politics

"Man is by nature a political animal."
-Aristotle

I have two older sisters and for our formative years we grew up in a charming flat in Montreal's most densly populated neighbourhoods. The laws of politics demands that given the limited resources of a small home, parental attention as well as chocolate chip cookies instigated conflicts among us children. Anyone with siblings knows that this ultimately results in an atmosphere of calculation and manipulation. Machiavelli may have written about the cut-throat world of Renaissance Italian politics, but it's obvious childhood rivalries were his true inspiration. In no other context can a sudden onset of a reading disability compete with the phantom symptoms of scurvy only to be topped by a suspicious van following you home from the library where you were studying for your genius level math classes that no one has been able to either confirm or deny with the school. Shakespeare has nothing on sibling rivalry.

Depending on birth order we all have various strategies that we use to ultimately get what we want. Gender and years between children also come into play. The role of victim is very useful for us youngest offspring, which is most obvious. My sisters disproving the myth of Santa, with accompanying tears and a few references to my spoilt childhood garnered me a few extra boxes under the tree for a year or two. Not to mention a nice public reprimand for my competition. Nevermind that I knew Santa and Daddy had the same aftershave since last holidays. Details, details. As the boy I was not allowed to fight back when (not 'if') I was physically attacked. However, as the boy I was the only one with the kryptonite hanging lazily between my legs. All I had to do was mention in passing that one of my sisters thought about striking my testicles in any sort of way and it was automatic corner for the offender. Family jewls, ladies. Your ovaries ain't gonna carry on the family name. And even if I wanted to (and man did I try), I couldn't punch your reproductive organs in an effort to take your cheese sandwich. And lord knows how much I wanted that cheese sandwich.

As we grow older, though, we had no choice but to find other more subtle ways to wage war. An accidental slip that your sister quit school and spends her days with her 21 year old boyfriend here, a left joint roach with lipstick there and all of a sudden your breaking curfew is at the bottom of the pile for mom and dad. Eventually my sisters and I grew to appreciate, even bond with, each other. Now I'm proud to say they are my best friends. Truth be told, even in the heat of battle we respected each other as advesaries and peers. I have to respect anyone that convinces reasonable parents that their 13 year old son is a pedophile.

Any relationship one has later in life is affected by these initial battles with your siblings. For two years I enjoyed the large subject teachers room in my school to myelf. See, all the other subject teachers were assigned their own classrooms with heating, AC and modern computers. What I gave up in climate control I gained in privacy. Classrooms in my school feature slide doors with windows along with eye-level windows along the hallway wall. Not only can those in the opposite classroom watch you like a youtube video but any and all travellers down those busy hallways have a nice 10 second movie of you as you go about your business. The subject teachers room has no such transperancy. In addition, the doorknob for this room is broken in such a way that it gives the impression of being locked unless you know specifically how to open it. And no one besides my co-teachers ever go to the effort of dislocating their wrists to open that portal to come see me. For two years I was a very happy man in my solitude.

Not now. My space has been invaded by three new teachers who, while in the same category as me as "not really anything we have to respect", still have managed to trespass on my outsider status. Whatever they're doing in my room, I don't like it. And it is obvious they have never dealt with the ruthless maneuvers of siblings because my passive aggressive open window policy to their maxed out heater is not responded to.

I just thought that at this age I would be done fighting for control of lighting with slightly older women. Again I was proven wrong, by these exact older women no less.

And people ask me why I refuse to get married. Exhibit A.

I'm the Seinfeld of Korea and my lunch is like airplane peanuts

What's the deal with Korean school lunches?

I'm going to stop there because although I know how Jerry Seinfeld famously starts his jokes, I have no idea how he ends them nor do I have the skill to do so in a way to make 1 billion people laugh and throw money at me for the better part of a decade (and then ruin it all with some movie involving bees or some such). Suffice it to say that I do not like Korean school lunches and I find them a nuisance. You may laugh now. And throw money at me if so inclined.

My school lunches typically include a vegetable, meat and a hearty soup, followed by a tasty desert. Of course that's in a Korean context so it should read; some greyish-green mush boiled to even greyer mush, fish bones (including heads with eyes) sometimes with meat accidentally still left hanging on, spicy hot water (sometimes with fish bones, heads and eyes) and a random food item that Satan himself would never consider coating with sugar with copious amounts of sugar on it. Oh, and of course rice. You know, rice is to a cook as a word search is to an English teacher. Yeah, that'll work today as I sweat off this hangover. Except no English teacher would give word searches everyday. Three times a day. For their entire lives. And then claim it cures AIDS. Don't forget kimchi, too. How could I, what with this burning ulcer. But as my latest medical check confirms, I don't have AIDS and to my knowledge I never have, so maybe kimchi and rice really do work. And since I've never had cirrosis of the liver I should continue to drink several glasses of whiskey a night.

The food I could handle. The conversation I could not. After 14 months of eating with the same Korean teachers in the same room the same questions still came my way. We've all heard them before. Yes, I can use chopsticks. No, it's not too spicy. Yes, I like kimchi. Of course it cures cancer, I'm a man of reason! Yet still I could endure these inanities. What I couldn't withstand was the daily inquisitions. What did I have for dinner the night before? Laughter. What did I have for breakfast? Laughter. What will I have tonight for dinner? Retarded, retarded laughter. A ham sandwich has never before been so hilarious. And you know, fine. But for 14 months? I'm really not that interesting. The ham sandwich might be, but I'm sure not.

Finally I said enough. I made up some story about my doctor cutting spicy food out of my diet and removed myself from the lunch gatherings all together. Of course there were no questions about that. But still the daily interviews exist. What did I bring for lunch? When will I eat it? How did I make it? Did I enjoy it? What will you bring tomorrow? And every time it's laughter. Comedians would kill for this kind of easy reaction. I would kill to make it stop. Some might find it charming that they care so much. I should remind them that it's been a year since I stopped eating with them. Last week all the subject teachers went out for lunch together. The food was pre-ordered and I had no say in the matter. Jae-yook dok-bap was selected for me and everyone else had binbimbap. Hey, I'm pleased that someone actually listened to me and chose something I would marry if I could (and will once prop 13 passes. Yes on 13!) As they all sat there grazing on their bowls of messy veggies and egg in unison the comments started leaking in and heads started to slowly explode. Apparently I don't like vegetables and love pork. Isn't it too spicy? Chopsticks?! YOU KNOW KIMCHI!!!! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahha....etc.

I should be happy. In any disagreement with any school official I just have to mention what I ate for lunch and it will turn into a Must See TV yuk-fest in the room. But much like Seinfeld, I just don't get it.