Elegant Spring (1)
[Good day, everyone. We will now begin the April broadcast assembly.]
The sound from the speaker hanging on the ceiling rippled through the air.
The audio crackled with static. The broadcasting club member’s gruff voice was clearly tinged with annoyance. There was not a hint of seriousness in that voice.
The gloomy masses filling the classroom paid no attention and continued chattering away. The sight of them, peppered with black hoodies or windbreakers, resembled an anthill at first glance.
Their faces, steeped in alcohol, cigarettes, and violence from an early age, were far removed from that of students. They were more reminiscent of gangsters or construction day laborers.
[We will now recite the pledge to the national flag. Everyone, please rise from your seats.]
Seo Juhan, standing behind the teacher’s desk, had been standing from the start. However, he was similar to them in that he was letting the broadcast content go in one ear and out the other.
[Salute to the Taegeukgi!]
No one placed their hand over their heart.
The audio began. Tu-du-tu-du-tu-du. Following the fine trembling of drums came the blaring sound of brass instruments—ppam ppam ppa-ppa-ppam!—resounding boisterously through the classroom.
It was a sound he had heard ad nauseam at various events throughout his school days.
[I solemnly pledge loyalty before the proud Taegeukgi for the eternal glory of the free and just Republic of Korea.]
Seo Juhan frowned, feeling as if his eardrums would burst. No matter how many times he heard it, the awful noise that he could never get used to was extremely grating.
The broadcast manager never lowered the volume. It was as if they were trying to forcibly cram the broadcast that no one listened to into everyone’s ears.
That intention had absolutely no effect. No one paid attention to the voice actor’s solemn recitation. Even as the grave pledge continued, the local broadcast mixed with profanity and obscene talk went on uninterrupted.
[Next, we will sing the national anthem. We will only sing the first verse.]
Seo Juhan leaned his elbow against the teacher’s desk, tilted his body, and stared at the monitor on the wall with clouded eyes.
The Taegeukgi disappeared from the rectangular screen and a red sun rose.
[Until the East Sea’s waters and Baekdu Mountain are dry and worn away~ May God protect and preserve our nation~.]
Following this, a mugunghwa flower with dewdrops appeared, along with a towering pine tree. Flames from a blast furnace symbolizing national development and workers wearing hard hats also appeared.
[Three thousand ri of splendid rivers and mountains~ May the Korean people forever preserve Korea~.]
In truth, no one here had their patriotism stirred. That was the same not only for the students but also for homeroom teacher Seo Juhan.
When the national anthem ended, an elderly gentleman appeared.
The principal, seated behind the podium, was dressed in a splendid suit. To Seo Juhan’s eyes, he only looked like an old man behind the times.
[The principal will now speak. Attention for the principal!]
The “Attention!” shouted by the broadcasting club member was filled with heated vigor. Though he didn’t know who the voice belonged to, they were as spirited as if they had joined the military.
[Bow!]
The students were busy sprawling crookedly in their chairs and chattering raucously. Naturally, there wasn’t a single upstanding fellow who actually bowed.
Only the phlegm-laden voices characteristic of puberty filled the classroom. Of course, puberty had long since passed, so it was actually due to smoking.
Having received an imaginary greeting, the principal deliberately tapped the standing microphone on the desk. It was a habitual action signaling the start of his sermon.
[Ahem. Our proud Yangseong School students. Good day to you all. Before we knew it, a month has passed since the start of the new semester and it is now April. You have all worked hard this past month.]
Seo Juhan wondered what hardships these kids who didn’t fulfill their duty as students could have possibly endured.
[Today, I would like to talk about how humans are creatures who learn until the day they die.]
Led by those words, a grand, lengthy speech followed.
He had felt this during the opening ceremony too, but the principal had a talent for drawing out useless talk at great length. From Seo Juhan’s standpoint, even that seemed like quite an ability. It was torture to listen to. He extremely detested hollow formalities that had absolutely no practical use.
The principal finally finished his nagging after a long while.
[Attention for the principal. Bow!]
When the camera turned to show the Student Affairs Director, it was almost a relief.
[An announcement from Student Affairs.]
The Student Affairs Director, holding a wired microphone in one hand, continued speaking.
He was equally tedious, but at least his talk was substantial.
[Many students commute by motorcycle. As I mentioned last month, a student from our school who rode a motorcycle suffered an unexpected accident last year. Instead of motorcycles, please use the bus. If you take bus number 1004, Yangseong School is the final stop.]
It was ironic that the final stop of the “Angel (1004)” was “hell.”
There was a paradox about “Yangseong School” located in Jeonghan City, Gyeonggi Province. Rather than both sexes—that is, “yangseong (兩性)”—only foul-smelling men attended. However, it was quite a fitting name in that it was “cultivating (養成)” society’s trash.
That’s right.
Yangseong School was a famously notorious hooligan school in Jeonghan City, a non-equalization zone.
At first, even Seo Juhan couldn’t help but be appalled by the fact that such a school existed in the Republic of Korea.
Having lived his entire life as a model student, faithfully completing Korea’s regular education curriculum, and passing the teaching certification exam upon graduation, Seo Juhan could not believe such a place existed.
By Seo Juhan’s standards, it was an incomprehensible realm. He even questioned whether this place could truly be called a “school.” Depending on one’s existing academic level, graduation was possible after attending for just one year, and upon graduation, it was recognized as a high school diploma.
This was because Yangseong School belonged to a type of alternative school.
The background behind the creation of this “fenced-type” public alternative educational institution was as follows:
The Framework Act on Juveniles defines those aged 9 to 24 as juveniles. However, according to social convention, which considers those up to age 18 as juveniles, there was a lack of legal and institutional mechanisms to protect maladjusted students aged 19 and above.
There were those who, having just entered adulthood, were not covered by the Juvenile Protection Act, but utterly lacked the capacity to become independent on their own without help from family and society.
Moreover, with the number of students dropping out increasing, there was also concern that those particularly in blind spots might exacerbate social chaos through deviant behavior.
Therefore, the core purpose was to expand the social safety net so that these individuals could contribute as sound members of society.
The system called “Fence School” was first introduced during the previous administration. And this year, Seo Juhan, newly assigned here, was the one who had to clean up that shit and filth.
Seo Juhan couldn’t shake the feeling that he had become trial material.
It was still vivid—reading the notification of personnel assignments for new secondary school teachers from the Gyeonggi Provincial Office of Education, then visiting the Yangseong School homepage and reading the phrase that appeared on the banner.
Was it something like <A temple of learning where one can develop outstanding abilities with flourishing youth and establish proper values>? Thinking about it now made him sneer.
[However, we continue to receive complaints about students smoking on buses. Do not smoke inside buses. Buses are designated as no-smoking zones under the National Health Promotion Act, and fines of up to 100,000 won may be imposed. Areas within 10 meters of bus stops are also no-smoking zones.]
The Student Affairs Director specifically said not to smoke “inside buses.”
To Seo Juhan, it sounded like: We won’t say anything about smoking in places where you can’t be seen inside the school, so smoke well on your own.
In reality, most of them were of smoking age anyway. Perhaps because of that, the school was no different from a giant raccoon den.
The faint smell of cigarettes clinging to the students’ clothes wafted all the way to where Seo Juhan was standing. This was despite him spraying perfume all over his body every morning to numb his nose.
The Student Affairs Director continued to recite a string of announcements beyond common sense.
Most of it was content he had already heard at the March opening ceremony. And back then, Seo Juhan still had pure passion.
It took less than a month for that fresh resolve to shatter.
It was only a month. Just one month after being assigned to Yangseong School as a new teacher, Seo Juhan came to realize the reality.
His dream of sharing academic exchanges and achieving mutual growth through teaching and learning disappeared within a week. His desire for the personal respect that any human being should receive also soon vanished.
[Lastly, we’ll show you lost items. If something belongs to you, please come down to the broadcasting room now.]
A pair of grimy basketball shoes, a worn bucket hat, a cracked motorcycle helmet, and such appeared on the screen.
No one paid attention to them. In any case, the real lost items would be in the bags or wallets of those belonging to the upper echelons of Yangseong School’s hierarchy.
While trash of unknown origin—whether thrown away or lost—appeared on screen, the back door slid open with a rattle.
At that sound, Seo Juhan’s eyes, which had been blankly directed somewhere outside the window, slowly rolled over.
Juhan’s eyes, a light brown due to their pale pigmentation, turned toward the figure entering the classroom.
