Indian? American!
March 25th, 2016 This is the fifth time you’ve seen him this week, passing by on his bicycle. He seems nice enough. He even looked friendly the last time you briefly made eye contact. So why do you always look away? Why don’t you smile at him? It seemed like he was about to smile the last time you looked but you quickly averted your gaze. Why? Are you ashamed? What’s there to be ashamed of? I know. It’s because you think you’re better than him don’t you? What makes you better than him? What gives you the right to think you’re better than him? Let’s break it down – You: Were born in America, speak English with an American accent, and teach conversational English as a “cultural ambassador” of the grand old U.S. Well that’s nice, but doesn’t that all seem a bit convenient? You just happened to be born in America, thanks to the fact your parents went to graduate school in Virginia. He: Was likely born in India, speaks multiple languages including English (though probably with a thick Indian accent), and has a PhD if he’s living in this part of Daejeon. After all, Jeonmin-dong has the highest concentration of PhDs per square kilometer of anywhere in the world (or so you’ve been told). He not only looks considerably older than you, but also probably works as a researcher at one of the large R&D facilities nearby. He got his job through considerable training and effort, you got yours mostly through an accident of birth. Verdict: Random Indian Dude (henceforth RID) 1, Abhik 0. So what is it? I mean objectively, this dude has a lot going for him. So let’s approach this from a different angle. Is it solipsism? Doubtful. After all, you mostly try to smile at the Koreans you see on the street, despite the fact your smiles are hardly ever reciprocated. Is it racism? Well, now we’re on shaky ground. You’re Indian-American, how could you possibly be racist towards some RID? I mean sure, it’s a little more complicated than that. It’s not that you abhor him, you just don’t want to be associated with him. After all, you’re not some plain old Indian straight outta New Delhi (i.e. looked down upon by Korean society). You’re Indian-American! You’re cultured! You’re special! January 1st, 2016 Abhik: So tell me more about where you’re from. Random Girl at the Bar: I’m from Illinois, though pretty far outside of Chicago. I’m just your standard American–European mutt. How about you though? Tell me everything, I want to know your whole backstory. A: Well, my mom’s from India– RGB: Wait, where’s India again? A: India is in Asia… RGB: “Oh, are you sure about that? I thought Asia was like China, Japan and stuff. A: Pretty sure. Asia is a very big place– RGB: You know, your English is really good. A: Um, thanks? I was born in America… RGB: I mean like really good. A: Well…I would hope so, it’s the only language I speak fluently. February 2nd, 2016 Shara’s late. Shivering from the cold, I hurry into the nearby Starbucks. With time to kill, I head to the counter to buy some kale juice, when my ears perk up at the sound of English. Listening in, the topic of discussion is foreign to me, despite the fact that the conversation is in English. Rather than an esoteric discourse on the political and economic happenings of the world, my forte, the two patrons sitting in the corner are talking about nanotechnology. Setting aside the fact that the two are using heavily accented English as a lingua franca, the exchange is also difficult to follow because of their heavy use of scientific jargon. You would be able to understand them if you had studied something useful I can hear my Engineering-PhD-parents retort. What even is political economy my dad inquires for the millionth time. You’re going to make how much after college my mom exclaims, acting just as shocked the thousandth time she’s asked. It’s unlikely they’d ever explicitly say so, but in their minds it’s RID 2, Abhik 0. … At dinner, Shara mentions that she saw an Indian man walking out of Starbucks as she entered. “It’s crazy right? There’s so many foreigners living in Jeonmin-dong these days, the institutes have definitely increased the number of foreigners they’ve hired since I started teaching here.” “Yeah” I chime in, “though I think I might be the only Indian-American in this area.” “Ha, you’re probably right.” February 6th, 2016 Translated from Korean Abhik: Daejeon Station please. Taxi Driver: Oh, you’re going to Seoul? You have friends there? A: Yeah, I’m going to visit friends for a few days, but then I’m going to America for 2 weeks. T: America? Why are you going there? A: Well my family lives near Washington D.C. I was born near D.C. even though my parents are Indian, so I am American. T: Ooh, so you’re not Indian? A: Well, my parents are Indian so I still eat Indian food and know a little Hindi. But, I like American things and wear American clothing. T: Hmm…there are a lot of Indians in Daejeon, aren’t there? A: Yeah, definitely. T: You seem a little different from them. A: I think so! T: You know, Indian people here wear very ugly clothing, not very fashionable. They also have a strong smell. … T: Do you have a girlfriend? Korean girlfriend? A: No, and I don’t want one. I also can’t speak Korean that well, so I’m not sure I can even have a Korean girlfriend. T: Oh, that’s no problem. Korean girls want to learn English! March 24th, 2016 Meandering through the local market, I find a small sushi shop. The shopkeeper greets me with cries in English of “welcome, welcome, sushi!” as he points at his wares. With a smile, I respond 알겠습니다[1. Algesseumnida] (I understand), which prompts a startled 한국말 잘 해요[2. Hangukmal
Packing
A light, high-pitched bell sound rings in my ears as I open the door to one of my favorite coffee shops. It reminds me of an old mom and pop shop back in the States, the ones that I grew up going to, with a rickety door, full of battle scars that give it personality and character. “아메리카노 한 잔 주세요.”[1. Americano hanjan juseyo, One Americano, please.] I say to the coffee shop owner. “따뜻하게 드릴까요?”[2. Ddaddeuthage deurilkkayo? Would you like that warm?] He responds back. “네, 감사합니다.”[3. Ne, kamsamnida. Yes, thank you. ]I nod and sit down next to the window. I stare at my computer screen for a while, not quite sure for how long. Out the window, I see kittens wandering the streets, avoiding cyclists that ride through the town, brazenly unwavering in their stance as they face the passersby. I don’t have a very productive day at the coffee shop, but I begin to wonder if that’s such a bad thing as I pack up my bag and head back to school. On my way back, the scenery is laden with the lives of the ordinary people of괴산[4. Goesan, a town in Chungcheongbuk-do], a small town located in the heart of the Korean peninsula. 아줌마s[5. Ajumma, middle-aged woman] sitting on the wooden ledges with tarps of dried peppers and beans, going back and forth about the state of the local economy. 아저씨s[6. Ajeossi, middle-aged man] having a bottle of 소주[7. Soju, Korean rice liquor] with a cigarette, giving each other tips on farming. Stray dogs and cats eating from the large bowls that several shops have placed next to their doors. Grandchildren who have come down from the cities for a weekend with their grandparents. I wonder if they know the value of this kind of proximity. The last time I talked with my dad, he was worried. He told me in a series of complicated and roundabout codes to remember that I was American—not Korean. “Don’t forget that you were born in America, not Korea. America is your home. Come back home,” he had said at the end of his long but important rambles. He always rambled when he had something important to say. He did not understand why I was so drawn to Korea. And honestly, I was not sure if I knew myself. I stop by one of the stands to buy a 망 of 귤[8. Mang of gyul, a net of tangerines ]. It’s market day and the streets leading up to the bridge are full of fruit and 반찬[9. Banchan, small side dishes served with Korean meals] stands. The grapes and apples and oranges and 참외[10. Chamoe, Korean melon ]are all piled like a pyramid in plastic green baskets with moms and dads peering over the stands to pick the best ones without touching them—their children following suit as they pretend to inspect the quality of each basket. I look this way and that way and have a thought: how simple and trivial my life is here. A friend of mine told me about her brother’s experience when he visited South Korea for the first time in many years. He talked about how he could see his face in every level, in every crevice of society. Whether celebrities or news reporters, restaurant workers or shopkeepers, educators or office workers, custodians or government officials, they all resembled me. I don’t think I realized how powerful that actually was until I came here. To see yourself reflected everywhere. To have hair products fit your hair. To have glasses fit your face. To be able to eat kimchi without the fear of offending anyone with its smell. Offending. Standing out. Blending in. Living in the United States as a Korean American was like trying to walk into Exit 9 at Hongdae Station on a Friday night, when everyone was trying to walk out. You can’t. But being here, is like resting. I don’t have to push as much. I don’t have to fight. Yes, people here still don’t really understand what it means to be Korean American. For many that I had encountered, my identity was a commodity. I was lucky. I could speak both Korean and English without struggling. Or so they thought. I was used here and there, when convenient for anyone, Korean or foreign, to translate, to interpret, to be in the in-between of important and not-so-important communications and decisions. But even in the midst of all that, I was still resting. I clench my fists a little bit tighter as I pass the little intersection right before the bridge that would connect me to that dreaded hill. I hold each image of this little, average town a little bit tighter too as I cross the bridge, knowing that I will not have much time left before going back home. Every time I thought of home, my mind became a little more frazzled, a little more frantic than when I thought of my life in South Korea. I was afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid that I will not be able to see myself reflected in my home. I am afraid that I will have to go back home only to be greeted with that feeling of constantly being questioned and challenged on my belonging—a feeling that is all too familiar, but one with which I will never become accustomed. I am afraid that I have gotten too comfortable with this incredibly plain life of people treating me like I am one of them. I finally reach the end of the hill and think of what I have to do before the weekend ends. Finish lesson planning for Monday. Grade those speeches that are piling on my desk. Check their online homework. Do the dishes. Clean my room. Start packing. But I decide that maybe I will save the packing for another day. Because I am not ready to pack, and then unpack, my life here just yet. Andrea Kang is a 2013-2016 ETA who
Wearing Woman
Is that a boy or a girl? Two little girls giggle halfway hidden behind a door, simple question in the air. It doesn’t sting. Not the way the ajummas’[1. Middle aged or older woman] words spoken through you turn you into standing room only bus spectacle. On days you feel vulnerable, picked open like a sore, your eyes wander. You look at women half your size, hair smooth like running water, voice like cotton candy, light and sweet. You begin to wonder if you’ve lost your woman. You cannot find her in their definition but you see her in mirrors–darker-skinned, tall, broad in hip and shoulder. Woman wakes you in the morning. Short haired and fiery, she whispers, “You’re beautiful” through a forest of curls and coils to the reflection of a naked face. She helps you get dressed, putting aside skirt forgoing necklace, ring and bracelet abandoning comb and clip for lips lined apple red. She stops in the doorframe. She can’t come with you. Not the way you want–picket sign Woman stitched in gold across your chest. You wear her small. Sometimes you catch her watching you– the reflection of a window, black monitor screen–alien beauty, stranger here than anywhere in the world, defiantly woman, and proud. Kayla Smith is a 2015-2016 ETA at Gimcheon Dasu Elementary School in Gimcheon, Gyeongsangbuk-do.