Niceness
By Sarah Muscutt, ETA ’16-’17 I stared at my 자몽에이드, which was sweating drops of water all over my clammy fingers. My thoughts did laps around my head, making me dizzy. How did I end up here, in this chair, drinking juice that’s too sweet and peeling a grapefruit with two girls I’ve only spoken to a handful of times? Why did I even have a grapefruit in my purse to begin with? That was perhaps the most pressing question. The absurd urge to laugh out loud bubbled up within me from some confused place, as the eyebrows of the two 언니s occupying the same cafe table moved just a little closer together on their faces. I could imagine what they were thinking. Why is this girl peeling a grapefruit? I didn’t have an answer, but I gave it my best shot. “The 자몽에이드 is too sweet, so maybe if I eat it together with my grapefruit it will balance the flavor better.” The explanation sounded dumb even as it was coming out of my mouth, but one of the girls had bought me the drink, so I couldn’t just take one sip and then be done with it. I was just trying to be nice. “Would you like a piece?” The tone of my voice ended on a note that was just a little bit too high to come out sounding like a normal question. The two girls looked at each other, then at the grapefruit in my sticky fingers. Their eyes found my face again quickly, nodding. “Yes, thank you.” I smiled sheepishly and gave each of them a section. The sweat that had been dampening my lower back began to dry a little. I continued to alternate between sips of the sickly drink and bites of the tart, juicy fruit as one 언니 began to describe her recent trip to New York. She was speaking in Korean the whole time, so I only understood maybe 40 percent of what she was saying, but I nodded and tried my best to focus on the meaning as her monologue continued. She must know that I can’t understand most of this, right? I vaguely caught references to her friend’s boyfriend’s friend and her various interactions with him in New York. She added morals about life and relationships to the story that seemed to fall at random intervals because of the gaps in my understanding. “I’m telling you, I don’t think it’s wrong to date people of other cultures, but you know, some differences just really can’t be overcome in the end…” My mind flashed back to a note I had written a few weeks ago—something I thought had been forgotten, until now. This is definitely about me. * My first week in my placement, I went to church with my host mom, but by the second week I had found my own church to call home, and from then on I went every week. At first it was just something to do, but the church members welcomed me with open arms and many of my 집사님 spoke fluent English. At church I found a piece of my identity from home, preserved, and I began to count on that little bit of familiarity to carry me through those first months of my exciting but draining new life. Every Saturday I sighed with relief as I slipped into my sanctuary, shrugging off my teacher persona which often felt so heavy and stained with mistakes by the time each Friday arrived. I latched onto the comfort of singing familiar hymns in Korean and felt the joy of becoming part of a community spreading through me like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day. My Korean vocabulary of religious and spiritual terms quickly expanded. After a year I still can’t communicate with my bank in Korean, but just get me started and I can talk about the Holy Spirit all day long. I joined the choir, as well as the Korean Young Adult group, strangely abbreviated as “KAY.” It wasn’t long before I was spending all my Saturday afternoons in the KAY loft after service and lunch chatting, eating snacks, playing games, singing and praying with my new friends. The days with my small group members began to stretch longer and longer, as we shared dinners, birthdays and evening bowling outings. One week in March I confided in one of my 언니s in the KAY group. 은비 언니 and I sat with heads close together whispering about my crush on one of the guys, thoroughly enjoying the chance to act like middle school girls again. “I wrote a note to him in Korean confessing my feelings, but I was too scared to give it to him on Valentine’s Day,” I told her. Her face was serious when she said, “You should try anyway.” “Really?” I scrunched my face in skepticism. “Yeah, I would definitely want to know if someone liked me, no matter what.” “Oh, okay, fine If you think so, then you give it to him.” I was taken by surprise when she agreed without hesitation. I pretended seriousness as I ceremoniously handed the note to her. She carefully unfolded it. Do you like me? Check “yes” or “no.” We both couldn’t help but erupt into giggles. Meanwhile, my crush was stuffing his face with snacks on the other side of the loft. Startled by the outburst, he looked up, always wanting to be part of the fun. Butterflies tickled my stomach as 은비 언니 carefully tucked the note into her purse. After the delivery of the note, I waited, feeling a bit foolish. I knew it didn’t mean anything and cared little about the outcome, but the suspense was entertaining nevertheless. I was prepared to dismiss the note and the boy, but I held 은비 언니’s kindness of serving as my messenger in my heart like the feeling of five o’clock sun on a summer day. * I sat
One More Time
By Heidi Little, ETA ’16-’18 “Il, ee, sam, sa, o, yuk…” I count up the numbers as I hear a rustle and giggle behind me, small, fast feet pattering across the wooden floor, a door opening. I know if I open my eyes I will see her, long black hair flowing, eyes shining, smile widening as she runs to find her hiding place. A minute ago, her small face looked up at me, coaxingly. “Soom-ba-kkok-jil, Hide-and-Seek,” she said. “Han beonman, just one time,” she said, delighted when I nodded my head in agreement. I finish counting and start moving from room to room in my host family’s third-floor apartment, searching. In the living room, I glance at her futon bed lying in front of the TV, the place where she showed me Big Bang’s “Fantastic Baby” and “Bang Bang Bang” over and over again. Her childish voice declared that G-Dragon was the most “sexy,” a word she probably doesn’t fully understand; I didn’t at five years old. The only figure watching TV now is a large, golden furball of a cat, relaxing as it knows the threat of being picked up and cuddled by small arms is temporarily suspended. I glance from the living room into the kitchen, noting the familiar white rice cooker on the counter and heavy, red iron pot on the stove. Maybe we will have potato soup tonight. One of my favorites. Some nights when the family is busy, though, we eat ramyeon. Not much of a cook, and not knowing how to light the stove, the first time making ramyeon for her and me to share involved a call for help. I laugh as I remember handing her my phone, knowing she could speak to her mother better than I could in my broken Korean, recalling how she stood by instructing me as I prepared our food, dishing out noodles and broth into her small, metal bowl—child-size chopsticks, spoon and fork at the ready. Now, the kitchen is empty. I pass into my host parents’ bedroom. Wooden lid piled with a disabling amount of clothes, an electric flyswatter resting on its bench, an upright piano stands in the corner of the room, inviting me to sit down and play. Finding myself living in a Korean home with a piano was a small miracle to me, and she liked it too. Standing or sitting next to me as I played, she would request her favorites from the song books I had carried with me from the States. “One, two, three,” happily beating her own tune on the keys above me to the waltz-like rhythm of the song. Now, the piano is quiet. “Heiding!” I hear her yell, her special pronunciation of my name. She is getting bored and wants to be found quickly. I exit my host-parents’ bedroom, passing down the hallway to my bedroom. Stepping into the room, I enter one of my own hiding places. Here the worry and stress of adapting to a new country, a new culture and new people is assuaged by an eclectic, but cozy, ensemble of cream-and-baby-blue wood furnishings; a purple and blue, zebra-striped rug; tall, fringed floor lamp; Union Jack bedspread; and rainbow, pony print valance. My hiding place has been disrupted before though. “This isn’t your room; it’s my sister’s. This isn’t your house, it’s mine,” she said in Korean, her young words stinging more than she possibly could have known or intended, as I contemplated how I didn’t belong. But now, the words don’t sting, tempered by the hug she gave me after coming back from a long trip, the card she wrote me in misspelled Hangeul and scrawled English: “Saranghaeyo. I love you. Welcome to Korea.” I find her. She is tucked under my bed, waiting to come out. As she emerges from her hiding place, she looks up at me again, coaxingly. “Han beonman, just one more time.” These words, now so natural to my ear, echo in my mind, and I too want just one more time; just one more year in Korea. Heidi Little is a 2016-2017 ETA at Seogwipo Girls’ High School in Seogwipo, Jeju-do.
Eastern Medicine at a Gangnam Café
By Eugene Lee, ETA ’16-’18 I glance at the time on my phone’s lock screen—6:52 p.m.—and sigh. My plate is bare, freckled with crumbs from the pineapple tart I devoured an hour ago to stave off my hunger. I glance around and see a tall, pretty girl smiling, her grin half-nestled into her palm as she watches what could be a variety show on her phone. Gold headphones complement her sky blue coat and black stockings, and the scene feels almost like a phone commercial, a sight you just don’t see in the countryside. Sitting in the corner of the café, I can see everything. I notice that it isn’t just this girl but several people sitting alone, reading or browsing on their phones. I wonder if this is common in the city, in that odd, hanging space between shopping and waiting for a dinner rendezvous. After all, it was tiring just walking through Gangnam, as not only the buildings but the people themselves conducted a sort of electricity that pulsated through you, a rush of intimate chatters, honking horns and wafts of street foods like fishcake, all funneled into streets only about three people wide. I lazily flick through a New Yorker article on my phone, trying to force myself to make use of my newfound free time. I planned to meet a college friend at around 6:30 p.m., but he was never punctual. I glance out the window down at the street below. Everyone seems to be in a rush, a happy one at that: it’s finally time to unwind and meet friends, celebrate the weekend. A trio of girls walk by in laughter, covering their mouths with the pastel-colored sleeves of their sweaters. A man who was standing restlessly at the corner is pleasantly surprised by a woman who tackles his back. By the look of her polished business outfit, she must have come straight from work. The street has a reddish glow about it, one of the many passages in the maze of restaurants, bars and cafés that sprawl beyond the posh, blue lights of the main road. I readjust myself in my chair, envious of life in the city. Among other things, living in the city would mean living in a realm of possibility. The city is a dark sea of atoms pulsating at night, always on the precipice of collision with another, newer element—a far cry from the insipid countryside. Even if I don’t meet anyone new in this ocean of entropy, the very prospect generates within me anticipatory warmth, a premature satisfaction. “실례지만, 면접 시간이 있나요?” It takes me a second to register that he is talking to me. I look up to see a young man around my age leaning over my table, presumably to look less assuming. He has slightly messy curly hair, circular wire frames and a jumper that hangs loose around his thin frame—all in all, a typical young Korean man. “아, 사실 전 미국에서 왔어요.” “Oh, well my English is not so good, but we can switch between English and Korean,” he says with a near-perfect American accent. “Do you have time?” I glance at my phone again: 7:01 p.m. When I last checked my messages, my friend was just leaving his home for the subway. “Sure, have a seat. So what’s the question?” “I’m currently a college student and I research at a Mind Institute nearby. In my spare time I like to survey people and see what they think about their religion and their opinion of…” he pauses to find the right words in English, “meditation and looking for calmness of mind.” “Sounds interesting and I’ve got some time—the person I’m waiting for is running really late.” The words jump out more enthusiastically than I expect. I had spent the past couple of weeks holed up in my countryside town. I consider myself sociable, but I had grown rusty in simple everyday conversation. I place my phone facedown on the table. “Oh, but first, you said you were from America? Why are you here in Seoul?” “Actually, I’m not from Seoul, I teach down in Jeollabuk-do, near Jeonju. Have you heard of Jeongeup?” He pauses for a moment, mouthing the words to himself. Jeongeup, Jeongeup, Jeongeup. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it… but Jeollabuk-do! That’s very far!” He smiles to assure me he is not trying to be condescending. “Yeah, I actually took a bus this morning. I’m only here for tonight so I can meet my friend before he goes back to America.” “Only one night?” he asks, eyes wide in surprise. “Yeah, but sometimes I come up to Seoul for longer periods of time. I just need to go back to teach.” “Ah, that makes sense.” He drinks some of his tea and picks up a black pocket notebook I didn’t notice before. “So what is your religion?” he asks, wasting no time. “Hmmm…Christian, but I would say I’m in a weird place right now.” I hate that question these days, because words seal abstract thoughts into declarations. It doesn’t help that words sometimes prematurely leap forth, eager to fit snugly into social context. “Why would you say that?” He takes out a pen in anticipation. “Well… when I first came to Korea I was a pretty strong Christian, but it’s been hard living down in the countryside and well, you know, a lot of the churches in Korea are a little suspicious.” I hope the last part won’t offend him. He laughs. “Definitely. No, I understand.” He scribbles a few messy notes in Korean and reads them over. Satisfied, he looks up again. “And how are you doing?” The question catches me completely off-guard. “What do you mean ‘how am I doing?’ Like, in general? Or in my religion?” “In general. Like, life in general.” “I would say these past few weeks have been hard, teaching and whatnot. Actually, I haven’t seen many friends these past couple of weeks so