Night Runs
By Paavani Reddy, ETA ’17-’18 “I’m back!” I call out into the hallway, waiting a second for a response. The lights are all off in my homestay family’s apartment. “Hello?” I ask again more tepidly. I peek into the kitchen and then back again at the shoe rack to see if my host mom’s heels are sitting on the top shelf. Nothing. At first I’m confused– my host mom normally gets back to the apartment before I do. I pull out my phone, ready to text her, but then consider the fact that this is the first time I have actually been alone in my home stay family’s apartment, and potentially even the first time I’ve been alone since arriving in Hwacheon three weeks ago. I put my phone down and instead head to my room and change into a pair of sweatpants. Then I plop myself onto my comforter and pull up Netflix on my laptop. I start an episode of The Office and then pull the sheets over my face, content at the idea of closing my eyes and listening mindlessly to something for a little while. I make it just to the end of the theme song when I hear the click of the apartment keypad and the sound of the door swinging open. “Hello Teacher!” comes the friendly, bellowing voice of my host brother. I quickly pause The Office and plop myself up. My host mom peeks into my room. “Are you sick?” she asks. “Just tired!” I reply, as brightly as I can muster. She gives me a sympathetic nod and then gestures towards the kitchen. “Let’s have a meal!” I flash her a hesitant smile and then follow her. Mealtimes have become a lot more flustering for me than I had initially anticipated. While I knew that avoiding beef and pork would open my diet up for questioning, I hadn’t realized how much attention people would pay to me as I physically went through the process of eating. I tried asking for seconds at home when possible, but once I grew full, I could see my host mom’s face grow with concern, mentally taking notes about the food she thought I enjoyed and the food that she thought I was less than impressed with. In school, when I couldn’t finish my rice, or decided I didn’t want as much kimchi, I could feel the other teachers give uncertain looks to my plate. Sometimes, in front of me, they would turn to each other and ask aloud in Korean, “She doesn’t really like Korean food, does she?” Every now and then, I could catch it fast enough and assure them that I actually really enjoyed the food, but other times I would grasp their conversation seconds too late and just be left flustered and self-conscious. I was beginning to approach every meal tenuously, wondering what I needed to say or how enthusiastically I needed to eat to show that I loved the food I was eating. Perhaps more than any other time of the day, mealtimes were making me nostalgic for independence. Eating alone, I realized, meant eating without an audience. My host mom places some seaweed soup and curry rice in front of me. It smells so delicious, and I can feel my stomach grumbling. I feel guilty; I know most of the attention is coming from a place of care and concern, and I truly want to show my gratitude. I wish my cheeks would stop burning from the awareness that I was being observed. It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve just come back from a meet-up with the other ETA’s. I hadn’t realized how fun it would be to catch up with them, and talking with them also reminded me of how quickly time was passing here. Already, a month had passed by in my placement, and I had made only flimsy efforts to accomplish my individual goals. I had been enjoying my placement so far, but I know now that the time had passed for me to keep using “settling in,” as a mental excuse to not do the things I wanted to. When I enter the house, the only person in the living room is my host dad, a large soldier with a thin layer of hair and round glasses. He gives me a friendly smile. My host dad speaks almost no English, and seems a bit too confident in my Korean abilities, speaking quickly and lengthily every time we interact. Today though, I am able to catch what he’s saying. “Would you like to come to the gym with me?” I almost instinctively say yes, eager to be as open and accommodating as possible in a new place. But I stop myself before I speak– remembering that I’ve never really liked working out with other people. Whatever I gain in company seems cancelled out by the feeling of being watched as I figure out how the machines work, or as I become unreasonably tired within minutes of starting to workout. I imagine a gym full of people, glancing up at the foreigner struggling with the weight machines and shudder at the thought. Still, exercising doesn’t sound so bad, and could definitely give me the sense of accomplishment I’ve been craving outside of the workday. There’s a track across the street from the apartment where we live that usually seems pretty empty. “I’ll go for a run, actually,” I tell my host dad. I quickly get ready and exit the building with him. When I arrive at the track, I am relieved. There’s no one else there. I start with a short jog. By the time I reach half way along the track I feel tired and out of breath, my legs already aching. I am very, very out of shape, I realize, and again feel relieved no one is around to watch me. Still, I push myself to make a few more laps and then call it a day.
An Unexpected Running Partner
By Robyn Kincaide, ETA ’16-’18 I take a few long strides onto the track, swing my arms twice to loosen up my shoulders, and launch myself into a brisk jog. I don’t often like to go running at the track near my apartment complex; I can sense the stares of the ahjummas and ahjussis out power-walking. As one of only a handful of visibly foreign people in town I am used to such looks, but feel them more acutely when I run. Most people only go to the track to walk, so jogging makes me stand out even more, my golden-red hair whipping behind me in a ponytail.Tonight, though, I need the exercise. For too many hours I have been sitting in silence staring at a computer screen, both at work and in my homestay, where I feel that the recent state of my existence can be summed up with the Harry Potter quote: “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending that I don’t exist.” I know that all too soon I’ll look back and miss my days in Uiseong, the rural garlic town where I’ve lived for the past year, but right now I’m feeling drained. An all-boys middle school is not the most tranquil work environment, and I haven’t felt truly relaxed at my homestay for some time. It takes a while for my muscles to warm up and my breathing to normalize, but by the end of the first lap I’ve eased myself into a familiar rhythm. Despite the slight physical exertion, I feel almost at peace. This state of mind is quickly disturbed. Just as I’m starting into the curve of lap two, I hear quick footsteps coming up behind me. “Hello!” I glance to my right to see Young Cheol, one of the few 1st graders whose names I know, running beside me. I feel a bit guilty about how few of their names I actually have down, but the 1st graders have only in the past week begun wearing uniforms with their names embroidered in Hangeul , and to be quite honest I don’t feel as close with them as with the 2nd and 3rd grade students whom I have taught for an additional semester. “Teacher, tomorrow—I want chocolate.” I laugh. The students know I keep a bag of chocolates stashed in my desk, but only a few are bold enough to approach me and request to have some in English. “Okay, tomorrow you come and I will give you chocolate.” Young Cheol grins and speeds off. I assume this will be the last I see of him tonight, having obtained his objective in coming to me. However, he keeps running about 10 – 20 meters ahead of me—his speed isn’t exactly the most consistent. From time to time he glances back at me, with a surprised and slightly tired expression on his face. I can almost hear his thoughts, something along the lines of: Oh God, she’s still running. I realize that this is likely some boyish attempt at displaying masculinity, and feel compelled to warn him that he may be in for more of a workout than he had anticipated. At the end of the lap we are running in sync again, and I say, “I am running eight laps,” holding up eight fingers, and gesturing in an oval shape. Young Cheol, panting, nods as though he understands, then picks up speed to run ahead of me again. We continue like this for two more laps, then he finally stops. As I pass by, I ask, “Finished?” He nods, and I give him a thumbs-up before waving goodbye. I finish my eighth lap and slow down to a walk, planning to walk two more laps before stretching out and heading home. About 100 meters into my walk, however, my unexpected running partner joins me again, wanting to chat. I am somewhat taken aback. My boys rarely try to engage in conversation past a “Hello! How are you?”. I often feel that the lack of engagement in meaningful conversations with students is one of my biggest shortcomings as a teacher, so I am determined to keep this one up for as long as possible now that I have a seemingly willing participant. I begin asking him simple questions about school, sports, his family; he follows up with inquiries of his own, starting off with the three I hear most often from students (and to be quite honest, from most people in Korea): “How old are you?” “How tall are you?” “Do you have a boyfriend?” Kakao! Kakao! Young Cheol’s phone screen lights up as it announces in a cutesy voice that he has new text messages. He holds up his phone, sheepishly grins, and says, “Teacher, this—my girlfriend.” I raise an eyebrow and with a sideways smile reply, “Oh really?” in a skeptical tone. The girls and boys middle schools are on completely opposite sides of town, so the two sexes rarely get to interact. Many of my boys enthusiastically express interest in “making a girlfriend,” but those who actually have one are few and far between. I interrogate Young Cheol a bit about his “girlfriend,” and as he supplies details I begin to suspect he may in fact have one. I now feel a bit guilty for doubting him. Two laps turn into three, and as I start to say that I need to go home and drink some water to replace what I have sweat out, Young Cheol looks at me and says, “Teacher, uh…pal ssireum?” motioning with one arm in the air. “Um, arm-wrestling?” I make the same gesture back at him. “Yes, arm-wrestling.” He repeats the phrase as though it’s one he’s heard before and is trying to re-commit to memory. “Wait—you and me?” He nods. “Here? Now?” Another nod, accompanied by a boyish grin. I give a sighing laugh, or perhaps a laughing sigh, and look down at my scrawny arms. Young Cheol is
Letter from the Executive Director
Dear Readers,I am honored to present Volume 11, Issue 1 of The Fulbright Korea Infusion. Since its founding in 2008, Infusion has represented the diverse voices and experiences of American Fulbright grantees, blazoning to an audience the depths of perspective which otherwise would only be appreciated by the authors, artists and photographers featured in each publication. Fulbright Korea’s rich history exists within the pages of Infusion, and I will always be grateful that the stories within will live on. I would like to thank this year’s editorial staff for their hard work, as well as their dedication to ensure two issues of Volume 11 see the light of day. Due to budget constraints, the Korean-American Educational Commission was only able to support the printing of one publication in Program Year 2017. However, because of the fundraising efforts initiated by Infusion leadership, Fulbright grantees will have another opportunity to bring their experiences to literary fruition. Lastly, I extend my immense gratitude to the Fulbright Korea community for their continued support throughout the years. From parents to faculty professors, co-teachers, host families and students, you all shape the experiences of those who proudly don the title of Fulbright. The Fulbright Korea network boasts over 5,000 Korean and American alumni, and the Commission is proud of all of their accomplishments, the impacts of which can be felt in both countries. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this year’s Infusion and its glimpse into the Fulbright Korea experience. Sincerely, Jai Ok Shim Executive Director Korean-American Educational Commission