A peri-urban schoolyard in Saigon's low-income District 7.

After two weeks of working on our hands and knees with (literally) hundreds of Korean 4 year-olds, Brian might actually kill me for saying this, but I love kids. That’s because, when it comes down to it and I’m surrounded by screaming, crying and broken glass, one fact remains: kids are the same wherever you go.

As you’ve guessed from Brian’s positive updates over the last week, we’re teaching kids. A lot of kids. I’m struck though at how similar their personalities are to the children I met at home, in Vietnam, and saw riding the Tokyo subway alone at 6 in the morning. There are always the same old personalities: the smart one, the dumb one, the girl that’s way too into herself and her ability to color inside the lines. Reliably, if a child is significantly bigger than his classmates, he’s a bully. If a kid’s balloon pops, he’s going to cry.

It seems so strange to me to feel most at home with that part of a culture I can communicate the least with. My classes essentially consist of me shouting as loud as I can, while on my hands and knees showing them what to do through more of a mime-act than actual teaching. I guess it’s reassuring in a culture as xenophobic and anti-American as this, to know that there’s some segment I can truly get through to just by making a silly face.