MORNING CALM TALES Half-dreaming through early-morning English in 1990s

An empty street in Gangnam / Korea Times file

Throughout the 1990s, the insatiable thirst of Koreans for mastering English was unmatched, eclipsed only by the frustration that accompanied their quest for fluency.

It manifested in the vast sea of language institutions, academies and university programs, and in the staggering multimillion-won industry of English books, cassette tapes and glossy self-study materials. At the time, I was teaching at ELS, one of Seoul’s top English academies, a place where that national obsession played out day after day in packed classrooms.

In the late summer of 1991, ELS management hatched an audacious plan — to introduce early morning classes. The rationale was simple: Certain language learners, particularly salarymen, would welcome the opportunity to study English before work. After 12 hours at the office, evenings were an exhausted blur, so why not shift the burden forward, into the still-dark dawn? Instead of dragging themselves through conversation drills at 9 p.m., students could arrive fresh — at least in theory — at 6:30 a.m. and leave at 8:10 a.m., just in time to catch the subway to their jobs.

At first, it sounded absurd. Who would crawl out of bed in the dark, wind through Seoul’s streets and arrive at class before sunrise? And yet, compared to watching students nod off after dinner, maybe it wasn’t such a terrible idea. The real question was whether teachers would go along — our split schedules were punishing enough without asking anyone to surrender precious sleep to report at “zero-dark-thirty.”

At a staff meeting, David Rogers, the academic director, unfurled the plan. “We need volunteers,” he announced. “Classes begin at 6:30 a.m.”

A groan rippled through the room. The fear was that if no one volunteered, some of us would be drafted. Yet there was a lure: Teachers who took the morning shift finished by 2 p.m., freeing them from the usual late-night grind. The deal was sweetened further — breakfast sandwiches from the brand-new Wendy’s down the street.

That was enough for me. I raised my hand.

Quiet city

The first mornings were the hardest. My alarm shrilled at 5 a.m., splitting the darkness. I staggered to the kitchen, brewed a quick cup of coffee and swallowed it in gulps. Bitter and thin, it burned down my throat like medicine more than drink, but it did the job.

The real trial awaited in the bathroom. Our apartment complex rationed hot water; the central boiler came on only twice a day — after 6 a.m., and again in the evening. A morning shower person for years, I refused to give it up. The icy water shocked me into consciousness, a cold slap that left me gasping, shivering, alive. Later, I came to think of it as an initiation rite, a daily pledge to earn the day.

By 5:30 a.m., I was outside, the narrow streets hushed, the apartment blocks lined up like weary sentries. Here and there, a window glowed with faint light. I often wondered about the others awake at that hour — the mother preparing breakfast, the office worker smoking in silence before the world claimed him.

An empty street in Seoul early in the morning / Korea Times file

The subway station, usually a riot of noise, stood in near silence. A few commuters dotted the platform, faces blank, postures weary but disciplined. The fluorescent lights buzzed. When the train slid in, we boarded without a word, sinking into its warmth. The car swayed through the tunnels, walls flickering past like filmstrips. For 20 minutes, we sat together in silence, strangers bound by the same bargain: Give up sleep, gain something else.

At Gangnam Station, I climbed the stairs and walked the last five minutes to the academy. Its windows glowed against the dim morning, a small beacon for those determined enough to begin the day with English. Inside, the students arrived promptly with a determination that bordered on reverence. To wrestle with grammar and pronunciation at this hour required not just willpower but faith — that English would indeed pay off, that it was worth the sacrifice.

Some leaned forward as if English were caffeine itself, eyes sharp, pens flying. Others sat straighter with every correction, as though fluency waited just one more sentence ahead. The dawn seemed to clear the clutter. Their minds were open, eager, uncluttered.

What impressed me most was their constancy. They came every day, never late, never absent, their voices filling the gray dawn with English phrases. They believed, perhaps more than I did, that these hours could change their lives. I often thought that if midnight classes were offered, they would have come to those as well. Too soon, the lessons ended, and the students gathered their belongings and hurried toward their offices and universities.

At the appointed time, the office secretary would return with warm Wendy’s breakfast sandwiches, handed out like communion. We ate them in gratitude, though I often felt embarrassed by the pampering. To balance the scales, I brought pound cakes or pastries from Paris Croissant for the staff on payday — small gestures, but necessary. Sitting in the break room afterward with my sandwich, I couldn’t help but think how ordinary and surreal it all seemed.

Years later, what I recall most vividly is not the grammar drills or the fatigue, but the walks through the quiet city: the hush of the apartments, the glow of kitchen lights, the nearly empty subway cars swaying through their tunnels. Seoul seemed softer then, stripped of its roar, almost tender. To be awake in those hours, moving toward a classroom where others were waiting, was to share a secret with the city itself. The world was still half-dreaming, but we were already at work, already speaking, already alive.

Jeffrey Miller is the author of several novels including "War Remains," a story about the early days of the Korean War, and "No Way Out," a thriller set in Seoul in 1990. Reach him at daejeonscribe@yahoo.com.