Only Daughter Gets a Sister
Only Daughter Gets a Sister 자매가된 두 외동딸 [1] Written by Zoe Gioja When we pulled up to the restaurant, it was dark. I stepped out of the car, entered the restaurant, and saw at least twelve people sitting on the floor, all looking up at me. I bowed, mumbling some greeting in Korean. This is it, I thought. Now I’m really in Korea. The English teacher beside me explained who everyone was, pointing out my principal and vice-principal, but the person I really wanted to meet was my host sister. They’d left a seat for me next to her. I had wondered what she would be like – shy or outgoing? Would she ask questions, or would I have to do most of the talking? I was determined to build a relationship with her; for some reason I held onto this as the main key to success. All I knew was that my host family consisted of two parents and an only daughter, Jiyeong. What questions does one even ask a middle schooler? I wondered as I sat down next to her. How do you make conversation? But it turned out I didn’t have to worry. As we sat there, she was quiet at first. Then she turned to me. “Teacher,” she said, in English. “I found some informations about you on the Facebook.” “Oh really?” I asked. “I found some pictures. Of you and your friends.” She took out her phone. She showed me pictures of me at my graduation, pictures from orientation, that she’d saved on her phone. “Teacher,” she asked. “What is your favorite movie?” “Oh gosh, I don’t know… Maybe… um…. Lord of the Rings?” “Oh, yes, yes,” she nodded. “I like that one too. It is very good.” All right, I thought. This is going to work. Later that night, she sat with me as I unpacked, revealing that she’d wondered about me even more than I’d wondered about her. “I wanted to know would you be pretty or not,” she said. On their fridge was a low-quality photocopy of the form we’d filled out for our homestays, secured with two red-white-and-blue USA magnets. It had basic personal details and a picture, which had come out as a dark, vaguely Zoë-shaped smudge. “I couldn’t tell from the picture,” she said. “There were three things I was worried about: I didn’t want a foreigner who is fat; or a foreigner who is too shy, and just sits in her room all the time; and I wanted a foreigner who had lighter skin…. I wanted a pretty foreigner.” This was just the beginning of her bluntness. When I’d finished unpacking, she added: “You have a lot of clothes. I think you must be very rich.” Later that week, I asked her why her family decided to host me. “Because I always wanted a sister,” she said immediately. “Jo Teacher came to our class and said, ‘Who would like to have a foreigner in their house?’ And I raised my hand. At first my mom said ‘Hmmm….’ But she knew I want a sister. Sometimes I’m very lonely. But now I have you!” I thought how strange it was, instantly being welcomed in as a member of their family. I didn’t know them at all. They didn’t know me. But they were so willing, so instantly ready, to use all the titles that we can’t earn – the titles that we’re usually born into: “daughter,” “sister,” “mom,” “dad.” My host father was around often in those first few weeks, eager to show me Mokpo, drive us to museums and over bridges, to ply me with ice cream and ramen. He refused to speak to me in Korean, the way my host mom would, patiently working with me to create meaning. He relied on his translator. Once, he typed a string of words into his phone and put it up to my face: “I have two princesses so father is happy recently.” Days later, my host mom seconded, “He is happy because he has two daughters now.” That’s right, I thought. Two oe dong ddal; two only daughter, trying to be sisters. This is going to be interesting. *** One Saturday morning, I woke to my host sister poking me on the shoulder. “Teacher, it’s late,” she said. I looked at my phone. It was 10 a.m. “I was asleep,” I mumbled. I was distinctly irritated that she’d come into my room at all. I sat up in bed. “Okay, so… in the future… please don’t wake me up. Ever. Unless we have a special plan. Okay?” On Sunday, she settled for admiring me from afar. My room has a sliding window that looks onto the laundry room, covered by a pink-flowered curtain. I woke up, restless; I saw the curtain rustle. When I emerged, Jiyeong told me, “I was looking at you. To see if you were still asleep.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. At first, I’d loved everything, been grateful for everything – my school, my students, my host sister’s obsession with me, my host mom’s devotion and kindness. I’d spent all my time counting my blessings, trying my hardest; sitting in the living room assembling puzzles with my host sister and working at the kitchen table instead of retreating to my room. Endeavoring to be the pretty, social host sister she’d wanted. She asked me if she could nap with me in my bed, I said yes; she asked if I wanted to play Bananagrams, I said yes; help her with her drawing homework, her TOEIC studying, her English homework. But certain things began to wear on me. “What are you writing?” Jiyeong asked when I sat with her at the kitchen table, writing in my journal. She picked it up. I wanted to protest, but she was already reading it. “Oh, I can’t understand,” she said. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Your writing, this kind of thing,” she indicated the cursive.
Phone Calls
Written by Teri Bunce I stood, winding and unwinding the cord to my window shades around my index finger as she spoke. “It’s not good, honey. They say these are probably signs of heart failure…” Tears well in my eyes as I press my forehead against the cool glass, pushing her voice out of my head. ** Feeling the heavy, balmy summer heat, I scooch closer to the passenger door, and reach for the crank handle. My bare legs are stuck to the faded brown vinyl seats, and it requires all the strength of my eight-year old arms to lower the window of his 1986 Volvo. As the breeze hits my face he says, “Sorry hun, you know this thing don’t have AC.” “I know.” I reply, “I don’t mind.” And I really don’t. I lay my face on the windowsill, my right arm lazily swooping and cutting through the air as we drive. How many hours have we spent this way? Driving around with nowhere in particular to go, winding down the dirt roads of Wayne County, Georgia, lazily watching the cotton and tobacco grow. “Do you want to head home now, sweetie?” “No. I want it to be just you and me a bit longer, Grandpa.” ** I open my eyes now and the flat endless fields of Georgia cotton that fill my memories have been replaced with the ceaseless mountain peaks of Korea. They’re speckled with the last, persistent buds of pink and white cherry blossoms, and I can begin to make out the brightest hue of green across the prickly mountains. The view is a reminder of how far from home I’ve come. I remember the cell phone in my hand and interrupt, “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll be late…” I lie. I hang up the phone guiltily and walk towards my bathroom. I turn on the shower as I push away the streams of self-criticism that fill my head. Selfish. Heartless. Cowardly. Under the streams of hot water and self-criticism, I collapse against the cool tile with burning skin. I close my eyes and attempt to block out my thoughts for a moment, but ultimately a scene from earlier in the day creeps up. ** Steam swirled, but I could still see them across the room. She wasn’t more than 16, and her halmeoni must’ve been over 80. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes from them, the way the girl lowered her grandmother in and out of the warm, steamy baths. I watched as she gently washed her grandmother’s back and arms. Stared as she tenderly rinsed the shampoo from what was left of halmoni’s wispy hair — careful not to let any suds drip down onto her face. ** Sitting alone in that jimjilbang [1], I was aware of how very different I was from the Koreans that surrounded me. And not in the usual, superficial ways I was used to. I tried to remember a single time with my grandfather, whom I consider the most important and influential man in my life, that was as selfless and caring as the moment I was witnessing. I tried to remember a single moment when our relationship wasn’t centered on my happiness or well-being, but his. Yet here was this teenage girl, choosing to devote her Saturday afternoon to caring for her grandmother. ** 효 (hyo), the word for filial piety in Korean, is one of the most enduring influences of Confucianism in Korean culture. The cultural value of hyo was so strong that Yi Sun Sin, the most revered admiral in Korean history, retired in the middle of a war when his grandparents passed away. Until the 1950s it was common for Koreans to visit their familial and ancestral tombs, daily, to show respect and appreciation. While today, this practice has diminished in frequency, the value of hyo still dominates Korean life. To allow your grandparents or parents to grow old alone is unfathomable; to be considered bulhyo, or un-hyo, is one of the worst crimes you can commit. ** In Korea I am reminded of how very un-hyo I am. I moved a world away from my family, in their time of need, to chase my own dreams. I wonder if I am the type of person who can ever be hyo — if my self-imposed distance from my grandpa, as his life runs out, is a convenience I gladly hide behind. I consider if it is easier for me to avoid his illness and seek refuge in our memories. The weight of these thoughts feels too much to bear. I stand up to turn off the water and make my way to my bed. Collapsing, I wrap my comforter around my wet body and bury my face into my pillows. “6,000 miles…” I tell myself. What could I possibly do from over 6,000 miles away? ** I wake up to the sound of rain, and my eyes drift to the framed photographs on my desk — three in a row. Me beaming, sitting in my Easter dress on a proud, strong grandfather’s lap, clutching my kindergarten diploma. An 18-year-old me, a bit too obviously posing in a tight, short dress under my high-school graduation gown, held close by an even prouder grandpa. The most recent photo reveals his steep decline. At my college graduation only four years later, his hair is entirely white, and he leans on me to steady himself. He smiles, but his eyes look tired. I wrap my blankets around me tightly, looking back to the man from the first photo. Suddenly, I feel like a small child again, hoping grandpa can solve my problems. I reach for my phone and dial, biting my nails as it rings. He answers, and although I have so many fears and his greeting barely masks the weakness in his voice- I exhale and say, “Hi, grandpa, it’s me.” Teri Bunce is a 2014-2015 ETA at Yeunnam Elementary School
Somewhere Else Everything Is Significant
A series of poems by A. Moriah Jones The weight of water If there was a sound like the violent rending of a marble floor I’d liken it to that – the sky has cracked in Gwangju a bowl tipped over its contents poured through and it seems appropriate to mention that at this juncture I am ill prepared to hold the weight of water – and so I find more often than not – I have spilled over meanwhile drops have condensed on the surface of clay vessels – as if to suggest the water within is cold but really there are cracks in the cisterns – they cannot hold water Portrait of a room crowded with plants – the family is letting the vines crawl across the wood floor paneling and all along the walls – there is a stain like thrown coffee above the TV and since she gets on her knees every day to wipe around the low hanging leaves – the stain must be left as a reminder or warning: shrunken skulls wind tossed and jangling against each other: a music as broken as the ecstatic screams of children at play and all of it carried past teal neon crosses that are gaudy against the night sky she pulls the towels from the rack where they dried – they’ve all been stolen from hotels – and presently the intimations of halting piano scales drift into the room through ceiling vents ridiculous at this hour – but why not? Dinner on the stove at Café the Big Banana pots coppered and brown with use hang like decorations hand dripped coffee gathers in a spiraled glass there’s English on the signs and bananas with bruised skin the place is eclectic in a way that seems like home – which is unexpected piquant waves from someone’s cooking dinner clash against my saccharine honey lemon tea its tepidity informed by my leisure and the trafficked entrance I’ve been here for hours – and finally evening has come perhaps to say understand more fully the fragments of silences broken by a flippantly earnest bless you the space between the entitlement of naivety the assorted ways of being Somewhere else – everything is significant there is just enough blood to make you curious to make you draw closer to the heavy bellied bird hunched in the ditch – the breast is concave where the wing was pushed bluntly into the hollow boned chest – proven as fragile as you imagine you will hurt appropriately – long enough for you to note where the feathers have been stained where the life has spilled over you will get close enough to be too close – so the bird will stutter away but you will see its eyes and know enough to name your face in its fear It is wet in Korea again The window frames in Caffe Pascucci are all painted red their panes wink with the most recent rain’s sputter – it is wet in Korea again and the bottom panels glisten where the light makes glitter of the dust and crumbs – gnats crawl along gathering what they can bouncing from one sill to the next – at times I can do little more than consider – the man on the corner sorting trash and how he handles it all in a way that seems informed – and I want to look at him until he is beautiful – until he gleams – and I want to tell the woman working her store front touting the benefits of emulsion and essence to use her language precisely – but I don’t understand a word anyway because here to call a women glamorous is to call her buxom – which is to realize the unstated excess in the folds of your body – we’ve been consumed here – we’ve been resisted – but look the streets tidy even though he wore no gloves the sounds at once diffuse and discrete – everything dazzles Moriah Jones is a 2014-2015 ETA at Jeonggwang Middle School in Gwangju.