, beaming from a serious cleanse!

 

Needless to say, I quite enjoy my possibly-too-much time spent at these naked wonders. Because of my frequent visits I’ve accumulated some pretty amusing stories that quite frankly, have possibly escalated to something more abusive. And herein lies my point of paradox, exemplified through a naïve American twenty-something naked woman, in a Korean bathhouse.

 

In the beginning, it was merely hand gestures. Often I am the only Wae-guk customer and it is common for the older woman to tap me on the shoulder, ramble off Korean that is far too fast and full of too much vocabulary unknown to me, then make an hour glass shape with both their hands, and ‘ohhh and awww’ at my not-so-Korean womanly shape. I smile, not knowing what to say, usually I say Kam sah ham nida (Korean for Thank-you), but I don’t really feel entitled to thank these woman for pointing out that through years of procreating my race has developed wider hips than theirs. It is certainly not something I can base any sort of personal pride upon, still a smile, a small bow, and a thank-you.

 

Then came the touching. Tattooing is an illegal practice in Korea. I am not widely tattooed by any means, still a western person in a bathhouse is unusual enough, but a tattooed Wae-guk…My wee tattoo sits low on the right hand bit of my back. For nearly a decade that tattoo has exposed itself only to those who’ve spent more intimate time with me, and likewise has seen very little action. But since my obsessive bathhouse visits began, my wee eleFant tatt has been touched, rubbed, pinched and slapped more times than she can remember (eleFant memories, keke).

 

And then with the hair-pulling. Paying a bit extra to hire one of the adgemas to scrub your body down with various soaps and the like opened a whole new world of soft-skinned, womanhood to me. Before I came to Korea, I didn’t even know I could have soft skin, but after thirty minutes with an adgema equipped with loofa and lotion, demanding that I flip this way, arm here, leg this way, cucumber mask here, head scrubbing there, BAM soft skinned Arielle. (I must further comment, that the adgema who gave me my first rub down was LESS than impressed with how much dead skin she scrapped from me. Upon finishing, she collected a hand full of my dead skin and shoved it in my face, telling me to never let it get this bad again!). My last scrub-down ended quite amusingly (abusively?). The adgema hit twice on my belly, bap bap, indicating she was finished, then as I went to sit up, she pushed me back down, her forearm to my chest, onto the pink rubber cushioned bed, grabbed my pubic hair, smiled at me and said, “Ee Puta,” meaning very cute. One of the adgemas working in this particular sauna in Seoul could speak English, and she offered a translation. “Uhh, che meansu you bagina is puh-li-tty.” Right, actually, I understood that, but thanks translator! Again with the ‘What on earth do I say here?’ Thanks? Bow, sorta smile, and Kam sah ham nida.

 

And then with the ‘bad’ touch. Some of the bathhouses offer these incredibly hot, oven-like blissfully-sweating saunas. These are, undoubtedly, hands down, irrevocably my favorite. They’re so hot, it’s difficult even to breathe. The first time I entered one of these smoldering ovens complete with a rack of cooking eggs, I could manage to sit for a mere 50 seconds, at best. When I stumbled out the little door, gasping for breathe, I met three of the workers awaiting my swift defeat, laughing away at the Wae-guk who just couldn’t take the heat! As obvious as they were with their amusement for my inability to manage my overheating, so too were they congratulatory when I lasted the full five minutes after weeks of preparation. Clapping for me, cold towels in hand, ‘Cha dae so! Ah li ael! Cha dae so!’ (Good job Arielle, Good job!) Thumbs up, these adgema were proud of me! Needless to say, Koreans don’t expect too many Wae-guks in these really hot rooms, and as I’ve begun to frequent this particular sauna in Jeju, my sit-and-sweat-through-overheating ability is often the topic of conversation among the other woman sitting around me. I insist that I can speak no or very little Korean, still they insist on talking to me. And as is often the case for language barriers, when words fail, actions triumph. Recently, one of the Adgema grabbed her boob, and then grabbed mine, motioning as though she wanted to take mine and give me hers as an exchange. I smiled, surely I giggled as well. Then another woman behind her grabbed my belly fat, and kept saying “Anheyo” (No), meaning she thinks I have too much fat on my belly. To which another Adgema combated with “Mee guk” (American) then pointed at me. More Korean shouting, banter across the wee oven of a room, then heaps of laughter. One woman blew her cheeks out, rounded her arms and said, Mee guk again, surely calling Americans fat. She grabbed my belly once again and said ‘Kin chan a yo’ (It’s ok). Essentially, I’m assuming that I may have a fat belly by Korean standards, but most of my countrywomen are fat, so I need not be ashamed! This bathhouse day ended as a few of the Adgema scrubbed me down for free in the oven room with salt and a wooden spoon, complete with fat pulling here, and skin slapping there!

 

I certainly do not consider these experiences abusive by any means, though if not rationalizing the situations with this cultural difference, or that naivety of worldliness, possibly I’d turn a more critical eye. Nevertheless, the paradox is clear, one naked woman’s amuse(ment) is another naked woman’s abuse. 

A Day in Danville

“Deep-sigh, Arielle, you’re-absent-minded-but-please-woman, maintain-some-sort-of-calm, cheery-demeanor as you whine your worries away.” The phone rings, Mr. B answers, though I was ringing to speak with his daughter.

 

“Good Morning, Mike speaking.”

“It’s not morning anymore, Mr. B.” Do I sound cheery enough?

“Hey, your right, Rel, Good Afternoon.”

“And to you…Oh, Mr. B, you’ll never believe what I just did.” A bit whiney, but still cheerful, I reckon.

“Alright, Rel, what won’t I believe?”

“I’ve filled my bloody gas tank with diesel.” Sitting on the trunk of my ambiguously purple car, rather my parent’s ambiguously grey car, I take a drag from the last of my Marlboro Ultra Lites.

“Ohh” Small amused, yet sympathetic chuckle from Mr. B, “Where are you?”

“I don’t know, sitting near a Route 66 fill-up station in Alderdon, Alkerton, not Auckland but somewhere in Illinois.” Thirty minutes from Hicksville, Twenty miles south of Poe Dunk, just down State Road 000, on the way to trailer trash Americana.

“You didn’t drive the car after the mistaken fill, right?”

“No, no I realized my blunder before exacerbating this bloody crisis, hey,” heavy exhale, roll my eyes, shake my head, feel, embrace, maul in my stupidity. “I threw the car into neutral and some of the local boys helped to push the poison filled vehicle a bit away from the station. The tow truck’s on the way, rah rah rah, the plan is to tow the car to the dealership, pump the diesel out and set me free. Though I reckon I could solve the issue with a hose, a bucket and a wee suck, but I suppose I shouldn’t take those chances with my parent’s ambiguously purple car.”

Mr. B.’s genuine and short chuckle, “Good thinking. I’ll let Rach know you called, she and Duncan are out running errands, and I don’t think they grabbed their phone. But I’ll make sure she calls you when they get home. Suppose you’ve learned ‘The Lesson of the Green Handle’ now, anyway. Hang in there girl.”

“Right on. Thanks Mr. B, talk to you later.”

 

Trunks of cars are not such bad places to sit; I bring my purple and green striped-sock clad legs to a half lotus and lean back on my rear windshield. I recall the advise of Rach and Dunk. They warned me against making the journey to STL sans my guitar, and I am now regretting my laziness. It just would have been one more trip inside to grab the ole beaten instrument. Looking though my very small handbag, in an attempt to find something to captivate my attention, I pull out my wee camera, take some pictures, want to be sure to document the blunder accordingly.

 

I decide to ring McKenzie to let him know the estimated delay of my arrival, and the reason thereof. McKenzie, quite aware of my absent mind, older-brotherly pokes fun. Still, he knows my buttons quite well, and avoids them by toning down the wit.

“I’m sure mom’s done something like this before,” he offers as support.

“Wow, Mac, nice attempt at making me feel better, but that’s just not doing it for me.”

“Ok, ok, don’t worry about when you make it into town. Just be careful and let me know when you start heading west again.”

“No worries, mon frere. Much love. Later.”

 

Still atop my trunk, leaning back on the windshield, I close my eyes, a nap isn’t such a bad idea at this point. I’m a bit sleepy, stayed up late last night at Ashin’s party. The air feels edgy warm, yet windy, a bit like tornado air. The day is grey, the conditions are perfect for an outdoor nap. I doze off for a bit.

 

Moments later, my father rings. I need to change the bloody ringtone on this phone. Apparently my brother is the leak. Daddio makes fun of me, but only minimally, then fakes sympathy. Words of advise, rah, rah, rah. The conversation ends. Rach and Dunk ring. I recall the incident, they laugh, reiterate how I should have brought my guitar, or at least my computer. I could, after all, work on the Rosetta Stone in my boredom. I laugh. Rach’s ever-so-helpful words of encouragement end the phone call.

 

I can see the tow-truck in the distance. Illinois is just as flat as Indiana. Fourteen miles of visibility in every direction, baby. It nears. The driver sees me sitting on my trunk, checks his clipboard, nods and pulls the tow-truck in front of my sick car.

“I’m the silly woman, who filled her car with diesel,” I offer as Hello.

“Hey, don’t worry, I dunit three times myself,” he twangily responds.  I am always awestruck by the difference in dialect…just two hours out of my hometown. I kindly smile at his confession, but quickly realize, he just said he has filled his tank three times with diesel by mistake. My goodness, I feel stupid enough for doing it once. Three times, really? I try to keep from exposing my surprise at his stupidity, but surely my eyelids, pulled by my eyebrows, rise, revealing a bit of my judgmental sentiment. Instead of my expression, he notices my empty box of Marlboros,

“Hey, we smoke the same cigarettes,” A twangy observation from my tow-truck knight.

I manage to prevent from laughing as I think, AND we both pump diesel into out cars.  Soul mates, yeah?  Surely!

 

I’ve never ridden in a tow-truck before. I climb in. In the front, it’s the same as any other truck, honestly I don’t know what I was expecting. We ride, all windows down, thirty miles east back to Danville. I fill with excitement when I realize that I have the opportunity to reread the ‘Guns Save Life’ signs, but then in a fit of even more enthusiasm, realize that the signs on the East bound side of I-74 are different from those I read heading west. In a series of short, black signs with simply-printed white painted letters, the first one reads, (1) “Society is Safer” (2) “When Criminals” (3) “Don’t Know” (4) “Who’s Armed”. Wowee, I smile, my tow-truck knight notices, and responds with his two-toothed smile. The next series of signs reads, (1) “Gun Control is” (2) “Race Control” (3) “Not Crime Control” (4) “And it’s Unamerican,” suppose I’m a bit un-American myself, as I don’t really even understand the second set of those signs!  (For more information on these inspiring signs, you can visit gunssavelife.com, dead set).

 

We exit into Danville. My knight warns me against blinking so as not to miss downtown Danville. I chuckle a bit, he seems pleased with his attempt at humor. After winding past a small town church, fast-food row, another town church, the post office, another church, and the very American variety of diners, we near the edge of this very typical – looking Midwestern oasis. We turn onto a four-lane state road lined with car dealership after car dealership; eventually we pull into Danville Honda.

 

My knight parks the tow-truck and I pay him the $70 fee, then I consider making a comment about how damsels in distress used to offer merely a kiss as gratitude to their knights in shining armor. But quickly fear that such a comment might manifest as flirtation, and then I may feel obliged to kiss this two-toothed fella and still pay the $70. Instead I offer a kind thank-you and a smile, then exchange the money for my pink receipt.

 

I enter the dealership. Everyone is strangely happy. Big toothy smiles on faces, wide-eyed and cheerful employees greet me. Apparently I am the only customer, and each of the employees is aware that I am the diesel damsel. I turn over my key, sign some papers, grab some free coffee and sweet bread. Then I make my way to the ever so comfortable waiting room. The blue and white floral print couch is wildly inviting. I slip my shoes off, place my coffee and sweet bread on the small end table, and curl up on one side of the couch. I pull my short skirt down to cover any inappropriateness, bend my legs, and half smile as my sleepiness consumes me.

 

On this grey evening in Danville, I awake as one of the employees gently taps my shoulder, “Miss Ballou, you car’s ready.” I slowly open my eyes, quickly realizing my location. Then turn to my attention to my left, and notice that someone has very kindly placed a wad of paper towel just under my drooling mouth. When afternoon napping, I often drool creating puddles of bad breath embarrassment. I pick up the paper towel, grab my handbag, slip my shoes back on, and stand up. I turn back and see an old man, sitting on the other side of that oh-so-comfy-waiting room-couch. He sits, all wrinkly and small, clad in running shorts, jacked up white socks with Nike tennis shoes, and an old light blue Illinois basketball t-shirt. His baseball cap sits low on his bald head. Old mate smiles, another gap-friendly smile, gives me two thumbs up and says, “Looking good, Pinky!”

 

I half smile from confusion, stumble a bit on my way out of the waiting room, then realize that I’m wearing pink underwear. Goodness knows how long old mate was perving on my sleeping, drooling, pink-underwearing self!

 

I pay the ridiculous fee for my ridiculous mistake. And when grabbing for my receipt, the strangely pierced, gelled and perfectly parted hair-styled, 15-year-old looking boy behind the counter slips me his phone number. Confused, I look at both documents, turn my head to the side and say, “Thanks?” Big-eyed, and repressing my laughter, I leave the Danville Honda dealership, just at sunset. My Day in Danville concludes!