Good News
Good News By Laura Evans I miss groggy steam rising my coffee maker, growling over grounds begrudgingly distilling joy‑scented promise I miss tracing cracked leather lines my steering wheel, sliding through my hands relinquished for two tense grips: bus pole and handphone I miss unripened shades of green my weekly cluster of bananas, awaiting consumption now I wait, resigned, for fruit in its season Miss understanding conversations in passing solving crosswords with my mother each morning testing the bounds of my physicality Craving such small comforts like knowing how green lights cycle at neighborhood intersections which chocolate milk tastes most like my childhood what unbothered street offers space to dance unobserved But twice daily, commute between harbor and hills painted in sunlight, I am overwhelmed sitting witness, stenographer of this serendipity The good news is: These days I distill my own joy dance in the morning suppress a smile, work myself awake The good news is: A bowl of soup needs no translation love, placed on the table before me its grammar, conjugations of compassion The good news is: I can call home miles of distance, hours of time mere ellipsis when I hear “Hello?” The good news is: I reinhabit my neglected body as I sweat and I breathe blue belt on black gi1 The good news is: I am content in this Life: collection of iterations on old habits. I’m rebuilding Connection: the kindness of humanity, my anchor Gratitude: embodied, the sun rising over my skin and the sea.
Stories I Wish I Could Tell My Grandfather
Stories I Wish I Could Tell My Grandfather By Jen Choi Every late November or early December for the past 17 years, my family and I drove down from New Jersey to Virginia to visit my grandfather. Always around the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, the annual trip would begin with a visit to 할머니’s1 grave before sharing a meal with 할아버지2 and spending time together in his home. Korean traditions wrote much of our time with 할아버지, from the deep 인사3 we would give to greet him to the containers of home-cooked 밥4 and 반찬5 that my mother would bring to fill her father‑in‑law’s fridge. This would be the one time each year I would see my grandfather. Yet every year, as we drove down along the East Coast to see him, I would feel a pang of nervousness because of the language barrier that had developed between our generations. Korean school was forced upon me during my elementary and middle school years, after which I did what I could to resist my heritage. Most of my friends were not Korean American or even Asian American, and Korean felt unfamiliar and awkward on my tongue. A consequence of my rejection of my heritage was that visits to see my grandfather were often uncomfortable, out of fear that he would say something to me that I wouldn’t be able to understand or that he would ask me something that my limited Korean language abilities would leave me ill‑equipped to respond to. Most of the memories that I can recall of 할아버지, especially from when I was a lot younger, consist of 할아버지 giving—like the times he entrusted me and my siblings with prized possessions such as pocketbooks and old family pictures, or the times he gave us 붕어빵6 ice cream to munch on as a sweet dessert. Year after year, my siblings and I would perform 세배7, as our annual visits were shortly before the New Year. And year after year, despite the fact that we had all grown well beyond the age of receiving 세뱃돈8, 할아버지 was always eager to give it to us. 할아버지 filled whatever gaps existed between us due to language with his generosity. Last year, 할아버지 was 94 years old. Over the years, his condition had declined significantly due to many health concerns, especially with his hearing and speaking. The decline in his physical condition happened to be around the same time as when I started to truly connect with my Korean heritage for the first time. Part of this journey of connecting with my heritage involved relearning Korean as an adult, which saw much progress through self‑study during the pandemic. But as I was making progress with my Korean language abilities, 할아버지 was losing his ability to communicate altogether. The last time I had seen him, in December 2023, he had long been unable to speak and had just been released from one of several recent hospitalizations. Because he could no longer hear or speak, there was never an opportunity to tell him that I was going to live and teach in Korea for a year. 할아버지 ultimately passed away on December 15, less than a month before I moved to Korea for my Fulbright grant. As I reflect on my time in Korea so far, I find myself feeling incredibly grateful for many things, among which are the relationships I have built with people here. Before coming to Korea, I never had the courage to speak in Korean with Korean adults other than my parents. Now, more than halfway into my grant year, I can think back fondly on memorable experiences and meaningful conversations I’ve shared with coworkers at school and with relatives who I’ve come to visit often. Yet, for as much joy and gratitude as I feel for these interactions, ones that I couldn’t have imagined just a few years ago, I realized recently that I also feel a deep sadness for the fact that I was never able to experience this with 할아버지. I wish that I could communicate with him with the greater ease that I am now able to with my Korean coworkers and aunts and uncles. I wish that he had known that I would be in Korea before he passed. I wish that I could tell him about how my experience has been here and how I am reminded of him, especially when I spend time with my dad’s side of the family; 고모9 bears a striking resemblance to him and has brought him up in conversation. But it’s not just about the things I want to express to 할아버지—I also want to hear from him directly about the life he lived here in Korea before he emigrated, especially now that I myself have set foot in the motherland. I want to hear him share about what it was like for him to leave his homeland in his late 50s to immigrate to the States. I want to ask him what joys and challenges this experience brought him, in search of a possibility that perhaps there are similarities to my own experience of moving across borders. I realized recently that I mourn not just the loss of 할아버지 but also the conversations we never got to have and the stories I wish I could tell him. One of the last things that 할아버지 ever said to me was about five years ago, when he expressed how proud he was of me for being a teacher. At the time, I had just started teaching only a few months after graduating college. In the years since, moments of discouragement with teaching have often brought me back to these words, and it has never been without feeling deeply moved. For all the obvious sadness about what couldn’t be shared between us during 할아버지’s lifetime on earth, there is also a comforting hopefulness that he would be proud of me now for living and teaching in the motherland. And at the same time, living in the land of my ancestors has taught me to
Defining Moments
Defining Moments By Maggie Backus, 1st Year ETA When learning new languages has been a source of wonder since childhood, you know full well that some words simply lack one-to-one translations. Through my two years in South Korea, I have come to learn that the Korean word 친구, pronounced “chingu,” is one such example. Despite translating to “friend,” 친구 specifically refers to a friend of the same age. Moreover, age is so irrevocably infused within the Korean language and culture that it determines the precise vocabulary used in any given discourse, with more respectful language expected when speaking to elders, authorities, and strangers. It is more than the mere addition of a “Please” or “Would you mind…?” To speak is to enact a social stratification, ranking the addressee above, alongside, or beneath oneself. When asking a new acquaintance’s name, for instance, one cannot help but choose whether to inquire about an 이름 or 성함, where the difference lies in informal or formal usage of the Korean term for “name.” As I filter my day-to-day interactions through these parameters, I reflect on the growth of my cross-generational friendship with two native Korean women this year, questioning what it means to participate in and describe our social relationship when the very noun for “friend” is unavailable to us. On one balmy summer evening after language exchange, I followed Yura’s short but rapid strides down into the subway station. She flails her left arm and glares until her smartwatch relents and reveals the time. Yura moves as if every upcoming endeavor is infinitely more exciting than the last, and this attitude propels us downward and secures us a spot on the train just before departure. We drop into the seats. “유라님의 딸은 미라님의 딸이랑 친구예요? Is your (Yura’s) daughter friends with Mira’s daughter?” I asked Yura. Yura, Mira, Grace (my Korean-American friend), and I meet twice every week. We share our lives between sips of coffee and new vocabulary in each other’s mother tongues, hurriedly scribbled into notepads. Our paths first intertwined at the local Saturday language exchange. Seeking connection in a new place, Grace (a 친구, by Korean linguistics) and I lent each other the courage to enter the cafe in March. The space’s design — white paint covering every surface, dimensions accentuated by thick black lines tracing each edge — gave the impression of possibility, a real-life coloring book. The once starkly blank scene soon faded and the attendees’ personal hues and charms colored in the room. Mira and Yura, two mothers to young children, drew us in with their honest curiosity about our stateside lives and patient demeanors. Their habit of asking questions in lieu of making assumptions ignited a humbling reexamination of ageist stereotypes. Months later, I have forgotten what the four of us talked about that first day, but I remember the smiles, laughing ‘til hands smacked tables and chairs reeled back, and exchanging contacts. At the end of the night, I recall Mira’s hand on my shoulder, the toothy grin of a friend coupled with that universal maternal farewell, “Go home safely.” I bowed and wished her the same. Back in the subway car, I catch Yura’s reply. “아니. 미라 딸은 젊어. No, Mira’s daughter is young.” I pulled my head off her shoulder and met her eyes. She holds the last syllable, her tone fluctuating with animated denial to soften the rebuttal. Had I heard her right? “근데… 친하다고 하지 않았어요? But, didn’t you say they’re close?” “아 네, 네. 친해. Oh yes, yes. They’re close,” she said. In English, she continued, “They are friends.” Yura nodded and I leaned back. So, they were friends, but not 친구. A 친구 is a friend of one’s own age. I had learned this nuance before, but had mused that globalization and English’s presence in Korea would have rendered 친구 an acceptable translation for “friends” in the way that I knew them, transcending generations. While in this case the Korean “friend” label did not apply, the two could still be close, as indicated by the verb 친하다, (pronounced “chinhada”), signifying “to have an intimate relationship.” I marveled at the cultural significance of age, able to override hours of joyful company and declare that, despite only two years’ difference, a pair of primary school girls could not be called “friends” in their native language. Glancing over at this person with whom I share languages, culture, delicious meals, and quality time, [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] my anglophonic mind singles out “friend” as the truest label for our relationship. I transferred to my bus and continued my evening journey home solo, preoccupied by the thought. If we were not 친구, what were we and my friends, who happened to be a decade or so my seniors? At recent language exchange meetings, I have taken to introducing Mira and Yura to newcomers the same way they introduce Grace and me: “우린 베스트 프렌즈예요,” or “베프” for short, reifying the distinction between “friend” and “친구.” Language exchange was intended to afford all parties ample time to play teacher and student, the prospect of forming relationships threading it together. But our thread, tightly winding us together after six months, now dictates how our meetings unfold. Museum visits, drives around town, and spontaneous phone calls weave together in our recent past. We are so eager to grow closer that we speak whatever words come first; awe at the wisdom of my best friends fuels evenings of drowsy persistence to self-study Korean. I long to discern the nuance of their speeches about parenting, after-school academies, wanderlust, self-care, and societal change. Out the bus window, a view of brick and mortar structures shifts into lush green fields of ripening pears, and I think back to Yura’s switch from noun to verb when describing the relationship shared by her daughter and Mira’s. The 친 (chin) in both words shares the same hanja, which denotes closeness, intimacy, and familiarity. The hanja of 구 (gu) in 친구, intriguingly, implies