Aretha Franklin

At the end of every workday I try to bolt out of school as fast as I possibly can.  If I don’t have class last period I am packed up, desk locked, computer off, with outside shoes on by at least 4:37pm, then I just stare at the clock for three straight minutes. If I have a class last period then I pack everything up beforehand so all I have to do is put on my shoes and dart when the bell rings (like a triathlete coming out of the swimming pool).  Last Tuesday though I got held up for a few minutes due to the frenzy incited by ending class with a Taylor Swift video.  Consequently, there were a lot more students milling around the school than usual by the time I began my walk home.

I rounded the corner that leads under a nearby overpass, a place where students go to sneak cigarettes when they decide the school bathrooms aren’t secret enough, and noticed a throng of boys pulling cigs out of cartons like Pocky sticks.  I waved and said hello enthusiastically, preparing to chastise them.  But to my surprise the largest kid, a tall, muscular, suddenly somewhat intimidating 17 year-old split from the group to approach me.

“Hello! Hello! English teacha?” He said.

“Yyeeees, yes I am.” I felt apprehensive.  

We were now at conversational distance as he unbuttoned his right shirt sleeve and pulled it up to reveal a tattoo running down his forearm, written in English. It read, in a scripty-cursive kind of font: So I say a lillle prayer.”

“Oh wow! Cool,” I nodded, “Aretha Franklin?”  He stared blankly at me and then back at his forearm, as if he expected something more.  One of the other boys who had since gathered around us piped up.

“Teacha, teacha, what mean? What mean?” He asked excitedly.

“Uh…it means...I…” I pointed to myself, “say...” I made my hand talk, “a little…” I mimed something small using my thumb and pointer finger, “prayer.” I put my hands together and bowed my head as if in prayer, then pointed up to the sky and said “God.”  The boys looked at each other seriously and nodded their heads, but didn’t seem totally satisfied.  It was as if they had just learned something new, although I was fairly certain they didn’t comprehend what I had said.

“Is that what you wanted?” I asked, pointing to the tattoo.

They looked confused and repeated the word “want” a couple times until one of them decidedly answered, “Teacha, he want girl.”  Aaaaaaah, now I see.

They started to thank me and return to their illicit activities so I grabbed the boy’s arm, “Wait!” I said.  I pushed his shirt sleeve back up and pointed to the word “lillle.”  I tried to explain what was wrong by crossing the would-be t’s with my fingernail several times and repeating the “tuh” sound verses the “lllll” sound. One kid eventually said, “Ooooh, yes, T, T, ok, ok, ok.”  And I figured that was as far as I was going to get.

I continued, in bewilderment, on my walk home. So if you were thinking about getting some Chinese characters tatted any time soon, may this story encourage you to think twice.

XOXO from Korea,

A