Motherhood
Motherhood By Brittany Scardigno, 1st Year ETA My host mother always touches my hair. She looks at my face, brings half of my hair to the front, and fixes the curls with her fingers. Her fingers twist the strands and they coil into singular, smooth curls. She plucks any loose hairs hanging from my clothing and places them on a roll of tape she keeps on the counter to not dirty the floor. My host mother also prepares food and fixes it on my plate before feeding herself. She holds the food up to my adult lips and feeds me. Every night at dinner she tells me “더 먹어” and “많이 먹어.” Additionally, she frequently touches my hands, my arms, my face, and my hair. She fixes my clothing and straightens up my appearance. The way a mother touches and grooms her child is something I had never realized I lost. It never occurred to me that I no longer had this. I felt foolish as a grown woman to feel the want to be groomed by a mother like a newborn pup. The fluidity of what it means to be a mother is much more complex than what I thought before arriving in Korea and meeting my host mother. I realize my own mother’s love is primarily shown through acts of service rather than physical touch. The way we love is different; it is not that I feel a lack of love from my own mother, but there was an absence of physical affection through neither fault of our own. The curls on our heads resemble one another, although mine are a bit tighter. Tears would silently roll down my round cheeks when she would brush it. Neither of us knew back then that you are not supposed to brush curly hair. The cold, metal pins of the large bows she would place on top of my head would scratch my scalp and give me headaches. This was when my mother still had time to touch me. It makes me wonder if this is one of the bigger cultural differences, or if this is simply how my single-parent household needed to be. My mother taught me how to protect and nurture myself when she could not physically be there. Perhaps there was no more time for her to fix my curls, hold food up to my lips, or straighten the neckline of my shirt, so she taught me how to do those things on my own. However, in Korea, I witness mothers show love so differently from my own mother at home. I feel an embarrassing tinge of jealousy when I watch a child’s eager hand reach for their mother’s as they walk downtown, and the mother’s hand is equally as eager to clasp their child’s. I watch with wide eyes as a mother and daughter exit a hair salon, the mother’s hand resting on [Featured Image by Wendy Owens] top of her daughter’s freshly washed head before she helps her climb into the backseat of their car. From a distance, I observe how my host mother and my host sister — her real daughter — interact. Sometimes I try, unsuccessfully, to remember the very last time my mother brushed my hair. After months of questioning what a mother’s love looks like, a pattern started to reveal itself. I found understanding that whether it is through physical touch or acts of service, a mother’s love is shown through their hands. It is shown through the hands whose fingers weave through the knots in your hair, hands that wipe the crumbs from your lips, hands that lift your arms to clothe you with fabrics that do not irritate your skin, hands that remove the heavy bags from your back, and hands that hold yours as she clips your infant fingernails. Love is also shown through the hands that form carpal tunnel from years of typing at work, making her left ring finger so numb that it turns purple; hands that learn how to write “happy birthday” in a new language. They are the same hands that picked up dust from the nursery floor as they crawled quietly beside your crib to not wake you. While the love shown through some mothers’ hands may be more visible, much of their work goes unnoticed. The invisible acts of love are not seen or felt by the child, but nevertheless, the mother’s hands still do the work. It took me having two mothers to recognize invisible acts of love are no different, nor less worthy, than visible touch.
When Words Are Not Enough
When Words Are Not Enough By Elisabeth ‘Suds’ Sudbey, 1st Year ETA Left to right: Enjoying samgyeopsal at my first hoesik (dinner with coworkers); taking a break during a post-lunch walk with the gwahak seonsaengnim (science teacher); exploring the downtown stores and sijiang (traditional market); passing the iconic Andong bus mascot on the way to the mart; sightseeing at Bongjeongsa, a Buddhist temple visited by Queen Elizabeth; and sharing kimbap on a bench before a hike at Dosan Seowon, a 16th century Confucian academy. This collection features moments spent with people that comprise my Andong community, the city I’m placed in. These six memories in particular remind me of my journey towards improving my Korean language skills. As a Korean adoptee, I grew up speaking English not Korean, celebrating Thanksgiving instead of Chuseok, and eating chicken fingers rather than tteokkboki. It is through the people I have met in Andong that I have been able to improve my Korean, a goal of mine since the beginning of this year. It is through language that I have been able to befriend local mart workers, ask a teacher about their trip to Mongolia over summer vacation, and insist on paying for coffee after someone bought me dinner. This is one of many six-panel pieces that I have created while living in Korea that represent the connections I have made. Similar to how we reminisce while looking at photos, when I see these drawings I am immediately drawn back to the memories from that day. Each one represents a different person who showed me great kindness and helped me improve my Korean speaking skills in those first few months living alone in Andong. I have been documenting my trips in various journals since I was seven years old and first went to Disney World. Each day, I would meticulously record all of the details from the day, sometimes even walking while writing to make sure I did not forget anything. I continued this 18-year-long tradition while in Korea; however, I chose to create a journal with art instead of words. Although I have not drawn a picture each day, I have captured many core memories while living in Korea using art. My visual journal represents the beauty of being back in my home country and the emotions evoked when words are not enough. [Featured Image by Elisabeth ‘Suds’ Sudbey]
At Summer’s End
At Summer’s End By Ky Pontious, 1st Year ETA In Florida, the year passes in a humid haze. We eagerly look forward to and then reminisce about the handful of chilly days in an endless cycle. Everything is green. It is hot. We sweat. We blast the air in the car to cool our leather seats. We cover our eyes and squint against the sun as we lumber into the store. Then, hurrying back with our groceries, we try to outpace the beads of sweat perched on our temples. Our routines are as steadfast as the summer surrounding us. In one unendingly vibrant season, a year can blend into two or three, slipping away. Unrooted, I forget to observe, drifting past opportunities to make landmarks in time and memory. As I circle the sun again and again, I have found that the most dismissible and cliché refrain is true: each year passes faster than the last. This realization sits on my shoulders like a yoke. And with the start of a new year, I find myself blown across the planet. My arrival to Punggi is frigid; the silent landscape a mystery that feels tightly closed against me. But as I move through it, I notice that I have traded crows for magpies. I look down and there are no small lizards skittering across the sidewalk, no squirrels scrambling up every tree. The howling winter wind pierces my coat with a determination I have never felt before. Having been steeped in shades of green my entire life, the cold gray seems to linger. But as the ice eventually recedes, a new visitor arrives, bringing color. It is spattered here and there in the distance, then suddenly it is everywhere. Cherry blossoms line the roads and their petals collect in the gutters like snow. They turn familiar trees into strangers. Then, as abruptly as they appeared, they vanish. I wonder if I will remember the distinct sound of those bloom-laden boughs swaying in the wind. Their transience is a reminder that each experience has a first and last, with the timing of the latter almost always a mystery. Will I be here to greet them again next year? Surrounded by spring, that lingering cold suddenly seems like a memory from long ago. I feel a new responsibility to keep every observation close. If I am to be under this yoke, heaving my memories through the years, I want my burden to be a heavy one. This responsibility is bittersweet. In the open tranquility of the countryside, I find not an absence, but a bounty. I begin cataloging the plants, insects, and animals I encounter, each adding new meaning to the landscape. My walks become punctuated with pauses, and sometimes I even find myself running late. Had there always been so many kinds of flowers in the world? Just there — growing against the sidewalk’s edge — a violet blossom I then learn is named the “balloon flower.” While eating lunch one day, my co-teacher leans over and says,“This side dish is called ‘doraji.’’’ He shows me a picture. It is like seeing a friend I was not expecting. I lift it to my mouth and taste the root of that violet flower that had previously caught my eye, inspiring me to unearth its name. So this is Punggi? Neon spiders waiting in their webs and ripened persimmons breaking open on the pavement. Morning glories blooming in purple, blue, and red, then closing against the oppressive summer sun. Rows and rows of apple trees frame the fog-draped mountains. I greet them all as I walk by, despite never knowing when will be the last time. This trip around the sun feels different. I am in a new place, but through its many changes, Punggi slowly reveals itself to me. The spring cuckoo outside my window, once as dependable as the early-rising sun, has gone silent. Instead comes the shrill unified hum of cicadas, always just out of sight. As I walk through town, I step on a single fallen ginkgo nut and feel that summer is ending. [Featured photo by Wendy Owens]