Remembering Fondly

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It might be a cliche to post about Remembrance Day, but something profound and beautiful happened today because of Remembrance Day, and so I think it should be proudly commemorated. In the spirit of wanting to teach my Korean kids something new, also in the spirit of respecting and noting all things Canadian, I was happy today to share with one of my favourite classes that this is the day we pause for a mere moment to pay tribute to those we lost in the fight for our freedom. I'm not much for history, nor am I a fan of war of any kind, so this was always a bittersweet "celebration" for me back home. Today though, I felt a kinship to those who had lost someone they loved because sometimes I feel as though I've lost so many. Yeah yeah, you've heard the sob story: I lost who was once my love. But aside from that, I've lost the familiar, mundane friendships as well. Now when we talk, it's evident that an ocean divides us and we have to "catch up". I hate catching up. I like talking so often that you never need to catch up. So in essence, as ridiculous as it may sound, I can relate to those who have lost someone.

As I got to my class today at 10:50, I told the students all about this day. And I got very, very emotional. Now you all know how I get when I hear a choir sing, a national anthem sung, or an assembly of people saying a prayer together: I cry like a baby. I was actually tearing up in class (this has never happened before) and was shaky while explaining the historical significance of the day. The kids agreed that they would pay homage to my country and our lost soldiers, and stay silent for one blessed minute. I went about the business of handing out the materials we would need later, collecting myself all the while. Enough is enough: we don't need a full Teacher Breakdown.

As the clock neared the 11th hour, the kids watched it carefully. I bowed my head, took a deep breath, and forceably held back tears. I managed to hold it together enough to look up and see the class before me. Here's how I would describe them on a regular day: semi-repressed, over-worked teenage girls, hopped up on sugar and caffeine, all waiting for the bell to ring to get out of my damn class to go enjoy lunch and chat via text message to all their friends. They have attention spans of gnats. Though I was hoping for the best, I honestly expected the worst from them (and they're one of my best classes in the first grade).

Conversely, picture how I observed them today: they sat before me in perfect formation, lined up in their desks, chairs pulled in. Their heads were bowed, their hands folded neatly in their laps. One kid had left the room while I had explained the silence, and yet she sat too, quiet and revering. Not a sniffle, not a cough was uttered. Not one head turned to the clock. They sat, waited, and respected the fact that this was important to me; this was a moment to just sit.

As I sat there, the words of the poem we all recite came to me slowly and clearly. I don't remember knowing the words to "In Flanders Fields" that well.

When it was over, I barely was able to say, "Thank you" before I started to cry again. They were really moved and My Man was stunned. He asked, "Are you serious?" Yes, I was serious. I explained to them that this wasn't usually a moving event for me, but because they were so reverent, so observant, so SWEET to me and my culture, I was genuinely moved. My Man asked me later, "Are you crying because of the soldiers, or are you crying because you miss Canada?" I told him it was a bit of both, but I've come to realize there is a more profound answer.

Asia is very different from home. Almost every aspect of the place is an alternate reality for me. In very few instances have I felt a kinship towards a person or an event: it's all too foreign to feel that way. The moving part of their observing the moment of silence was that it felt exactly like it does at home when we all take a minute and just stop. I could have been in any classroom in Canada in that moment: it felt so familiar. There are few moments in Korea that feel EXACTLY like home, and when I get one, I can't help but feel touched. Am I nostalgic or am I just amazed that we are all just people? Maybe we're really all the same. We have our own unique cultures, our own traditions, our own memories, but maybe we're all just the same.

Just as it's dangerous to give motive to actions of others, I decided it was equally precarious to do it to myself. I wouldn't question, then, why I felt the way I did...I would accept that this was an awesome moment for me (and, as it turns out, a pretty awesome moment for the kids too!), and remember it fondly.

No analysis necessary: it felt amazing.