Overheard in 영어 – A glimpse into an all-boys middle school
by Jame See Yang, ETA ’20 *Makes a dramatic entrance* “HELLO JAME SEE TEACHER!!!” “IU is my wife.” “Teacher! That’s me!” *points at world famous actor Ma Dong Seok on the screen* “BewhY is my dad.” Student: Cardi B is my wife. Me: But you said IU is your wife. Student: Teacher, IU is my wife in Korea. Cardi B is my wife in America. “Drake is freakin’ awesome.” Student, in the deepest frat boy voice: SUP Jame See! “We are team Handsome Guy.” “We are genius class.” “I play game everyday. No sleeping. No eating.” “R.I.P Ironman … Real R.I.P Black Panther.” Student 1: Teacher, this 노 잼. Student 2, to Student 1: You’re 노 잼! “Teacher! He has seven girlfriends!” Me: What are you going to do during summer vacation? Student: I’m going to make girlfriend. *Points to my tattoo* “Teacher… Gang?” “I am rapper. I go on Show Me The Money.” Student: *requests an explicit song* Me: No, too many bad words. Student: Ah~ It’s okay teacher. Other students don’t know meaning. *Playing two truths and a lie* Student 1: One, I’m handsome. Two, I-… Student 2: Teacher! First one is lie! My turn! “I like high school girls…” Me: Where is *insert student’s name*? Student: He die. “He is bad guy. He is bad guy. Everybody bad guy. Only me good guy.” “He is my girlfriend today.” “Bye bye wonderful teacher~” … “Next time candy please.” [Featured Photo by Allie Easterbrook]
“The Smudged Mirror”
by Andrianna Boykin, ETA ’20 “The Smudged Mirror” The mirror reflects, You, me, locking eyes as one. Why question your own? Our fingerprints blind. Heaven accepts, still we check, Those who reflect us. Between interest and intrusion, we reach out, grasping at slick glass. Quick scan of my eye, Enough of an alibi? Black skin, check twice. [Featured Photo by Nathalie Peña Gomez]
Hungry Ghost
by Chloe Nelson, ETA ’20 Rather than face the mildly awkward experience of navigating a Korean grocery store, I decide to starve to death in my apartment. It’s not a bad place to die. Impulse purchases from Daiso litter my meagre living space—a nest of scrunchies, a tangle of fairy lights, clusters of succulents already browning at the edges. It would be easy to curl myself into the heated floor, withering away into a pile of bones and social anxiety. I have never lived alone before. I have especially never lived alone before in a country where my language abilities are roughly equivalent to a toddler’s. My every word comes out slow and stilted, and for the first time, I am aware that I have an accent. I feel its midwestern taste on my tongue—like boiled corn and cheap PBR. It punctuates every word with its hard American edges, making me indecipherable to every cashier, clerk and street vendor. More often than not I am simply rendered mute, my simple vocabulary of annyeonghaseyo, kamsahamnida and hwajangshil? never quite enough to get me through even the simplest of transactions. And so, I hunker down onto my heated floor and prepare for a long and hungry year. My solid padding of quarantine dosiraks begins to melt away, yet I still can’t seem to shake my starving, Pavlovian-animal response to knocks at my door. When I open it this time, it is only my co-teacher. He jumps when he sees my face, ravenous and foaming at the mouth. “Are you settling in okay?” he asks me. His face is sweet and perfectly round, like a souffle pancake. I tell him yes. Very well, kamsahamnida. He leaves and does not come back after that, because I am adjusting so well. … By April, my quarantine weight is long gone, and I’m growing restless in my little one-room. My calm resignation towards my death has started to wane—a primal survival instinct slowly taking its place. I pace back and forth across the tiny space. Thirteen steps from my bed to the wall. Thirteen steps from the wall to my bed. Back and forth I go, until night falls and the market ajummas outside my window begin packing up their goods. Mountains of plump, round cabbages. Long stalks of fresh green onions. Korean pears as big as a baby’s head, tucked snugly into foam wrappers. I watch as one haggard-looking ajumma loads her cart with peaches. The peaches seem to glow softly, pale pink under the moonlight. I imagine holding a peach in my hand, caressing its soft fuzz under my fingertips. Rolling it in my hand before bringing it to my lips and biting down hard. Feeling the juice run down my chin as I tear into the sweet pink flesh. Under my jaws, the peach pit crunches like a snapped neck. … Time passes, and I can feel myself hollowing out. My skin takes on a sallow, pinched appearance. Swathes of hair fall out in the shower, like an animal shedding its winter coat. The hunger in my belly grows from a dull ache to a hot knife, whittling me down piece by piece. And yet, I can’t seem to leave my apartment for anything other than work. I go as far as opening my door and gazing down the long hallway. It’s dinnertime, and the air smells like sweet and sour pork. The couple in 301 is arguing again. The baby in 303 is wailing—its muffled cries surrounding me like a dense fog. I close the door and retreat into my shelter before I suffocate. … I must look particularly wan this week, because when I come to work, there’s a cup of sliced tomatoes sitting on my desk. I sniff the air. My eyes shift side to side, illogically suspicious that these tomatoes are mine for the taking. “Ssaem!” My deskmate storms into the office, tomato bag in tow. “To-mah-to,” he says, gesturing to the cup at my desk. “Ne, tomato,” I repeat dumbly. The words come out so utterly American. To-may-to. He brings a wrinkled hand to his face and mimes eating. “Mashisoyo,” he says, gesturing again towards my cup. I spear a fat cherry tomato with a toothpick, tentatively bringing it to my mouth and taking a bite. Perfectly ripe, the skin breaks under my teeth. I chew; taste the salt, tang and sweetness all at once. Euphoric. I don’t know the Korean word to express this sentiment, so I merely repeat “Ne, mashisoyo,” as I cover my mouth with my hand. My deskmate nods, satisfied. When he leaves, I inhale my cup hungrily, greedily. Drops of tomato juice dribble down my chin and onto my mask. I wear the red spots on my chin for the rest of the day—evidence of my feast. The next day, there’s another cup of tomatoes on my desk. My deskmate is standing by the table, chopping away at a pile of them. “Ssaem!” He cries when he sees me. “To-mah-to!” He says something else in Korean that I don’t understand, but the message is clear enough. I bow my head towards him, reverent, and when I finish my cup, he refills it. My midwestern roots tell me to protest, but when I do, he just shakes his head and tells me to eat well. … Each day when I come to work there’s something on my desk. My other deskmates must have joined in, because it’s no longer just tomatoes; now, I find wedges of fruit, fizzy drinks, squat jugs of banana milk or fluffy rolls bursting with red bean paste. My coworkers eye each other, looking satisfied. Just like in quarantine, someone has come to feed me. The gifts accumulate, and I continue to eat ravenously. The sharp lines of my ribs and knobbly joints begin to smooth, my skeleton retreating from the surface of my skin. My belt buckle loosens a notch. The dense fog in my brain melts away