meetings

It's close to one o clock but I cannot sleep. Tomorrow is the last day of the semester. I have no classes, but I will have to attend a "teacher's meeting." In Korea, a "meeting" means meeting but not a meeting. We will be meeting, but no business will be discussed. We will gather around tables, sit on floors and cook pieces of pork fat over hot grills until the grease pops and slaps our wrists and faces. Mr. Chae, the head teacher whose long wrinkled face is like a mix of Bogart and my grandfather, will call me his Audrey Hepburn and pour tasteless beer for me. I will drink and pass him the cup. I will fill it with two hands, and he will sip, the oil imprints of my lips opaque against the glass.

I will look at the faces around me. Some are kind, most smile when I smile, but still remain as politely mysterious as when I (or they) arrived. I have to always be careful what I say. Their English surprises me. It creeps up slowly and unexpected like an errant crocus in January; a surprise, but always a delight. I will sit next to the music teacher and crack jokes in simple Korean to keep those at my table laughing. Then, when everyone has been drinking, I will fall silent, as no longer does anyone have the knowledge or patience to whisper translations in a foreign tongue. I will eat, and smile, and wait until it is time to go home. My school is one of commuters and mothers, and we never stay past eight.