I found the bags at Daiso, a Japanese dollar store. I would have been happy with large plastic bags, but, of course, they had plastic bags specifically designed for transporting clothes. These bags had seals and instructions on how to make them airtight. They even had a cute design: boats, airplanes, and cars next to bubbly words like “happy”, “enjoy”, “joyful”, and “smile”. I smiled when I saw the price: only 1,000₩ (around a buck). In terms of finding cheap plastic items with cheesy English words on them, nowhere beats Korea.

Relieved that I located the elusive plastic bags, I perused the expanse of trinkets in the store. Plastic bags for take-out cups. Toothbrush holders in the shape of sumo wrestlers that stick to your bathroom mirror. Colored pencil caps for protecting graphite tips from, somehow, breaking in a pencil case. This was an oasis for things you never knew you wanted or needed. But, Korea had a market for this stuff. Small gift giving, as I observed, was a big part of the culture. My students frequently gave me erasers and pens. I never saw a Korean show up to a house gathering empty-handed. By the end of my third year, I was no longer surprised when I got gifts on second dates. Because I mentioned reading on the first date, I got a small travel night light.  Because I mentioned writing, I got a pocket notebook.

Whether it’s Korean culture, getting older, or having a full-time job, I’ve become more open to gift giving. In Toronto, my friend group never gave each other anything. I have never given Kyle, my oldest friend, a formal present. He has never given me one. Instead, we’ve stolen each other’s clothes and eaten each other’s food for over twenty years. The only random present I can remember buying was a purple durag for Tre. It was cheap, ridiculous, and the model on the package sort of looked like him. It was an ironic present: he’d rather not have got it. The purple durag never touched his head, and, instead, hung on our second year living room wall for half a year. Every time someone came over, they would look at the purple durag and package pinned to the wall and say, “Hey! That kind of looks like Tre.” Before Korea, gift giving for the sake of kindness wasn’t something I did. At the end of Korea, I was purchasing letters, envelopes, and stickers to attach to thoughtful presents. Maybe I’d become a better person. Maybe I knew all this stuff costed 4 bucks.

Having spent too much time in Daiso, I went home, quickly showered, put on a button-up, and headed out early so I could buy a couple things before my last day at work. First, I went to the Starbucks at Shinsegae. I bought one gift card for my manager, who was obsessed with the place. If she was giving me something, it was from Starbucks. My first year at the company was the year of the Green Tea Latte: a drink so delicious I ignored my lactose intolerance and gladly frequented the toilet on my breaks for more sips. When I finally told her I was sensitive to milk, she switched up to Green Tea—no Latte.

I also got a gift card for my co-teacher. A co-teacher in a hagwon (after-school academy) is a tough job—tougher than ESL teaching. As a native English speaker, my objective was clear: teach kids to read, write, and speak English. My academy was good, so they didn’t ask for much more. However, on top of teaching short classes, the Korean teacher  had to update, clarify, assure, understand, and listen to 50 pairs of parents via phone. I couldn’t speak Korean. The parents couldn’t speak English. So everything that needed to be said between the parents and me went through her. After two years of co-operation, the least I could do was get her a couple of teas (she also didn’t drink coffee).

On top of my manager and co-teacher, there were 9 other people I worked with. Desk teachers: women who handled recruiting and random stuff like helping me get and pay for a phone, fixing a broken shower, or wiping up spilled juice. There were also other Korean and foreign teachers. Not everyone was getting a gift card. They were getting donuts–holiday themed donuts. And they were getting two, maybe even three, of them because I accidentally bought 24.

When I made it to my work elevator, I suddenly got nervous. Heavy smog spread in my chest, stones pulled down on my stomach, and my Krispy Kreme holding hands became sweaty. Why was I nervous? It was about appreciating my co-workers, or, more clearly, showing my co-workers I appreciated them. This stemmed from my fear of being selfish. I don’t care if strangers call me inconsiderate, but I’ve always needed people I like to know that I like them. Yet, I’m terrible at letting appreciation move my body or face. I do so in reflection and writing. When people do nice things for me, I freeze up, can’t look at eyes, and can’t smile. I presume this comes of as ungrateful on the outside. Ungrateful, I feared, was how I would seem to my co-workers on the last day.

There were 5 people in the elevator. I got out with one woman, probably the the mother of a student. I held the door open for her. The desk teachers greeted her with an “anyeonghaseyo” chorus. They greeted me with a quieter English “hello”. The energy response to my last entrance into work lost to a random parent. In the hagwon industry, sentimentally doesn’t make money. Korean mothers do. Yet, on this morning, trying to avoid the attention, I was relieved to have come in with eomma.

I went into Spencer’s classroom. He was back home for the holidays, so I had been subbing for his classes for the past two weeks, which, in hindsight, was another relief. Saying goodbye to my students was the hardest part about leaving Korea—particularly my first grade class. Initially, when I checked the new term schedule and saw G1, I was pissed. I joined the academy to work with advanced students. I didn’t want to babysit, and, now, I was getting a class a month before they even started grade 1. Not a surprise: the first classes were tough. Yes, the students were insanely adorable, but they couldn’t sit still for 10 minutes. They cried when they made mistakes. They constantly asked me when class was over. But, after a couple months, they became my favorite class. They came early to class to chat. They were fearless about making grammar mistakes. They cheered when I said we were reading a new book. They wrote hilarious stories for me. Announcing my departure was like reporting a death. They were so shocked that they couldn’t cry. The tears came through the grapevine, as my co-teacher told me that they cried at home and in her class. It crushed me, and still stings as I write this, that I had to be one of their first experiences with loss. The students wrote me letters, and my favorite’s letter says,

“You was my favarite teacher. Don’t leave. It’s too early.”

On my last day of classes, I wasn’t teaching my students: the ones I had for over 9 months. They were Spencer’s students. While I knew a lot about my old students (Lloyd loved Brawl Stars, Jay only liked gym class dodge ball if it was girls vs. boys, and Sophia hid small cheeses in a box under her bed), I didn’t know anything about Spencer’s kids. On one hand, this made it harder to hold their attention, as I liked to weave their hobbies into our lessons. On the other end, it was easier to avoid emotional embarrassment.

As I was looking at the lesson plan for the day, my manager knocked on the door then came in. I handed a handwritten letter to her. She sat down. I told her these had been the best two years of my life. I told her she was the best manager I had because she always empowered me. She supported all my unconventional ideas. She helped me find a sweet apartment. She got me medicine when I was sick. As she said nice things to me, mascara tears leaked from her eyes. Before I could join her, there was another knock on the door. The kids were here.

The first class: second graders. There were three girls and one boy and they were smart. The three girls Julia, Dana, Lucy (Korean students are recommended to pick English names) were bonded by a hatred for the one boy, Jordan. I infused the lesson with a game and gave all the kids nicknames. Julia was Julie Beans. Dana was Banana. Lucy was Lucy Goosey. Jordan was Air Jordan. After the first round, Air Jordan was in the lead. He stood up.

“ MMMMM, I’m eating Julia Beans and Banana. It’s so delicious. I’m winning. Lucy you’re a goose!” he said with a grin on his face.

“Jordan, didn’t you say you were humble?” Julia responded without emotion.

“Ohhh! Nice word. Humble,” I chimed in.

“You’re not even anything, Jordan. You’re air. You’re nothing,” Dana said and the girls nodded in serious approval, forcing Jordan into silent defeat.

As a teacher, you’re constantly trying to squash little squabbles. But, sometimes the kids handle it themselves. Dana ended up winning. None of the students got upset. When class was over, the girls wished me sweet farewells while Jordan marched straight out the room, excited to get his vacation underway.

The second class had four boys and three girls. Of course, they sat at opposite sides of the room. In Korea, girls and boys don’t mess with each other. It’s not only that they don’t sit next to each other—they don’t even acknowledge each other’s existence. Upon inquiry, explaining that I had many girl friends in my childhood, they looked at me as if I was contesting a universal law like “Why do you breathe?” In elementary school, girls are not friends with boys. Boys are not friends with girls. And that’s the way it is.

The class wasn’t eventful. The students were quiet because they were nervous about their “presentations”. The week before I had told them their presentations needed to be better. They didn’t include introductions or conclusions. They read from their papers without looking up once. Except one, all the presentations were too short. The talk must have got to them because their presentations were better this week. After the last kid finished his speech on “the best season”, I wanted to talk to them. I like to just chat in my class because I feel that many ESL teachers focus too much on book work and forget to teach their kids conversational English. Plus, these chats get the students comfortable speaking in their second language and they humanize, me, the teacher. I always start with soft, open-ended questions.

“Hey everyone! Was it your last day of school?” I said. No one answered. “Allen, was it your last day?”

“Yes, ” he said.

“Are you excited? I remember when I was a kid I felt so good walking out of school on the last day before vacation! Do you have any fun plans? Are you going anywhere on vacation?”

“No,” he said.

I let the silence exist for a moment. “So, you’re just going to stare at a wall for two weeks?” I said with a smile. Some other kids smiled as well.

“No,” he said.

“Are you going to go to the jungle and become friends with a lion?” I said with a serious face. Allen and some other kids laughed.

“No. I’m just going to do homework,” Allen said, and his smile faded upon the word “homework”.

“Allen, there’s no way you’re going to do homework for two whole weeks. What else are you going to do? Are you going to play phone games?” he said.

“Maybe. But my mom doesn’t let me play phone games,” he said, as if this was more devastating than doing homework for two weeks.

“Ok. Well, maybe you’ll be lucky! Plus, you should go outside! Going outside is more fun than phone games,” I said.

“Outside cold,” he said.

“Ok, well, you can wear a jacket, Allen” I said, giving up on the conversation.

I peppered other kids with questions and had slightly more success than I had with Allen. Noting their lack of enthusiasm, I stuck to writing the essay for the rest of the class. We decided that teamwork was the main theme in Roald Dahl’s The Giraffe, the Pelly, and Me. Teamwork can accomplish hard tasks: the animals and the boy cleaned many windows together. Teamwork can get us rewards: the boy was given a candy shop after helping the Duke recover stolen jewellery. Teamwork requires sacrifice: the Pelly suffered a hole in its beak after capturing the thief. We made an outline, and I wrote the first paragraph on the board to show them how it was done. Then class was over.

I wasn’t excited for the last class. They were a group of seventh graders with a low level of speaking, an even lower desire to learn, and no commitment to their homework. Last week, I had warned the students that Missing May was a difficult book, and they should start it early. They did not listen to me, and, as I tested their comprehension, no one could tell me the main character’s name: Summer. We couldn’t write an essay on a book they didn’t read, so, chapter by chapter, we slowly went through the story of a girl and her uncle grieving. As I summarized, I heard groans and sighs. I saw eye rolls and heads on the desks. A couple of years ago, I would’ve considered this disrespectful and got upset. But, at this point, I put the book down, took a deep breath, and explained that we were doing this because they didn’t do their homework. I understood them, though. When I was their age, I wouldn’t have been happy to be at an academy at 8 p.m. after my last day of school. All I asked of them was to be respectful, as I was trying to help them. Then I continued on. After getting through the novel, we did some TOEFL questions. Then we ended with writing exercises. Despite complaining about sleepiness the whole class, the students became energetic when the clock hit 9:10. They all giggled as they walked out the door. One out of five students said bye.

Before the silence got to me, my manager came in again. She went over the details of my severance and airplane ticket payment. Apparently, it was already in my account. Then she pulled out a bag. Inside there was a canister of tea and a mug from (guess where?) Starbucks. It was a beautiful blue mug with Gwangali bridge, seagulls, and the beach. I stood up, put on my jacket and hat, and told her that if she was ever in Vietnam she should message me. She returned the nicety, saying I should message her if I returned to Korea. We walked out the class. The teachers that were still at work were standing up. Lauren, the teacher that was replacing me, was waiting for me. I bowed and said goodbye to all of them. Then I walked out the door and went down the elevator for the last time, with Lauren.

Lauren’s desire to reflect on her first week overshadowed my sentimentality. We talked about the tricky students, the lessons, the relationship with the management team, and overall teaching philosophies until we arrived at my apartment. Then I gave her a brief tour of my pad, stepping around all my boxes, bags, and suitcases, explaining how to switch on hot water and where to throw out garbage. I’m not sure if she realized how incredibly rare it was to walk into a two-room, fully (and nicely) furnished apartment in the first year of a job. Most teachers were given an empty shoe box.

When she left, I was finally alone with “the end”. I still had a couple days left in the country, but my working days were done. No more teaching in Busan. No more getting to work by 2:00. No more old students. I was yanking out the backbone of my life. As a way to make sense of this all, I opened up my online banking page. Next to my name and checking account were more dollars than I’d ever been able to call my own. I’d imagined this moment many times. I’d joked with my friends that I would, soon, be rich. I’d always thought that I’d feel a tremendous rush of freedom after getting paid, but, as I looked at the number, I felt no different than I had yesterday. Before, all extra income went to paying off debt. Now, all extra income would be saved for grad school. I sat there, staring at my wall, contemplating that the paying-off/saving-up cycle would exist for the rest of my life. I would never be homeless, but I’d never be rich. But that was OK—as long as I could write.