Letter from the Minister-Counselor
Welcome to the spring issue of the 11th volume of Infusion. Spring is a time when so much of nature reawakens after the long, cold winter, a season of new beginnings. And that is exactly what Fulbright Korea is about—awakening people to the world around them and beginning connections between citizens of the United States and Republic of Korea.I hope you will enjoy reading about the talents and creativity of Fulbrighters in this magazine, how they are experiencing new beginnings of their own and inspiring new adventures in others. Perhaps it will inspire you to embark on a something new yourself. Each of these new beginnings, while important and valuable in and of itself, is another strand in the ever-thickening rope that is the U.S.-ROK Alliance. I truly appreciate the work you do strengthening our people-to-people ties as you explain your culture to others and represent the best of our two countries. With confidence and optimism, Aleisha Woodward Minister Counselor for Public Diplomacy Embassy of the United States of America Chair of the KAEC
Foreword
By Rachel Youngeun Rostad, ETA ’17-’18, Editor-in-Chief of Infusion ’17-’18 To the Fulbright community—The first half of the year has passed. Regardless of our grant type or amount of time spent in Korea, I’m sure we’ve all been adjusting to something new this latest grant year laid at our doorstep. For those of us who’ve come to Korea for the first time, pretty much everything is new. Our job, our living situation, the language we use on a daily basis. For those of us returning, we’re taking on new roles, new placements, new proficiency in Korean—becoming more comfortable than we dreamed we’d be at this time last year, as well as discovering new uncertainties. Most of all, we have new relationships. Even our oldest relationships have become new, stretched as they are across thousands of miles. Infusion Volume 11.1 is about those relationships. In Caleb Y. Lee’s “Homecoming” and Mara Guevarra’s “Nuance,” the authors explore what Koreanness means through the lens of their relationships with their families. Robyn Kincaide lets us peek into her classroom in “A Knock On The Door” and see the silly and touching moments we share with students. Lisa Chang and Rachel E. Brooks show us the difficulty and rewards of making relationships across linguistic and cultural barriers in “A Different Kind of Conversation” and “Peanut Butter,” respectively. Rachel K. Fauth contemplates two people’s different ideas about beauty in “Picking Flowers,” and closes the issue with “Returning,” a bittersweet meditation on transit, the places and people we go to and leave. To those of you reading who are friends, parents, siblings, prospective grantees—I trust these words and images will illuminate a little of what it means to be a Fulbright grantee in Korea. To alumni, I hope it brings back fond memories of your time here. Lastly, to my fellow current grantees: By the time you read this, winter will have passed, and we’ll all be on to a set of new challenges and changing relationships. I hope these pieces, like they have for me, remind you that you’re going into all this newness with a community of brave, brilliant, thoughtful Fulbrighters at your side.
Knowing C
By Rachel K. Fauth, ETA ’16-’17 Approaching a corner street deep in Slow City, Doldam Cafe stands out like an X on a map. It simply looks like a destination, even if you meant to go somewhere else. Floor-to-ceiling windows let out an audible yellow hum; the color seeps over the stone wall that closes off the yard. It’s drizzling, and the little moat – a man-made creek that runs through the center of Doldam’s property – reflects white fairy lights strung up above, making the water a sort of glittering boundary between the modern locale and the dark-roofed dilapidated hanok village. C & I have just reluctantly agreed to get up from the comfort of our regular spot in the cafe, the table next to the outlet (for me) and the cash register (for him). On our way out, I can’t help but notice the stout Christmas tree in the front yard, newly adorned with dried white starfish. I have to look twice. Rural mountains in the background, rimming the distant perimeter of Slow City, and C’s ornamental starfish just don’t seem to mix. The whole ensemble looks extra absurd with my disproportionately small Christmas bulbs hooked on the branches. They’re meant for a tiny shrub and not a tree, and they are rainbow-colored and metallic – murderous to Doldam’s minimalist aesthetic. I remember decorating it one night after closing. Outside in the pitch-black, biting cold. I watched as C, the 사장님, excitedly unpacked the wrong-size ornaments my mom sent from New York and sang to himself in his limited English. “A small balls, small balls, I have a small balls, for my Christmas tree…” It sent me into a fit of dumb laughter and a subsequent, careful explanation for it. C kept singing anyway, too, just to keep me laughing. At the time I thought, this is what home feels like. And the back of C’s sweater, undoubtedly bought in Korea, glowed in the dark. It’s italicized white print floated around the tree, misspelling BROOKELYN. * * * C’s father interrupts us in the cafe to lead us to the street. It’s cold and wet but there’s no saying no. I get the feeling that whatever he’s about to tell us is something C already knows, and the reason for what’s bound to be an uncomfortable and linguistically impossible occasion for both of us is happening specifically for me. We follow his insistent calls, the beckoning back of a hand that motions behind the old man’s gray-haired head, capped in a neon ski hat with ear flaps and a wobbling pom-pom. The street ahead is lit dimly orange and the rain just little flecks of light. Walking towards the gate, C looks back at me, smiling apologetically in his hexagonal wireframe glasses, embarrassed yet obedient. I step after him with caution, stone after stone on the wet path wondering if one of these days I’ll trip into the moat. I trail the two men, one of whom is trailing the other. C looks big behind his father who walks fast for no reason, like a boy. Once in the street, a slur of incomprehensible speech is hurled in my direction. I’m unsure if it’d have even been comprehensible in a language I could speak well. C’s father emits a sort of odorous pulsating heat the way drunk old men often do, shifting his weight, gesturing at a giant rock in front of us. It’s a pseudo-ancient hulking thing, a giant glossy grey slab with vertical characters laser-printed into it reading DOLDAM CAFE, rolled right up to the side of the gate marking the entrance. A name that is uncomfortably fitting and tacky, doldam meaning ‘stone.’ Slow City tourists will like it, sure. But I don’t, so perhaps this means I’m no longer a tourist, but an opinionated local? Either way the stone abrasively reminds me that the place I go to every day is meant for one-time visitors. It casts a long shadow into the street that C’s father sways in and out of, leaning back into his hips so far that his body looks like it’s glued into the crease of an open book. He continues talking, talking, talking at me, stares into me with filmy eyes that I’m not sure want an answer. I notice his nylon blue puffer jacket glistening with rain and protruding at the middle like an early pregnancy. At the very least, I conclude, he wants me to look at the new fake stone. I can do that. He tap-tap-taps my arm with his knuckles, imploring a response. 네 네 네, I “yes him to death,” as my mother would say. 네네, C says next to me, doing the same. The fact that C and I answer his father identically makes me realize that it doesn’t matter if I can or can’t understand what’s being said; whether someone speaks Korean fluently or not, this is not a time to use it. We both must listen to him rave about the stone and say nothing, just take it, then slowly gravitate back to the warmth of the coffee shop where C takes refuge from his family and I take refuge from my lack thereof. C looks at me on the receiving end of his father’s intoxicated soliloquy and then looks away. Points his gaze down the pebble road at the gradient of darkness leading down into their village. “My father, very proud,” C begins and ends, failing to interpret half for his lack of language and half for his lack of interest. It’s technically his father’s cafe after all, despite the fact that every day C works it, stocks it, walks the customers in and out like a bellhop; he even dug the moat and built the roof and the pillowed booth we sometimes sit in. Admittedly, a series of brief, soju-fueled events make up my impression of C’s father; which, according to his attitude, doesn’t seem to differ much from C’s own picture of the man. He only seldomly stumbles onto C’s pristinely swept floor to ask him about the catfish in the moat and if they’ll make it through the winter. Or he’ll come in to send him to the house next-door and