I even move through this bubble of time as if I still acknowledge it. Is this, then, a singularity? Everything condensed into one tiny point? A point in which I am free to roam? Or the opposite? One tiny point spread into infinity?

Welcome back to the Daniel’s Nemesis Podcast reading: Eraser. 

So, as I pack up my stuff, fight with customs and duties, and leave South Korea, a country that I have lived and worked in for most of my adult life, I felt it appropriate to read out a couple of short stories describing my work here as a teacher (technically assistant professor). 

I believe Eraser to have been written in 2011, judging by the time reference in the story. I clearly remember the room that this was based in, and I’m fairly sure of the students as well. So, the period checks out.

I think it’s fair to say that we all get fed up with the routine mundanity of our jobs, and in my case, I would get a load of students, have them for only a few months until the course was finished and then they would go, back to their world without English. In that time, some progress would be made, but with the influx of new students, and repeating the process, for me, it felt like I was never achieving anything. 

Whilst the wish-fulfilment aspect of the students is clearly addressed, I also wanted to achieve my job to perfection. And the following story is an expression of that. 

Just remember.

This is EFL,

desired EFL. 

Wish Fulfilment is

as Wish Fulfilment does. 

Eraser

(1,899 words)

When asked what I do, I say I'm a performing monkey. They smile, they laugh, they appreciate the joke, but they don't really get it. “Yeah, it must be hard, being a teacher,” is a common reply. But they still don't get it. I equate my job to that of a stand-up comedian, and a bad one at that, dying on stage every night. At least comedians have a common language to transgress the boundary of the stage lights. My routine typically involves acting out simple vocabulary. I merely want to achieve a laugh, at least a smile, and engage them beyond a level of mere bafflement. Otherwise, the only defence I have against the dead silence is a stick of chalk. 

But now is the time to hand back exam papers. They are snatched out of my hands as I circulate, so as not to be seen by any others. The disappointed looks of those who have done well, the joyful glee as those with bad marks pass their papers around. The students decided their grade long before the exam. It's no longer even about apathy. Merely resignation. The more the students can resign themselves to learning English, the more hope there is for success. It’s certainly not me gesticulating wildly hoping that the chalk will throw out knowledge. 

I teach in Korea. The nuances of which I still fail to grasp in teaching practice. And I'm ground down. Four years here and I still don't know how to get them to be... well, that's my problem right there. 

I go back to my position in front of the blackboard, papers still in my hands from those who only attend to fail their exams. I know I have to progress from here somehow, but I've never been certain how. So much so, that when time stops, I am only relieved. In truth, despite the absolute improbability of time stopping, this is no different from any other class. The students remain as de-animated as before, my words continuing to bounce off their shells. This becomes my job. Utilising English for my own desperate entertainment when I should actually be teaching it. 

There are about 30 students in here, caught in the crystal clarity of a photo. Why I would have expected the blur of a video freeze-frame is beyond me. One student, with legs crossed is leaning over the back of her chair to discuss with the student behind who, arm supporting her on the table is looking intently at the work in front of her. Another student sat away is looking over, chin rested in her hand, face angled down, but eyes looking up and across at this only minor dramatic moment caught in the class. Some watch me. Others are slumped. Two sleep. Time has stopped, but ennui continues. 

I stand on my platform, as frozen as time is. Feeling exposed, I begin talking. Talking about my life: the memories that I cherish, the ones I desire to banish; my opinions and viewpoints, even just films that I have seen, books that I have read. I talk and talk, hoping some of this may get through, but realising that my memories are as static as my students are. Time freezes in your head, trapping your identity. The only escape is the present, always chased by the prison of the past.

Is this a chance for wish fulfilment? For me to do as the students believe is my job, to open up their heads and put the English inside? After all, isn't that how education works over here? The belief that you can only know something if you already know it, and that if you don't, you never shall? The belief that states that asking for help is beyond shameful, it is heretical. And that looking in a dictionary is a concept unknown to all and sundry. I fail my students, not because I don't follow that great maxim of teachers and 'inspire' my students. I fail them because I don't do all the work for them. I don’t have that much demanded magic USB stick to just insert in their heads and allow access to English. No, English comes through experience, through mistakes, through associations. I am here to create an environment in which they can make mistakes. But what experiences can I give if they don’t embrace what little I have to offer in a stark, overcrowded classroom?

My inane chattering stopped, I just wait for time to restart. However, waiting implies time. Has time actually stopped? You may as well just remove a physical dimension. And language, through the use of prepositions, has always intrinsically linked the two of those together, long before science really got its teeth into the concept. I wonder if I have been neglecting physics. If time has ceased to exist, then perhaps the three obvious dimensions, and all other dimensions have ceased to exist as well. Looking around, I cannot help but perceive the physical dimensions as they have always been. I even move through this bubble of time as if I still acknowledge it. Is this, then, a singularity? Everything condensed into one tiny point? A point in which I am free to roam? Or the opposite? One tiny point spread into infinity? I reach out to a desk in front of me. My hand passes through. I smile, my logic confirmed. If the physical world were to still exist, but paused in time, that means that every single molecule of air would be frozen in space, denying me movement, trapping me. Hmm...

I move towards the nearest student, and then into him. We share the same perceived space, now truly connected dimensionally. I get a look into his mind: an emotion photographed into neurons. Without the context of thoughts, it is difficult to grasp hold of what he is feeling. I'm aware that I am able to look through his gallery of memories, but that's not why I am here. I am achieving what I have always yearned for: to reach inside my audience; to only exist for each person. I begin filling his mind with English, careful not to put any of my own self in there. But in this motionless environment, it is difficult to get the words to stick. I need to apply the language I am giving him to something. 

I go through his memories. It takes a while to work out what exactly is going on in each memory, and I need to root around associated memories to work out context, location, time, even who individual people are. As I get to know him, and his life, I begin to be able to get English to attach, linking language to experience and context. Very different from the textbooks they pore over. In an interesting twist of Lacan’s theory, I am birthing language into him. I'm conscious that I'm altering his perceptions. English vocabulary is not an exact match for Korean vocabulary, English grammar less hierarchical, so each slight variation of the meanings between languages alters the context through which he shall look back upon his memories.

I go through all the students, through the variety of their carved emotions. It is creepy, I cannot deny, and I learn more about them than they should ever dare to divulge to another. But they are the performers now. I am merely the spectator. No spectator should ever be passive. Indeed, I feed into their static performance through my own responses – analytical, empathetical and interpretive. And, for the first time in my professional career, I am not alone. I finish up with the last student and leave her. There is a flicker in the world around and within me. 

And time begins again. The students are bemused and shocked, wondering where I've disappeared to. When they spot me, there's a round of applause perhaps believing that I have performed some kind of disappearing-reappearing magic trick. I'm pleased. My stage is back. I check the notes in my book to see what the next routine billed is. 

The class continues. I'm nervous to ask any questions directly, continuing my explanations to the apathy of my students, who move their attentions elsewhere. I give exercises to do, and begin the rounds of cajoling them into some kind of action. The looks of uncertainty on their faces as they begin is something different to the usual blank stares as they wait for the words to take shape. I hold back my encouragement, and observe, giving perhaps the odd nod of encouragement. Their uncertainty remains as the words form in the blanks. 

Noticing pangs of pain inside me, I return to the board in record time, confident. We go over the answers, and then a class discussion is dropped limply before them. As always, there's no response. As per usual, I wonder if they have understood me but just don't know how to formulate an answer, or perhaps they are waiting for someone else to answer for them. I simplify the question, narrowing it down to a simple 'yes/no' question. I can usually get a couple of responses this way, not too much effort being required on their part. 

There's a big response. I jump in with a follow-up question, again, to no response. I focus the same question in on a student, texting away on his phone. He just stares at me; an unreadable face. I ask again. The better students also put their attention on him, his nearest neighbours awaiting the poor response as punishment for getting caught on the phone. And... a simple sentence is attempted. I feel another sharp stab inside me. I continue with the questioning, his friends disappointed I am not mocking him mercilessly. With every attempt, his replies become more complicated. He even attempts a joke, and on cue, everyone laughs. As do I, through the intensifying pain. I try the same tactic elsewhere, and it works just as well. I still prompt, but my questions are more involved. However, there's an edge, their new attentiveness is about waiting for me to slip up, much like the classrooms of my youth. There is a more aggressive tone in the classroom, as I realise my students are becoming a challenge to my authority, hecklers in potential, though they have not yet taken that step. 

I set the class group activities, and listen to the surprised noises as they delve into themselves to find their newly acquired skill, with giggles and laughter as their confidence builds. They push and explore, prodding the quirks of language, no longer blankly accepting it. They analyse, criticise and discuss without prompting, discarding the tired-out slogans and propaganda usually put in place of opinions. I retire behind my lectern, from where I sermonise - in truth, a podium to put my notes and bag. I can feel the pain moving out towards my skin, a tingling sensation building to an intense pins and needles discomfort. I look down to my hand, and it is translucent. With every English word uttered, their need for me is gone. As with any good teacher, my job is essentially a self-erasing job. I symbolise their mistakes which have been completely rubbed out. As they finish their task, a glow of success radiating from them, I wave my final goodbye. This performer disappears into reality. 

***

If you enjoyed this, please check out my series dissecting an old novel of mine. Do all the things that podcasters train you to do so that you know when new episodes of mine come out. 

Until next time, TTFN!