Volume 11, Issue 1
The Infusion staff is happy to announce the publication of our newest issue, Volume 11, Issue 1 (Published April 2018). Below you can find the web edition of the issue. To access individual pieces from this issue, use the links at the bottom of the webpage. Enjoy. [ezcol_1half] Letter from the Executive Director Letter from the Minister-Counselor Foreword A Knock on the Door Homecoming picking flowers [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] A Different Kind of Conversation 뉘앙스 Peanut Butter Returning Photos: Volume 11.1 [/ezcol_1half_end]
A Knock on the Door
By Robyn Kincaide, ETA ’16-’18 Almost all foreign English teachers teaching at the secondary level in Korea are responsible for administering some kind of biannual speaking test. Almost all of us have mixed feelings about it. The tests really cannot provide an accurate measure of students’ speaking abilities but do afford us the rare opportunity to interact with the students on a one-on-one basis and learn more about them as individuals. In addition, test time can give us a much-needed break from, say, trying to keep a room of 25 middle school boys entertained for 45 minutes… *** Jihyung There is a knock on the door. “Yes? Come in,” I say, finishing up my notes from the last student. In walks Jihyung, a bright third-year student quite skilled with English but often overshadowed by the class clowns due to his more humble personality. “Teacher, give me five seconds, please,” he says, starting to pace nervously in front of the desk where the test questions are laid out to be randomly chosen. “It’s okay; breathe.” I inhale and exhale in an exaggerated manner, followed by a light chuckle and a smile to try and make him feel more comfortable. “Okay. Ready.” He sits down and answers my first question without any mistakes. I read his second prompt out loud, “Tell me a lie.” Jihyung hesitates, which surprises me. I know he understands these words and am sure that he must have had a response prepared on his exam practice worksheet. He takes a deep breath, and then quietly mutters: “I hate you.” I laugh as I record his response on my grading sheet, and he follows up with a panicked, “It’s a lie, okay?” *** Chanhun The knock on the door this time is very deliberate, almost rhythmic. Without waiting for a response, Chanhun slides the door partway open, pops his head around the corner, and with his unique but convincingly fluid intonation and cadence asks, “Do you want to build a snowman?” It’s June. It’s 32° Celsius outside. “Um, now?” *** Jimin After about twenty of his classmates have gone, Jimin steps into the room. His English skills rank in the bottom half of his homeroom, but this fact never seems to stop him from chatting in English all class. Rather than being obnoxious, I find it strangely endearing, and it makes 3-1 class a livelier environment. Ironically, on the day of the speaking exam he is almost dead silent. We make it through the first question with only a few errors, but the second question stumps him: “What is hard for you to do?” He fiddles around a bit and taps his foot up and down, trying to remember what the question means and how to respond. “Hard… like difficult.” I pull a stressed face and muss up my hair with my hands, trying to get the concept across without using any hints in Korean. “What is hard”—I pull the stressed face—“for you?” I gesture at him with an open palm. He starts shaking his head back and forth. I can tell he has convinced himself he doesn’t know his answer, even though it is likely still in his mind, buried beneath layers of panic. I remember the answer he had written on his test prep worksheet with the help of my co-teacher, because its accuracy had made me burst out laughing: “It is hard for me to be quiet in class.” But now, shaking his head and staring at the floor, he utters only a single muttered word: “Skip.” Two days later, Jimin sees me twenty meters down the hallway and bellows with a big grin, “Hello, teacher!” I breathe an internal sigh of relief. I didn’t break him. *** Youngsun “I broke my arm. What should I make sure I don’t do?” “Make sure you don’t study.” Last year, Youngsun had given the best English Speaking Contest presentation out of all Uiseong Middle School’s students. I know he recognizes the illogic of his answer. “Ah, my arm!” I say, clutching it with my face contorted in affected pain. “I can’t study!” Then I give him one of my well-practiced, resigned What are you doing, boys? looks: one eyebrow raised, a sideways grimace-smile hybrid, elbow bent and palm flipped upward. “Yes, exactly.” I roll my eyes and write “A” on his paper. His grammar had been perfect. *** Byungwoo The door is already partway open, but Byungwoo raps on the door and says, “Excuse me?” as though he is acting in a play. “Yes? Would you like to take an English test now?” I ask, trying to keep up the skit-like atmosphere he has created. However, when I do this, he pauses mid-stride and a look of slight confusion flickers across his face. As one of the top English students in his class, I know Byungwoo has the knowledge base to understand what I just said, but it seems as though he didn’t process it. I then realize he may be more nervous about the English test than his confident tone of voice may suggest. Okay, then. Just the test questions; let’s not push him beyond that. He answers the first question without a problem, but also without his usual swagger. With the second prompt, though, Byungwoo rediscovers his groove. “Tell me a lie.” “I have a friend Youngsun and he is very handsome.” *** Woochang The door slides open and I look up, having just finished writing my notes. “Hello!” I say cheerily as Woochang walks into the room. He sits down at the desk, looks at me, and makes the observation: “Gold head.” When I first began teaching, I would not have known how to respond to such a statement, but these days the apparent oddness does not faze me. “Gold head.” I repeat Woochang’s words, nodding in acknowledgement of this fact before launching into an explanation of the test. “Choose one blue question, one yellow question, one orange question…” *** Junhwan Usually his voice
Homecoming
By Caleb Y. Lee, ETA ’17-’18 MIRYANG (밀양), SOUTH KOREA “There’s not many families left that do this,” he said. “We are one of the last.” If we were indeed among the few remaining, then 혁희 삼촌, Uncle Hyeokhee, is the last of the last. As the current elected representative head of the family, Uncle Hyeokhee carried the torch for the tasks at hand, directing others where to go, which burial mounds to see and how to navigate through the thick pine branches. In the moment, I imagine it’s the suit jacket he’s wearing that signals this position, the chestnut seedlings and thorns from the morning hike stuck like insignias to his back. He used to be a Korean Army colonel, or so I’ve heard, and his aura befits this rank. “So you see, all the relatives that gathered today are 50 or 60,” he called out to me over his shoulder. “There are few young people that come these days.” He’s 63, eight years older than the guess I gave him as we weaved our way down the southern side of the mountain. Luckily for me, he spoke English with relative ease, having worked at an American company in the past. At 22, I was not the youngest present that day—my second cousin Eunseo had that honor as a middle schooler—but Uncle Hyeokhee was right; after us 젊은 사람, or younger people, there was a conspicuous age gap of almost 25 years. We were to trek through the woods of 추화산, or Chuhwa Mountain—sometimes up, sometimes down and never in a straight line. This was the backyard of three brothers that grew up together: my grandfather, his brother two years his elder and the youngest by seven years. I couldn’t help but note how similar the gaps were to that of me and my own brothers. It was 243 meters to the peak of Chuhwa, which overlooked the small village of 밀양, Miryang, the family hometown. A distant relative I had met that morning handed me a pack filled with the ceremonial provisions for the day. We were to set these at the foot of the family burial mounds—but first, we had to set out an offering and bow to the spirits thought to be protecting these parts. Kowtowing to ghosts would have been a laughable proposition a few months ago. But when you find out that you are a part of the 31st official generation of a family branch whose history can easily be traced back over a thousand years, and you ask yourself whether this supposed mountain spirit has done its job… You’d probably bow too. While we ascended the mountain early in the morning, persimmon trees and squash patches gave way to pine trees and a thick needle underfoot that gave a satisfying scrunch under the weight each step. Save for one main route, these were not oft-traveled paths through the mountainside, and safe footing was hard to come by. We had already passed a handful of nondescript mounds lining the path that could have passed for abandoned dirt piles. But these three in the clearing were different—neatly lined up, half-buried stone markers at their feet. Almost two centuries separated us and the ancestors buried here, Uncle Hyeokhee explained, as the others began to set up the first offering at the furthest mound. We opened the plastic carton, unwrapping the 떡, Korean rice cakes, and laid out the dried fish and squid on a rectangular Styrofoam plate, waving at the flies that had immediately descended. Apples, chestnuts, persimmons and tangerines were left in the plastic and set on the stone along with the other dishes, accompanied by a small paper cup that would soon be filled with plum wine. An incense stick stuck out of the grass. We were ready. Uncle Hyeokhee was the first to bow. Two hands placed on his forehead, he knelt and bent his face to the ground in supplication, briefly pausing before rising to his feet for another split second. Then he repeated the same action, but this second time he remained on his knees after the bow. One bow for someone alive, two to honor those who have passed, and four to a king, one of my second uncles whispered in Korean for my benefit. Another relative knelt on the ground directly to Uncle Hyeokhee’s right and poured the plum wine with both hands into the paper cup Uncle Hyeokhee gingerly held with two hands. Hovering the half-full cup above the gravestone, he silently drew four circles in the air with his libation before dousing the front side of the stone with the liquid. Next, he filled the cup again, this time to the brim, and then placed the libation at the head of the tombstone marker before reading from a piece of parchment produced from his jacket pocket. This grave belonged to the mother of a male ancestor who had lived eight generations earlier and came from Gyeonggi, a region not far from modern-day Seoul. Each paper contained identifiers specific to the occupant of each burial mound, but the words printed in the second half of the message were always the same: 계절이 바뀌어 서리와 찬 이슬이 내렸나이다. 묘역을 성소하오니 추모의 마음 간절하와 삼가 정결한 찬수로 시사를 드리오니 잡수시옵소서. As the seasons change and the forest frost descends, we clean this burial site, recording your name in remembrance of your passing and leaving food behind for you to eat. Please accept our sincere offering. The last syllable echoed through the trees as we remained kneeling, pausing for the ancestor to spiritually consume the meal. I imagined the fall breeze to be her voice of approval. At last, Hyeokhee reached for the cup of wine and drank half of it before dousing the rest on the front side of the stone once again. He stood up, but we weren’t finished—a few of the other men repeated the same process, following Hyeokhee once he rose. “일동 재배,” everyone bow twice,