the acquisition of my senses
by Kiki Marlam, ETA ’20 the acquisition of my senses Over the hills’ shoulders, the honey orb dips in the Geumosan Reservoir, melting to brew an ambrosia tea. Inhale. Pedal. Breathing in the crisp breeze, biking through the crunchy flecked soil. Exhale; time and reason doze to oblivion But, the moment stumbles and wanes… tripped up by the toasty scent of bungeoppangs wafting in the air, awakening my appetite. A coyly industrious ajhumma aproned in red stokes the piscean breads in the corner stall ahead. She understands the commercial topography well. Nestled near the bus stop, here a takeover of my moment is afoot. The hungry scent charges forth and my golden serene now forfeits. Time stirs, and with my reason reformed, I descend off the bike path, submitting to the acquisition of my senses. [Featured Photo by William Landers]
The Dragon Head
by Julia Zorc, ETA ’20 Along the Mugunghwa train line between Mokpo and Busan is a station with no name. When I have dinner with the Lim family, it is Tae Hee, my closest confidant among them, who tells me about it. I ask her for a more exact location on the line, but she doesn’t know. Her smile crinkles her face and she seems somewhere between a mother and a mischievous child. “It’s like a little legend. Maybe not true. But friends say they saw it.” She refills my glass and then calls out to her daughter, asking her to go to the corner store for some ice cream. There’s something I find romantic about this train station, but I attribute the mystery to a sort of clerical error that happens frequently here, like when a new address is put on a collapsed house. Tae Hee doesn’t have to mention it again. She knows the seed has already been planted. She knows that I like these kinds of out-of-the-way places, where few other foreigners have bothered to go. Places of quiet adventure and solitude. ********** I watch the landscape outside the train window. Mountains, high-rises and rice fields drift by. This season’s rice crop—not yet planted when I arrived in this country—is now ready for the harvest. Two hours of vigilance has made me drowsy, but I finally see my destination. The train stops at a small, square building; the yellow sideboards are faded and peeling. A discolored rectangle on the wall acts as the ghost of a signboard. I stand suddenly, afraid to lose my chance, and throw myself off the train as the door shuts. I am the only one on the platform, and when I look back at the train as it pulls away, I see concerned and confused faces looking back at me. I imagine that some of them think I accidentally wandered onto a plane, ended up in Korea and have been lost ever since. I walk purposefully into the station building to fool us all. The ticket window is shuttered, and the room is empty save for some benches and a banner reading “COVID-19 regulations: please stand two meters apart” in Korean. On the walls are old photos of railway workers, blurred by years of sunlight. I wonder if there is anyone left who remembers them. Outside of the station is a village that is nothing more than a handful of traditional homes in various states of decay. Beside them are rusty motorbikes and the occasional truck with a bed full of odds and ends. I see an elderly woman bent nearly in half, feebly pulling a wheelbarrow of vegetables behind her. I am suddenly self-conscious in the knowledge that I don’t belong here. But I have to see this through. I want to explore this place after taking all the trouble to get here. So I pass by the houses, their closed gates shuttering me in. A cat runs past, mewling, with sores all over its body. Blankets on clotheslines flutter in the breeze. On the edge of the village lie the remains of a small theme park. Child-sized rides sit buried in tall grass, more rust than paint. There is a merry-go-round of tiny rabbits instead of horses and a ferris wheel with seats that dangle from brittle chains. The most imposing one looks like a pirate ship ride—universal at any fair or carnival worth its salt—but the head of this ship is a great dragon. The red paint is peeled back, exposing the rotting wood beneath. I take a picture of it, and am taken aback. This beast is not dead. In fact, I can see it breathing and hear its ribbed body creaking. Its grimacing face seems to twitch. I hold my breath and close my eyes. When I open them, the movement has stopped, and I’m able to pretend that I imagined it. A voice calls out to me from a pavilion a little ways away, where two women are sitting and eating lunch. One woman is small, elderly, dark and wrinkled. The other is like a doll: tall, elegant and made-up to perfection. “Aigoo, a foreigner,” the old woman says in Korean. “Where are you from?” “America.” “What are you doing here?” “I’m just…walking.” I do not know the right English words to describe what I’m doing, let alone the Korean ones. “Walking? Cham! Take a rest. Please eat with us.” Her dialect is difficult to understand, but the kimbap in her outstretched hand says enough. I take it with a bow, remove my shoes and sit beside them. I want to ask about the dragon ride, but the younger woman is quick to speak. “You are bored here?” she says in English. “Not at all.” “Foreigners not come in here. Seoul is more interesting place. I live there.” “Stop using English,” the older woman interjects in Korean. “I can’t understand you!” “This is grandmother,” the young woman says, stubbornly sticking to English. “She live here.” “We can speak Korean,” I say with my faltering, pitiful accent. The grandmother doesn’t seem to understand me and her granddaughter continues on in English, undeterred. “I want to see L.A. and Vegas. You know? You go there?” I tell her that I’ve been to Vegas and wasn’t that impressed. “Really?” she says, her hand shooting up to hover over the little “o” of her mouth. It’s a perfectly choreographed gesture of surprise. Her grandmother is muttering beside us. I cannot understand what she is saying, but feel like I must address her. “Halmeoni,” I say, “how long have you lived here?” I notice that her granddaughter takes out her phone, and begins taking selcas with the serene, mountain landscape behind her. The old woman understands me this time and brightens considerably. She launches into her family history, snatches of which I am able to understand. I gather that she had ancestors who were of great importance in this town and
Re-member the Future
by Miles Yung Sahm Miller 김영삼 金永森, Architectural Design & Craft Researcher “Why would you want to learn that old stuff?” As the words leave her mouth, realization dawns upon her face like the sun on a frigid winter day. Her cheeks flush as she looks straight ahead and rephrases, “Well it seems that most people, not me, but other REAL Korean people, just…well, we view 한옥 (Hanok— traditional Korean homes), and all that as old stuff of the past. But I understand why elders or 교포 (gyopo— Korean diaspora) would care about—” Before I can finish sharing this past conversation, the Hanok architect interjects. “People say things without knowing anything…” He grasps his wrist briefly, considering the weight of his words before continuing, “Well, it just seems that if a person learned the basics, or visited a beautifully crafted modern Hanok, they wouldn’t form such an opinion. Many Koreans are still obsessed with the notion that everything ‘Western’ is modern and more valuable, and anything from Korea is old. Our work is needed now more than ever.” Months later, I am perched upon a second-floor scaffold drinking instant coffee from a paper cup as these echoes of conversation drift by in parallel to the clouds. Heavy rains rhythmically drum upon the blue tarps overhead. They shield the carefully sculpted timbers of a partially-built modern Hanok. Looking out from our team’s vantage point, I see young Seoul-lite couples bedecked in the latest Western fashion waiting in line for a busy cafe. Some peek curiously through the sheet of rain separating us, while others point excitedly at the structure unfolded before them. Today I am working at the Eunpyeong Hanok Village, an entire neighborhood of modern Hanok in northwestern Seoul. When I am not on-site for field research, I am at the National University of Cultural Heritage (NUCH) conducting academic research to better understand traditional Korean architectural design and craft. Each day has been a blur of activity and overload of information. At the university, I am either absorbed in learning about the foundational wooden joints for traditional architectural fittings, a craft called 소목 (Somok), or poring over seminal texts in the library. “Natives Praying to Wooden Devils, Chosen (Korea),” proclaims the caption of a photo taken by an American Christian missionary and sold by the Keystone View Company. I look at the photo of indigenous Joseon (Korean) people showing respect to traditional guardian totems called 장승 (Jangseung) outside a village. Careful to avoid the piercing glare of the librarian, I stifle a burst of laughter at the absurdity of the Western gaze. As I flick through the photos showing a unified Korean peninsula—known more accurately as Joseon—a bittersweet taste enters my mouth. Our class crowds together tightly, straining to hear our professor—an Intangible Cultural Heritage Expert of Somok—as he speaks in a low, serious tone. “The difference between the crafts today is that we had to work to survive in the past generation.” He takes a long sip of tea and continues, “We worked under the cruelty of the Japanese colonizers, the American military reign, the war and those years after… so we worked to feed ourselves and them. I’m happy that this generation can still learn our craft and design, but we need to support students to train as professionals, not just as a hobby or for tourists. Train with this in mind.” The landscape sprints backwards from our comfortable train seats as the Professor of Traditional Architecture at the NUCH speaks. “We are doing a great job educating many students, but will there be enough properly paid jobs for them?” He lets out a deep sigh and continues, “So many people choose to buy a home out of a catalogue. Then they fill it with expensive, yet ordinary, imported Western furnishings. Instead we could build a wonderful, custom Hanok that will last for generations.” The furrows across my brow deepen as our 할머니 (halmeoni—grandmother) speaks through the phone. It is still five months before my departure flight, and just three months before her final departure and graduation from life. She states bluntly, as usual, “I’ve lived longer than I want.” I share a bit about the research work I am preparing for in Korea and she perks up. “I’m glad you will return to 우리나라 (woorinara—our land)… and I’m happy you remember your name. When we came to America, it wasn’t good to use them. Remember us when you return to our land and use the name I gave you.” I feel the deep furrows of my brow straighten. “Yung Sahm shi!” A wave of gratitude washes over me as I hear the name my mother and grandparents gave me as a child. 김영삼 (金永森 Yung Sahm Kim): a golden eternal forest. I turn away from the sheet of rain and the onlooking crowd outside the café. “Come and look here,” the 대목님 (Daemoknim—Traditional Timberframe Carpenter) holds up a thick stack of architectural plans. He flips through the pages and points through the maze of pencil markings detailing the wooden joints over the computer rendered floor plans. Pointing to a corner he says, “This is where the 평방 (Pyuhng Bahng) will be. The structural brace for the second floor. You still remember Mr. Yung-Sahm?” The ripples of past conversations drift away as I shift my attention back to the task at hand. “Yes, I understand it!” A smile is on my lips. “I will re-member it.”