Upon First Meeting You
The path to your house is so steep that I’m out of breath before I’m halfway there. I’m not out of shape, but I can’t keep up a regular pace; this path is far more strenuous than stairs. The uneven cement is full of grooves and bumps, all tilted at an unnatural angle. I can’t imagine you ever making this trek. I arrived at your house for the first time tired, sweaty and nervous. My anticipation at meeting you had turned sour that morning, as I repeatedly woke up from anxiety-induced nightmares. After scaling the cement mountain that was your neighborhood, your doorstep was both a welcome relief and a spike to my nerves. The noisy buzzer to your house startled me and your gate clanged open haphazardly, old and sturdy but somehow appearing loose and flighty, with a mind of its own. Inside your house there was a smell, and a shaky wooden door slid open to reveal two faces, worn and wrinkled. My nerves and the pressure to do a proper insa – especially with you and grandfather being at the top of the family hierarchy – ruined me; my shaky greeting was hardly clear. My fears were soon confirmed by your first words to, or rather, about me: “You really can’t speak Korean.” I understood that sentence just fine, but had nothing to say in return. I know? I’m sorry? I didn’t have the time to form a response in any case. Your words continued, sharp and jumbled; their unfamiliar lilt rushed past my ears without warning. Beside me, my aunt who’d arrived with me did the talking, although I’d also just met her that day and she often couldn’t understand me either. After she left, I went upstairs, the second floor of your house all to myself. My mind was a complicated jumble of emotions that night; it was hard to fall asleep. The next morning, I slid open the bedroom door to say good morning and soon after, you hurled a remark in my direction. “You look better after a shower.” A little incredulous, it took time for me to process that, yes, I had understood you correctly. I wanted to laugh, dismissing your remark as a very Korean thing to say, but there was no one around who’d understand what was so funny. Perhaps my desire to laugh was just my instincts trying to erase leftover sentiment from a tearful night. That first night at your house I’d cried, feeling something like guilt, even though I’d done nothing wrong. Your neighborhood was so poor, the landscape itself hardened and neglected. How could you possibly walk up and down these mountainous paths merely masquerading as sidewalks? The answer, of course, is that you couldn’t. Not even fearless motorcycle delivery boys ventured up here. You didn’t venture out either; you couldn’t walk. I never got the details, and wouldn’t have understood them if I had. I only saw that your large bulk was decidedly un-Korean. Your hair was all but shaved off, no ajumma[1. Middle-aged woman] perm to be seen here. You always remained seated or lying down; your teeth were bad, but you liked mix coffee, a cloyingly sweet replica of what I would drink in America. If you lived in America, I thought, you might have a wheelchair. You might live somewhere with level ground, go outside as long as someone was there to help. You’d get fresh air. A fresh view. See friends. Have dentures. Here you have to crawl, never going beyond the walls of your house. A bucket and toilet seat frame serve as a makeshift bathroom for you in the hall. In comparing my standards and yours, maybe it’s not guilt welling up, but a pity you don’t deserve. When I visit you, all I can do is listen. Although I can’t understand what you’re saying, Mom tells me you like to talk. When I’m there you seem pleased to have an audience, though sometimes you’re dissatisfied with me. You stop speaking mid-thought and your barbed tongue takes a swat at me, an easy target. “You can’t even understand, huh?” But then it takes strenuous effort for you to get out the door to your hallway bathroom. You don’t want help; it’s just the way things are. I pretend I’m not watching you leave. How can I hold your sharp words against you? Even when my lack of words fails us, you decide to keep talking. I watch TV with you too, although you only ever seem to watch wildlife documentaries or daytime soaps. Your clunky silver box is small by today’s standards, and half the time I can’t understand the words coming out of it either. Sometimes you tune into programs that feature traditional folk songs and remark to no one in particular that you know that song, and you can sing it too. You always prove it. Once in a while you have enough faith in my language ability or a strong enough curiosity to ask me a question. Or perhaps you’ve just momentarily forgotten who it is you’re talking to – someone who struggles to comprehend the sounds coming out of your mouth and after that, must push her brain to work in double time to serve back an appropriate response. I nod, giving emphatic ums and ahs like no other when words fail me. Afternoons with you drag by, but sometimes, when we can communicate, it’s like a spark of warmth between us. But not too much. You are a Busan halmoni[2. grandmother], after all, tough and commanding. I keep my satisfaction to myself and your attention returns to the actors on TV. I probably don’t visit you as much as a good granddaughter should, especially one who’s now living in the same city. But last Seollal, over a year since we first met, the whole family gathered once again. In the midst of polite small talk and reunited siblings
More Than Candy
I didn’t eat much candy before I met you, fiendish angelsMovie Fifty Shades Darker (2017) transformed by the very mention of sugar, the crinkling sound of promise giving voice to the twinkling of your eyes as I reach into the colorful hanji box that always sits oh-so-conspicuously on the corner of Teacher’s desk. As the bell has not yet rung, you linger little hands now timidly lifting the cover, now gently touching the contents, now reluctantly replacing the lid, trying (but not too hard) to hide the wistfulness on your face as you examine my wry smile, looking sidelong, gauging whether it will be worth the effort to expend those English syllables and ask, Teacher, candy? *** We navigate the hallway from opposite sides, pushed forward by steady tides of short skirts and pink plastic curlers, lock eyes— hello! hi! You seem surprised by the exchange; though to me, it’s routine, a hundred times a day (like the half-hearted nods that define the stairway) to you, painstakingly crafted, that syllable conveys Connection! Communication! A crossing of the abyss you never dreamed possible. I smile, I nod, I go on my way but you turn, touch my arm and it is my turn to be surprised as you press something small (but I know it’s not small) into my palm— your heart, delivered in the form of a powdery red sweet and that ever familiar phrase, only this time with nothing but a pure intent to give — Teacher, candy? *** I wish I could give you more than candy. Confidence, for one, to know that you are Beautiful and bold and brilliant and it doesn’t matter what the scales say but still I hesitate to give you this colorfully wrapped piece of immediate gratification. I wish I could give you all the candy in the world if that would help but I can’t help thinking it is a bittersweet contradiction to your (imagined) happiness, marred by a fear of What? Teacher, I’m scared of P.E. test today. Why? Teacher, I’m so heavy. Heaviness, weighing more on the heart than the body, the like of which I have never experienced because of a mother who always told me I was Beautiful, even when I cried and stormed in anger against her for reasons no longer remembered because of her beautiful words, words that I try to repeat to you, hoping to lift the heaviness, even just a little. But I don’t know if you understand them or believe them, as I did when I looked in the mirror and my eyes were still heavy with tears but my lips could not suppress the smile that came from a Lightness I wish I could give you. Teacher, I’m so heavy. you say, and in the next breath, Teacher, candy? I wish I could give you more than candy. Victoria Su is a 2015-2016 ETA in Yecheon Girls’ Middle School and Yongmun Middle School in Yecheon, Gyeongsangbuk-do.
Memories of Bruce: Husband, Father, Firefighter
The memories, once precious and dear, now haunted me. The words were heavy on the screen, hanging in the yellow KakaoTalk bubble. “My dad died…” For an eternal moment, I looked at the screen, unaware of what I was reading. I stood silent in the kitchen of the apartment that I had just moved into that morning. Holding the phone, the words seemed like a foreign phrase that I was unfamiliar with. How could this happen? “…on duty.” I was breathless. My host father died while serving as a firefighter on a day he was not scheduled for duty. He volunteered to go in after hearing of a local nightclub fire. From 8,000 miles away there was nothing I could do to comfort my host family. It was as if my own father had perished while I unknowingly folded fresh towels and arranged canned soup in my new apartment. The uncertainty of life hit me in a deep place I didn’t know existed. A parent figure in my life had never died. During my grant year, I was blessed with a wonderful host family. Upon my arrival at Jeju International Airport in August 2013, I was greeted by my host sister and host father, whom I called Bruce. As we drove home, he pointed out in Korean the different signs of the island, and I knew I was at home in Korea. My new host family did not act as if hosting a foreign teacher for a year was strange, rather they acted as if it were a rite of passage for a typical Korean family. During the ride home, it was as if my new family and I had known each other for years. The already present familiarity was a blessing in a strange, new place. Throughout the year, even though Bruce and I never engaged in deep conversation due to the language barrier, I always knew I was welcome in his home. In September, after a dinner of rice and bulgogi, Bruce concerningly warned me about “fake taxis.” He spoke in quick, rambling Korean to my host sister, who translated the words just as rapidly. “Teacher,” my host sister chirped in formal English. “My father says to watch out for fake taxis. They aren’t real.” Bruce cut in again with a string of Korean syllables. My host mother and host sister nodded. “And teacher, they may not take you to the right place or they may take too much money. So be very careful.” While Bruce’s only obligation to me was three meals a day and a roof over my head, he made sure that even my spiritual needs were met. That same week, he introduced me to the minister and his wife who lived in the upstairs apartment, and he ensured me that I had a ride to the local Presbyterian church on Sundays. Weeks later, my first beer ever was with Bruce in the commons area of the house as the family picked apart spicy chicken that dripped with hot sauce. It was a rainy October, and the family was also hosting a visiting Japanese student for a week. We all laughed as I choked down what I believed to be an unbelievably stout beverage. “Good?! Good?!” he asked, laughing at my expression. “Good!” I replied with a weak thumbs-up gesture. It was my first and last Korean beer, save for a few polite sips when Bruce would pour me a glass late at night. During the cold months of December and January when I was on winter break, our family would often dine out for warm meals of samgyeopsal, duck, and pork. Occasionally, another family would join us and we would sit on ondol-heated floors and drink shots of soju. Bruce loved pouring shots for me, and I would toast with him and the fathers of the other families. On Christmas Day 2012, knowing there was no beach in my home state of Kentucky, he made sure I saw the ocean and ancient lava tubes. On the shores of the beach, we gnawed on skewered fish. That same day, he took me to the fire station and introduced me to the firefighters. He was not scheduled to work that day, but since we were in the area, he wanted to show me the station. As we entered the squat, concrete building, the younger firefighters sat upright in their chairs, pretending that they were not dozing off or off task. Bruce disappeared into the office as one of the youngest firefighters poured my host mother and I coffee in small cups. As we waited, Bruce wafted through papers, eyed the board to see who was working which shift, and then spoke to the men who were present. From my limited understanding of Korean, it was a good-natured visit and Bruce simply wanted to check in on the station for the holiday. When the summer rains returned, Bruce picked me up when he saw me walking home from school so I wouldn’t have to suffer the torrential Jeju downpours. On my final night on the island in July, Bruce took me to a local bar. He ordered rice wine and patbingsu and he ensured that all of our small family had a nice time. We sat, scooping up shaved ice and red beans. My host parents spoke in Korean, and my host sister turned and asked,“Teacher, my parents want to know if you remember this place. We brought you here when arrived in Jeju!” I could not have asked for a better bookend to my grant year. At the end of the night, Bruce called his coworkers and they said goodbye to me over the telephone. The next day, Bruce and my host brother chauffeured me to the airport. After navigating the typical Jeju Airport weekend traffic, Bruce parked his truck, jumped out and quickly removed my luggage. After he unloaded my suitcases one final time on that sunny, sweltering July afternoon, he shook my hand, got back into his truck, and drove away. For a moment, I watched the silver