The Deceptive Nature of the Pygmalion Effect

Efficacy. The heart of America. The soul of our history. The key to our future. The fundamental philosophy of our country is individual efficacy. That is the American Dream. Without it, we need welfare; we need military; we need big brother. Life in Korea has made me appreciate my own self-efficacy.

You see, Korea is fundamentally Pygmalion. The Pygmalion effect is the idea that by setting expectations high, these expectations are more likely to be met. But in Korea, expectations are indefensibly high. This tool is used to pry workers away from their wages -- just like in the states. However, students in Korea also experience this lifestyle. A consistent, amassing set of expectations are placed on students. Once a student has achieved the next level, instead of a reward, another step manifests itself. This is a pervasive aspect of American business culture that has proliferated throughout the world, and in the sad case of Korea, into the classroom.

Expectations inhibit reward. If expectations are met, there is no need to reward anyone. However, when expectations are exceeded, there is an apparent need to reward those who achieved them. If expectations are persistently high, where lies reward?

Typically, I'd default into blaming our culture for destroying these poor bastards lives, but greater forces are at work here. The self-efficacy of a Korean is broken by their culture. The culture of family. Don't misunderstand my intentions. I believe family is very important and a strong family is a recipe for moral and social success. Still, what almost all Koreans feel is a need to satisfy their elders. I don't understand why the weak and decrepit ones dictate society in Korea. It doesn't seem sociologically possible. Examples of this are rare in history and nearly absent in nature. Still, it is prevalent -- beyond prevalent -- it is ubiquitous. Self-efficacy is squelched by family. Obligations to earn a pittance of three USD per hour for 12 hours a day, 7 days a week eviscerate any hopes, dreams, desires, or personality. Perhaps Koreans feel trapped as a gear in a great, overbearing mechanism over which they have no control, but they don't seem to show any signs of faltering.

Can't you see how such a self-fulfilling prophecy is cyclical? A Korean is born into expectations, that are subverted into obligations until the death of all elder relatives. There is a constant sacrifice. As obligations to parents subside, obligations to children (which are inversely expectations) are subsumed. Neither obligation is rewarding, leading to the anticipation of reward in old age. Anticipation and expectations turn the old man dour.

But still, ask your elders if they feel unsatisfied in their age. Ask them if they still feel like you owe them something or ought to usher them to their graves.

Rosenthal was an idiot. Expectations breed contempt, not satiation.

Ajumma Day

Ajumma is a Korean word that means old, married woman. For women who aren't married, it is an insult. In a way, it means a woman who is spoken for or generally lacks vitality. While many men call their wives ajumma, it isn't really considered a polite term if you aren't certain the subject is married. They usually wear visors and have short, curly perms. They travel in packs of short and squat fury. Ajummas have certain rights that come with their age.

First of all, an ajumma has the innate right to scream and curse at anyone who walks by them or behaves in a way they don't personally consider acceptable. They have the right to crowd the sidewalk with their buckets of herbs and leaves and sit and gossip. What a 50- or 60-year-old woman would have to gossip about I don't know, but I have on occasion heard them talk about me as I pass. I've actually heard them mention the name of my school, which is a little surprising.

Today I saw an ajumma riding her pink bike up the street. She was wearing a visor and had a short, black, curly perm as ajummas are wont to do. She was wearing a matching pink shirt that said, "Even Jesus Hates You" in big black letters across the front. I required a double take, then I grabbed for my phone. It was too funny to miss an opportunity for a picture. I chased her down and saw the back of her shirt. It repeated the slogan, "Even Jesus Hates You", and showed a picture of long-haired Jesus giving the one finger salute. I couldn't stop laughing.

Later, I met a retired English teacher near my house. He told me he was 70, which means he was born in 1942. We bought some beer and went to the park together. He introduced me to his girlfriend and then told me he was married. We talked for a while and he asked me what I thought about his girlfriend, I said she appeared young (about 50 or 55 would be my guess) and was attractive for her age. He told me she was too fat. When we finished our beers, she walked away. He told me we would meet again and gave me his "name card" and asked for mine. I heard the sound of a hose or a spigot. I was curious, so I looked around. Finally, the ajumma returned from behind the solitary bush in the park, pulling up her pants. I couldn't decide whether I was more shocked or disgusted. Nope, disgusted. Apparently, the rights of ajummas have no limits. Apparently, they also lack all dignity or self-respect. What do you expect from decades-old, loveless marriage.

Anyway, WOW. These old bags are crazy!

Helpless

I saw a woman get hit by a car today. I heard a loud bang as the car smashed into a utility pole. I turned around to see her hit the cement head first. Her hand was twitching and her arm was locked in a contorted position at her chest. I was absolutely certain I was watching her die, that my face would be the last thing she ever saw. We were completely alone. There was no one else around. I felt so miserable because I wanted to comfort her and take the fear from her eyes, but I could only stand over her in shock. Neurons finally triggered, shooting my hand into my pocket and dialing 119. The neurons weren't firing properly because it wasn't until the other person answered that I realized I needed someone who spoke Korean. I spun around looking for someone to help us. At this point, a motorcyclist had stopped at the crosswalk and I handed him the phone, slapping the back of my head. The driver stumbled out of her vehicle and ran over to the woman on the ground, who had now amassed quite a pool of blood and was laying still in shock. I wanted to help, but I felt so useless. I felt so helpless. She kept closing her eyes or trying to get up. I didn't know how to get her to keep her eyes open. I wanted to put pressure on her wound, but I wasn't sure what to use. I looked around and quite a crowd of people had gathered. They all looked on as useless as I was. The driver was screaming Oni and Otuke, which mean older sister and why. I started to feel I was as much a part of the problem as the solution. I didn't understand why everyone was watching, but no one was doing anything. No one knew what to do, but they had some sick curiosity about what would happen or had happened to this woman. I felt so useless. Worthless. Helpless. My stomach turned with that feeling and I couldn't shake it all day. I kept thinking about her lying there, possibly dying, but how would I know? On the way home I walked by the scene -- as I do nearly every day. I walked into the Daiso store on that corner and found the towels. I thought about how I could have helped her -- how anyone could have helped her. Yet, no one did. I don't ever want to feel that way again. By some inexplicable paradox, I usually gain strength from accepting my powerlessness and insignificance. It allows me to follow my passions thoroughly. This was different. I felt absolutely horrible. I felt like a pathetic excuse for a human being. I felt like an animal. It was absolute misery.

Thursday. February 3, 2011

Yesterday was certainly the best day in Shanghai yet. I woke up early enough, but over breakfast I had a very long and much needed conversation with another American. We spoke mostly of our lives before and our inevitable return to the United States, but also perused such topics as gun control, healthcare, and economics. It was nice to have just one conversation with someone who has so much in common with me (except on all of the issues listed). I knew that I wouldn’t see him again, but such is life in a hostel.

Having obtained more specific instructions on how to get to the Propaganda Poster Art Centre, I left the hostel and hailed a taxi. When I arrived, I walked into the ominous building complex called The President Mansions -- which I circumnavigated multiple times the previous day -- the security guard gave me a business card leading me to the basement level of building B. I was blown away. There were myriad different tones and sentiments expressed. I would go from laughter to shame to pity to agreement to awe, many combinations of these, and some emotions that do not seem to bear words.

RESIST U.S. AND SUPPORT KOREA TO SAVE NEIGHBOR AND OURSELVES

Tibetan people welcome Chinese People’s Liberation Army

It is people to destroy the bomb, not the bomb to destroy people

Long live the friendship between Soviet Union and China

OPPRESSED PEOPLE UNITE TO BE AGAINST US IMPERIALISM

LONG LIVE THE GREAT MARXIST-LENINIST-MAO ZEDONG THOUGHT

One poster didn’t have particularly impressive artwork or imagery, but the quote read: Announcement is Chairman Mao’s great strategic. Remind you of any modern “socialist” leaders?

Afterwards, I headed north to the Jing’an temple. In contrast to the beginning of my day, nothing seemed to have real significance. I passed by some interesting architecture -- including the temple itself -- but my interaction with my environment was continually marred by either disinterest or contempt for those with whom I had to share it. I passed by the Stalinesque Shanghai Exhibition Center and was truly intent on going inside, but all of the gates aimed me to other gates -- the last of which was closed. Eventually -- after discovering that Mao Zedong’s former residence was under construction -- I headed to Bubbling Well Road Apartments.

The apartments formed the best neighborhood I have ever seen. Two tiny gates let you in on the north and south ends. The street was relatively short, but there were about a dozen offshoots on each side. Some of the offshoots had open cafés or studios in them. I walked into one of the cafés called Toly Café. It was quaint, small, and effeminate. The owner was a nice gentleman who spoke decent English. He was probably in his thirties. Being his only customer, I had his uninterrupted attention. We spoke for a little while about our homes and families, and how we got where we are today. He said he had just opened his café two weeks ago and I explained to him some websites he could use to register his café. We swapped emails and I headed to the Jade Buddha temple.

Another temple of relative significance. Not too captivating, but worth the pittance I paid to see it. No pictures of the Jade Buddha however. Very sacred… or you were being nudged to purchase one of the thousands of pictures from the gift shop. The Jade Buddha was rather disappointing, mostly because I thought jade was green. This Buddha was white. Again, I was confused that people were worshipping, praying, and near possession before the idols in the temple halls. I had always respected Buddhism as being one of the limited religions devoid of this ritualistic desperation. Lastly, I walked to M50 art studio. Of the dozens of studios there, only one solitary studio was open. The studio was a peculiar sort of led backlit images, mirrors, and even vanity tables. The vanity tables were hauntingly creepy as they lit up messages that seemed aimed at enticing and entrapping the viewer.

I came back to the hostel to find that the British girls had been replaced by a Cambodian-Californian. We talked a while and decided to go out to Bar Rouge for the New Years Eve fireworks. We came back quite late.

So I slept in today. I left the hostel around one quite hungry. I quickly browsed the halls of the Natural History Museum, which gave great insight into China’s absolute disregard for natural science.

I walked the Bund and looked out over the Huangpu River at Pudong, then back at the Bund -- quite a distinguished East versus West feeling could be obtained.

Instead of heading on the Bund Sightseeing Tunnel, I chose to head back to the hostel and get some rest.

Tuesday. February 1, 2011

I slept in pretty late Monday, so I decided to head to the Yuyuan Gardens and Bazaar, where I hoped to get some fake shopping done. I made my way down pretty easily and without confusion. Once I arrived, I was highly impressed. The architecture was wonderful and traditional. The buildings were gorgeous. The sun was shining. I was in an excellent mood. I walked in the crowd through the halls of the bazaar. To be honest, nothing was remotely appealing. There were a couple of fake shops, but it was mostly legitimate. Legitimate souvenir and cheap plastic crap.

I paid homage to the town god. I literally paid. There were others who paid and prayed. I felt inclined to laugh at them, but then I recalled that there was a chance they were actually Taoists. The town god’s red face was pretty amusing too. He looked like he had been suffering a thousand years of gastrointestinal problems. As I left, I felt truly cheated, but that feeling passed and was replaced by hunger. I walked around some alleyways outside of the bazaar. I got a 5 Yuan meal that was quite filling. I watched some Chinese order and watched what they paid and just did my best to imitate what they did. By and far the cheapest meal I have had yet. I haven’t been able to find food for less than 25 Yuan other than street food. Street food is surprisingly rare, but I digress. As I reentered the bazaar, there seemed to be people crowding around one particular area of the bazaar, so I ventured that way. Hundreds of people were massed on the docks. I pushed through the awful crowd -- a genuine, traditional Asian activity that I truly do not care for -- to see what everyone was ogling. All I could see were some stupid plastic floats -- like a cheap Mardi Gras. However, everyone seemed to be drawn here, so I continued.

Then… it was just over. I stood on the other end wondering what just happened. Why did I just expend my energy to fight through a mass of people, just to see something so banal and infantile? I almost wanted to go back and take another look, but it wasn’t worth the war against the crowd. I continued and went into the gardens. The Yuyuan Gardens were amazingly serene. I kept imagining myself drinking tea and writing (on paper) in the dozens of crevices.

There were pavilions, gazebos, and huts, as well as many enclaves hidden away by rocks or trees. Every picture I took seemed abysmally non-representative. I would see something so beautiful and take a picture, only to find that the picture properly captured one layer of perhaps three. The atmosphere was so surreal and the contrasts were so strong between the dark buildings' insides, the bright skies, and the well-lit roofs. It was certainly a time that I wish I had more knowledge of cameras and a better comprehension of HDR.

I really wasn’t able to get much else done that day. I asked my roommates where I could go shopping and they immediately replied in unison, “The fake market!” I had to know more, so I listened of the underground market at the Science and Technology Museum metro station.

The next day I started with great conviction. I was determined to see the French Concession. Shanghai’s identity is inseparable from its colonial history. The reason that cities like Shanghai and Hong Kong are so westernized today (and perhaps the reason the entire country is so un-westernized) is because they were partitioned by European powers hundreds of years ago (generating a proletariat and anti-foreign sentiment). Europe took parts of the country and split it among themselves. A popularized tale of Huangpu Park builds anti-foreign sentiment -- yet represents the colonial atmosphere -- telling of a sign that says “No dogs or Chinese allowed.” While the sign didn't exist, regulations existed barring dogs and bicycles and one stated that the park was for the use of the foreign community. The French Concession is the heart of fashion and high-art for Shanghai. Walking down the streets, I certainly got this feeling. However, there are few -- almost no -- foreigners here now. The patrons of these design and art elements are almost exclusively Chinese. That being said, the presence and influence of the Europeans can still be felt in the architecture (among the other cosmopolitan aspects of Shanghai). Most buildings are historically protected because they are in Spanish and French styles. The streets are very nice. Trees separate the sidewalk from the street. Houses are pushed back from the street and almost all are gated. I’m getting ahead of myself.

The first place I visited was the site of the first national congress of the Chinese Communist Party, held at 76 Xingye Road in Shanghai on July 23, 1921. Here 13 members met and discussed the future of China. The museum was filled mostly with Chinese literature, pamphlets, and declarations. It also detailed the lives of the 13 members -- most of whom defected, left the party, and were executed shortly after the formation of the party. One obvious exception was Mao Zedong. The exhibit was eye-opening, as Shanghai seems to stray from any ideologies in general. I then spent some time ruminating in the many historic elements of English, American, Russian, and French culture left behind from the concessions.

I passed by such places as the Ruijin Hotel, where the founder of the North China Daily News lived, the Cathay and Lyceum Theatres, the massive Okura Garden Hotel Shanghai (Cercle Sportif Francais) and the Jinjiang Hotel, where Chinese diplomats were held in 1941, during the Japanese occupation. The North China Daily News was the first -- and remains the foremost -- English newspaper for Northern China. The buildings of the hotel were tucked away and surrounded by massive gardens and walking space. The Cathay and Lyceum Theaters housed English and French plays and operas during the time of the concessions. The Cercle Sportif Francais was built in the twenties, but soon after, it was claimed by the "people" in the coming to power of the Chinese Communist Party. Again, I cannot stress enough the truly European structure and feel of the district. I attempted to find the Propaganda Poster Center, but in failing, I found a place to eat lunch and returned to my hostel.

Sunday. January 30, 2011

I have arrived in Shanghai. I spent my first night in an airport hotel. The rate was as much as my entire stay at the hostel, but it was certainly my fault that I did not change my currency beforehand. When I did exchange my currency, I saw that the exchange was awful. The spread between buy and sell was 20%. Be careful in Shanghai. I started today rather properly. I took a taxi into town and paid three times the rate I was told to accept. I walked around the People’s Square and visited the Shanghai Urban Planning Exhibition Hall. The exhibits were rather uninteresting, with the exception of the scale model of Shanghai.

On my way out, two ladies approached me outside the building and started a conversation in impressive English. They then invited me to join them for tea and chocolate, but I recall reading in the Lonely Planet guide that this was a scam. After drinking your tea, you would be given a bill for over $100 USD. Fortunately, I was able to avoid being conned for lunch. Since breakfast was a medley of vegetables and some rather unappealing uncooked meats, I grabbed a bowl of rice soup -- thinking it would make a decent breakfast -- only to find that it had something resembling goat testicles in it. I later found out that they were "fish balls." I wouldn't have put that past the Chinese though. The dumplings and oranges were good, but I couldn’t get over the fact that there were no cold drinks. All that was available was hot milk and a hot version of what appeared to be Fanta. I tried some of the vegetables, but the recognizable ones were cold. Considering they were presented in hot trays, this was my first glimpse at the Chinese work ethic. Three ladies stood around gossiping about what I can only assume was the most recent episode of Gilmore Girls. Ten minutes after serving myself, I noticed they were finally lighting the heating lamps for the vegetables I so coveted. Even though breakfast would only be served for another 20-30 minutes, they were finally coming around to doing their work.

The lunch fiasco is really what I want to write about. I was given a menu at a restaurant that looked pretty classy and I saw “Mutton was smothered in onions” and decided to order it. The price was listed as 28 Yuan and I was asked if I wanted rice, I accepted. The hostess who seated me took my menu from me and walked away. The meal was delicious and I was quite satisfied, but the itemized receipt I received was for 44 Yuan. The rice was 2 Yuan and the dish was 42 Yuan. I asked to see a menu and it showed 42 Yuan. I was not surprised, so I walked over to a table and asked to see another customers. When it read the same price, I knew I had been bested by the old bait-and-switch, so I paid.

Everyone warned me to be careful, but no one was specific enough. Three times in my first day, someone attempted to screw me out of my money. I used to pity these people because they are poor and lack basic freedoms of speech. Out of curiosity, I decided to google some things here in China. The first was obviously the Tiananmen Square Massacre. Surprisingly, it showed images of the student a foot in front of a tank. However, the Chinese railway strike did not hit any results, Gmail, Skype, and Facebook were all nonfunctional, and any attempts to access Korean or International Google were blocked. But I don’t pity these people, they have sewn their own fate.

Just like the North Koreans, the Chinese have earned their lack of freedom -- not as persons, but as a people -- through complacency. On the other side of the Pacific pool, I used to wonder how people (North Koreans) could be coaxed into thinking that a despot who doesn't allow his citizens to leave the country could be dubbed The Great Leader. It has become very clear to me since arrival. Confucianism. Even the South Koreans have Confucian customs, but they have the great advantage of being freed from the threat of despotic rule that was artificially rooted in a people's movement. This has brought them economic prosperity and freedoms -- with the exception of the great protectionism that Korean companies enjoy. While Koreans have Confucian society to blame, the same can not be said of the Chinese. Mao crushed that. (Why?!?) Most people here are rude, pushy, and ill-mannered. They have abandoned customs and tradition (two things I never thought I would be defending) and pushed aside the hope of communication freely and openly, for wealth, status, and selfishness -- the absolute polar opposite of everything for which this country's governmental philosophy is supposed to stand. It is utterly disappointing to be reminded that we humans cannot:

"From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs!"

A Weekend with the Koreans

This weekend I had the privilege of spending time with Kim Jong-il (김정일). Jong-il is my trainer at the gym. We had worked out together a few times and I helped him with his running form. He helped me communicate with the other workers at the fitness center and I helped him refresh his English skills. The first night we went out together and ate in Hongdae. We ate at an excellent Korean fusion restaurant. I wish I remembered the name, but I do remember the location and I will certainly return. Afterwards, we went to the M2 club. Since the crowd was mostly angsty teens, we met up with Courtney Foss's brother, Chris, and headed to some foreign bars. He was out with some coworkers, both of whom were very drunk. We browsed through a couple of bars, but I wasn't enjoying most of the crowds. At one of the bars we met what Chris' coworker called "the Julian Assange of Korea." At the end of the night Jong-il and I ended of at Big Mama's bar, where we met up with his girlfriend, Iji. His girlfriend was very nice, but did not speak English at all. She drove us home at the end of the night, which I really appreciated. The next day, I was feeling pretty awful, but Jong-il called and told me to come to the fitness center. He had ordered some chumukbap and had an extra one for me. Iji was there and we used Google translate to talk to each other while Jong-il worked. She said she wanted to take me to see Seoul Tower and "make good memories of Korea." She also said we should go out to eat before. We ate at a really nice restaurant on the seventh floor of a building in Gimpo. It was nice because we could see Geomdan very well. We left and drove to the Seoul Tower, but it was closed by the time we got up to it. It was very unfortunate, but I truly appreciate the gesture. I am glad to have met some Koreans to spend time with, because this seems like something few foreign teachers do. It is a great opportunity.

Words Can Not Express

The way that I feel right now is unbearable. I feel so horrible. It has been a very, very long time since I've felt this way. My hands were shaking; my lips were trembling; my heart was beating incredibly fast; a

nd I could feel my emotions on my face. It is difficult to explain the emotion. I am boiling with rage, but I feel very much like I want to cry. If anyone recalls a name for it, I would appreciate it.

In class, my students were talking -- as they often do -- and I asked them to open their books. Every day, I waste about 3 minutes attempting to get students to open their books. After telling the class to open their books, I usually have to go around and tell multiple students personally to open their books. The process is aggrivating and indicative of a lack of respect. I had to tell Yujin to open her book personally. She was engaged -- as usual -- in a conversation with Plore

ce. I then asked her to stop talking, and as soon as I turned around, she started talking again. Then I asked her to change seats. She refused. Then I grabbed her and, repeatedly urging come on, I told her to move. She refused, and, recognizing that I was becoming peeved, I took a few steps back and gave her the ultimatum. She had a choice between moving to another seat or leaving the classroom. In her silence I found disdain, and pulled her from her chair and out the room. She put up quite a fight physically, which was traumatic for me, but in order to garner respect, I had to follow through. As she was leaving, I decided to go talk to her, but when I stepped out of the classroom, she was running out the front door of the school bawling. Brian asked me if I was angry and I said yes and apologized. I don't know why I apologized, it slipped from my mouth. I wanted to apologize again, but my mind took control of my body and emotions so I didn't. I continued class, but I was shaking and I couldn't focus. After class, Anne teacher told me "Yujin cried a lot."

I feel horrible and I can't shake this feeling. I have lost my appetite but my stomach is growling. I can't complete my phone teaching because I can't get my mind off of Yujin. Even though my logic is telling me I did the right thing, my emotions are screaming Asshole and I am filled with shame.

While the magnitude is unprecedented, this feeling is quite common for me. I frequently feel and behave this way. I made an example of her -- I do this often. My thinking is clear to me. You know what you should do. Your selfishness and pride are not masked by a confusion of morals, but blatant disrespect for others. How can you possibly convince someone to put others before themselves? I know I did not earn and do not deserve this feeling, but that doesn't prevent me from having it.