Of Near Silence
By Josh Brandon, ETA ’16-’17 Nuna points to fish heads sitting on the curb on a large sheet of paper— “Ghost food.” Pardon? She finds the English to say that ancestors will eat what’s been left over—discarded. I want to see this supposed event unfold— apparitions making themselves known. Translucent sheets fading between here and their new home. And suddenly the fish heads disappear. I wonder how they would conjugate their verbs. • • • The school bus passes over flecks of gravel and dirt each pushing its body into the tires, never quite puncturing the rubber. An old woman inches to the side of the road to make way for us. As the bus draws nearer and her side profile is exposed, it’s apparent that she’s pushing a baby stroller, only no baby just a bundle of sticks with presumably peanuts hanging from them. Before the bus passes, she grabs the stick bundle from the stroller and cradles it as she waits from within the blast of tailwind from the bus. • • • A student asks me, “Teacher, what’s the meaning of life?” I burden him with the wait as I form my diplomatic answer, that our purpose is to impact at least one other person’s life. A pause, “I think,” he replies, “life is like smoke. You must eat, drink and sleep to stay, if you don’t, like smoke, you disappear.” Next month, the same student imparts more knowledge: This time, the amount of stray dogs that roam the country (6,000, apparently) • • • Home feels like a far-off planet right around the corner. I try to bite each consonant as it escapes my mouth make it shorter, crisper but the bites make them crumble instead, each syllable falls to the ground in shatters. I spend seven minutes finding five different ways to say the name of a closed subway station to the taxi driver hoping he clings to one well enough to understand. • • • I watch as the baby’s mother drowns kimchi before feeding it to him, specks of red pepper just grazing his tongue. At times, he’s bubbles and unabashed affection where others may shy away from a minor hello at the sight of my face. Others, he’s inconsolable tears and I ask why always knowing the answer to be incomprehensible even if he spoke my language— even if the red pepper didn’t muddle his own. I watch this child’s eyes glisten as the mart inches closer. His unwavering desire to be the first inside the noraebang. His family and I sit patiently around beer poured in small paper cups as he stands in front of the TV. Sugared sounds flow into the microphone as his favorite cartoon penguin tumbles across the screen. I smile, cheer him on. Not out of any sense of obligation, but because there’s a strange comfort in the nonsense— because it’s nonsense to everyone. • • • I find myself massaging my shoulders at times, remembering how I used to give so many hugs when I was younger to friends, family, strangers. The language of affection. The frequency of hugs gradually decreased over time, then, dropped off completely before 23, entering a culture that replaces this custom with a bow. Leaving dinner gatherings with a quick arm around another’s shoulder mumbling goodbyes and I’ll-miss-you’s changed to lights in buildings pouring down into the sidewalk and a cup of mixed coffee in my periphery as I stand parallel to another head in the same 45 degree position. A change I chose, welcomed even, but still I reach to touch the shoulder on the opposite side of my body emulating that familiar warmth. And I don’t feel sadness, just a little chilly sometimes. • • • A visit to Namji and the same pack of three stray dogs that’s always here on the other side of the street pressing their noses into garbage bags left for pickup. • • • An older neighbor visits. And with her, a bird whose wings scrape the declining blacktop as its neck hangs through a red ribbon, solemnly— a cause to hinder it from escape. A pheasant, as I had to discover by translating its name in Korean. Is this really the first time I’ve seen a pheasant? Two states of being: complacent (perhaps surrender), and (attempted) escape. I can never understand this woman, but want so desperately to in this moment Is this her pet? A giggle. The bird sits still, the baby tries to touch it, it flutters, panics, dreams of escaping into the rice reaching to touch the sky a few kilometers southeast. The next morning, just the ribbon tied to a fence perched over the same rice field the bird so desperately desired, a single feather in its noosed end. • • • Somewhere along the river in this somewhere where I’ve been dropped like a pin on a map I can’t read, riding between familiar mountains that boast forest greens over perfectly divided rice fields and fire-stone houses and roofs with corners turned up towards the clouds, my bike inclines above the road on its own path look to the other side—a dip of land with a tree. More trees with short, stout trunks my foot slams to the ground and the wheels halt as I witness grass untouched by tanned fingers and wildlands pouring towards the river lurching over the edge, along its surface, and kissing the water where it babbles. Josh Brandon is a 2016-2017 ETA at Docheon Elementary School in Changnyeong, Gyeongsangnam-do.
Warmth
By Sarah Muscutt, ETA ’16-’17 It wasn’t a real job because the English Teacher was never hired, never paid, never depended on. Her pay came instead in the form of a little warm feeling of comfort that tasted just like a crunchy fish-shaped pancake filled with sweet cream. The owner of 김밥천국 Johnny and his wife used to be English teachers, and maybe that’s what made her return every day; the need to communicate with ease about anything, or nothing, at least once a day. Johnny’s somewhat mournful musings on life, marriage, and politics injected enough life into her October evenings to put a thin barrier between the English Teacher and the clawing anxiety, whose relentless hands painted dark, threatening streaks across the landscape of any quiet moment, strangled the words in her throat, and switched her beating heart with cold metal. After hardly speaking to anyone all day, how could she make small talk, in Korean no less, with her carpool companion who was head teacher and host-father, on the ride home that never seemed to end? Just drop me off in town please, I’ll see you later. Peeking her head inside the plastic flaps at 5:30pm, she exhaled a cheery 안녕하세요, willing the iron replica of her heart to pump real blood into her cold hands. She watched over Johnny’s shoulder as he stirred MSG into 카리덮밥 and 치즈라면, and hoped for a day she would be able to remember the specific formulation of every menu item. Predictably, her time in the kitchen ruined her appreciation of small 김밥집 cuisine, but she would never tire of pouring the batter into the fish-shaped cast iron, and trying to create the perfect, golden brown snacks. The English teacher made the mistake of leaving 김밥천국 and 치즈라면 too early that day. 7:30pm had come and gone, so she would have to wait for the 8:05pm bus. The temperature had dropped making no apologies to her nose, so she ambled back along the sidewalk away from the bus stop, unsure of where to get out of the cold. Before reaching the crosswalk, she glanced to her left and spotted a tiny florist shop. It was the kind of shop she always passed on her way to somewhere else. She would often peer inside, squinting through a hazy blur of leafy shadows at the tiny potted cactuses and single roses enfolded in dainty brown paper. Florists shops in the US never seemed as magical as this, and she felt like an intruder window shopping into a secret garden, wishing for a break in time that would allow her enter the otherworld suggested in the window. I would be happy if I could just have a cute little windowsill plant to love, she often mused uselessly. On a whim, The English Teacher pushed open the door and tiptoed into the shop, thinking she could avoid the cold just like she was avoiding her anxiety, not forever, and not until the bus came, but just for right now. Exploring the little warm shop would eat up a few minutes, and the bus stop was only a few steps away. However, on entering she realized the shop was even smaller than it looked from the window–so small, in fact, that the owners spotted her immediately, and the English teacher had to explain in her childish, halting Korean that she was just trying to get out of the chill while waiting for her bus. Shrinking into the ‘foreigner’ garment that, though it felt both too big and too small simultaneously, was becoming a familiar part of her wardrobe, and pointing her nose at different plants in a show of looking around, the English Teacher thought about her reasons for spending evenings at 김밥천국 instead of studying Korean. She remembered a time when she claimed studying Korean as one of her main reasons for moving to Korea, but lately she avoided even speaking to her host family when possible. Shame made her feel small. At home in her skin in the US, she was used to coming off just a little too sensitive, awkward, self aware, and off-beat. Here though, her skin felt too loose, like the seed of herself was shriveling up and disappearing. Fortunately, her thoughts were interrupted as the mother shop owner beckoned her to sit on the heated platform in the back of the shop. On the TV a drama was playing. The English Teacher accepted the seat gratefully and perched next to the mother. The father, thin and tall, hair starting to recede and wisping up from his head, crossed his arms in the back corner, distant curiosity flickering in his eyes. A woman stood next to the mother, the daughter, of indiscriminate age. Her ponytail said she cared more about the substance of things, and the tangerine peels falling from her hands scented the air of the shop with a subtle tang. They all had forgettable faces, but as the family asked her the usual questions about teaching and her life in Korea, and together they mused over the antics of the drama characters, the iron trap around the English teacher’s heart released. Inhaling deeply into this wonderful new space in her chest, she asked who was the villain of the drama, and why was he searching for a key? When they pressed tangerines into her palms, the mother and daughter’s hands were as warm and soft as the skin on a sleeping child’s neck. The English Teacher’s heart nestled into this warmth and tangerine sweetened her tongue. Koreans are truly remarkable, she thought, not for the first time. Her heart beat peacefully ticked off the seconds, and the air tingled with the sound of a tiny bell on a string as she pushed open the door and waved behind her. 안녕히계세요. Stay in peace. The next evening, when The English Teacher passed the florist on her way to the bus stop at the more reasonable time of 8pm, she stopped and
Familiarity
By Katherine Moncure ETA ’16-’17 Each morning is the same routine, but after five months there are still days I wake up forgetting which country I’m in. My host mother yells to wake up my host sisters, and they cry back in resistance. Some mornings their screams fill up the entire apartment, funneling out more energy than it would take for them stand up and eat breakfast. As I pull a dress over my head, I wonder what would happen if my host mother just left them, if they slept and missed school. Would they be angry at her? Would they blame her for that too? I picture my own mom sticking her cold hands down my warm, sleepy neck when I was younger. She would giggle and pick up an arm, flopping my limp hand against my face before saying goodbye for the day. Mom let me go back to sleep and get up on my own. She left for work at 6am, an hour before I walked out the door. At breakfast, I tread lightly and smile. I say good morning to my host father and he gives a deadpan reply as his wife pours coffee for him. He puts a hand up in the air, “Okay okay, stop stop stop.” He takes a sip and says something to his wife that I do not understand. She pours some hot water in his drink – the coffee is too strong. Neither of them are pleased. The overeager warmth my host parents used to show evaporated with the summer, and my small attempts at conversation are met with thinly veiled indifference. This morning, like many others, we are running late. And yet, my host sister sits calmly at the table, slowly chewing as I rush in one direction to grab my coat, and another to get my bag. I’m not sure why, but my host father always seems frustrated that I am ready before anyone else, and I wait for my host sister before we sprint to the bus together. “What.” He spits out the word as I pick up my scarf near his seat. “What are you doing.” It is not a question. “Nothing,” I gently perform the response. The walls in the apartment feel hollow and thin, as if leaning my body against them would make them crumple. After five months here, I don’t know what they’re made of any more than I know the people who live within them. I’m inside a regal school bus. Purple, embroidered tassels and rainbow lights line the edges of the ceiling, and a television at the front plays an advertisement for kimchi refrigerators. Teenage girls in uniform jackets fill the seats silently – the one next to me slumps forward with her eyes closed. Through a damp window haze, the cars outside glow as they weave between traffic. In a few hours, this will all be covered in rain. My students do not talk on the bus and neither do I. Instead, I stare at box-shaped high-rises and giant, hangul signs that overtake storefronts. Yellow leaves from small gingko trees are scattered on the sidewalks, and a two-story portrait of a bride covers the façade of a wedding hall. As we pass more buildings, I sound out Korean letters in my head: tah-ee… tah-ee-uh puh-ro. Oh. Tire Pro. When I arrive at school, the desks in my classroom have been rearranged. Teachers cleared the room for a test while I was gone, and it is remarkably tidier now. I spend twenty minutes pushing desks back into groups, sighing as loose wheels and entire legs fall off. I have just enough time to roll up the window shades before students stream in shouting, “Hello teacher!” I am already exhausted, but I smile and shout hello back. At the end of the day, it is pouring outside. I search for the umbrella I keep between my desk and the wall. It’s gone. ______________________________________________________________________________ I tiptoe to a coffee shop a few blocks away. My feet still get wet. In a country crowded with chains and franchises, this café is small and unassuming, tucked into a corner behind an apartment complex. It seems to be run entirely by one young woman, who says hello as I push open the door. Today she drinks coffee with a friend. This is the third time I’ve been here since I discovered the place last week. Our communication is a lot of guesswork, stilted phrases, and hand gestures, but she always gives me a plate of tiny cookies with my drink. Even though I don’t know her name, she looks at me and smiles as though I am an old friend. My preferred spot is next to the window, and today the cold, wet air lingers beside me. After an hour of working on my computer, she brings me a mug of hot water with herbal tea leaves. I hold it close to my face and lean back into the chair, letting sweet steam rise onto my skin. It reminds me of my mom’s mug collection – she has one cup with no handle, and in winter she wraps her fingers around it to keep them warm. When I explained to my students that my hometown has twenty thousand people, fifteen times smaller than Iksan, their mouths hung open in shock. “Teacher! How?” some of them asked. I think about the carefully planned, colonial style buildings and lamp posts at home, the maple leaves that hang in the fall air. These days, I find myself aching for things in the United States that I never even thought I liked. The garish, red Sheetz gas stations that dot the drive between Oberlin and Connecticut. The purple-faced Phantom Fireworks signs that loom on billboards near state borders. A sky outlined by thousands of black branches that spread out like veins in the winter. English. I think about