Reflections Through a Viewfinder
Reflections Through a Viewfinder By Tori Thiem, a third-year ETA There is a saying within the photography community that goes, “The best camera is the one you have with you.” In other words, what you capture is more important than how you capture it. Although good gear can help, technical perfection or superiority mean little without thoughtful content. Anyone can take meaningful images of their lives with what they have—phone, film, digicam, DSLR and so on—given practice and opportunity. In whatever state, such tangible memories are priceless. It took me more than ten years to fully understand the weight of that sentiment, and it is now the impetus feeding my passion for photography. I am most often inspired by the idea of momentary existence as it relates to my experiences. Thus, wherever I am, I am persistently drawn to capturing instances of people interacting with their environment in addition to impressions of life as implied by structures and objects. The world through a lens is limited—focused and faithful in freezing a split‑second reflection of the past, however minute. There is something intimately compelling in the way that moment is infinitely viewable. To take a picture is to observe, contemplate and capture time. It is a meditative, ever‑changing practice that is unique in memorializing two lived experiences: my own and that which I perceive. With every press of the shutter, I get a little thrill of excitement. It is breathtaking when the photo comes out exactly as I envisioned it; but, when something unexpected appears and creates a composition that is beyond my imagination, it is even more exhilarating. Although it might take a few tries or re‑compositions from a different angle, the pursuit of a photograph is so enduringly captivating. This process of preserving a brief moment within the constraints of a viewfinder has, over the years, taught me how to observe and exist among people in a world that can move a bit too fast at times. I was not always this intentional about photography. Pictures, for my family, were a means of remembering people during special events. My maternal grandparents were refugees in the late twentieth century who fled from the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia with their five children. Ma and Kong, my grandma and grandpa respectively, were pillars who held our extended family together in their large, multigenerational home. Ma especially was a dedicated and strong‑willed matriarch who regularly organized open‑invite meals for all and provided extensive childcare for my sisters and my cousins and me in our early years. Their house was a place of wonder and comfort, where memories of their lives throughout the years were preserved and prominently displayed on the walls in photographs. Those images of important events and portraits, where everyone stood, nicely‑dressed, smiling at the camera, largely influenced my idea of what made a picture “good.” After I got a camera, I willingly became the de facto family photographer during our frequent gatherings hoping to reach that ideal. These events—hosted at Ma and Kong’s house where most everyone in the family came early to prepare and stayed late to clean up—had chaotic but familiar, well‑practiced routines. I was not yet confident in handling a camera, so in between setting up and playing with my cousins to avoid the boring adult parts, I snuck blurry photos without much thought: Ma and my aunts skewering meat sticks on the kitchen floor and Kong and my uncles rearranging the furniture and decorations. Sometime after the event properly began and all the guests had arrived and eaten, I would be called to arrange the group photos and direct my relatives to move here or look this way—a responsibility I accepted with teenage faux‑confidence accompanied by an exciting rush of unfamiliar authority. As time went on, though, I found less and less enjoyment in taking pictures of the same people in the same places at similar events. My family and hometown were tired subjects that seemed to rarely change and, as a result, I only occasionally took photos on the days I remembered to carry my camera in those early years. However, after studying abroad for my junior year of university in Seoul, the way I engaged with photography dramatically evolved in response to the variety of perspectives and experiences I encountered. For the first time in my life, I consistently met and socialized with a diverse range of people hailing from all over the world who expanded my way of thinking. I also had to navigate new social rules, language and cultural barriers that forced me to reflect on my long‑held beliefs. Photography at this critical juncture of my life helped me comfortably engage with my new reality and explore the world around me in focused detail. Behind the viewfinder, all the unfamiliar sights and customs felt less intimidating and more interesting. I could save moments of curiosity and awe in a picture and return to them at will, which allowed me to recognize and appreciate big and small instances of life in South Korea. Carefully searching for scenes and moments to capture in my daily surroundings became a habit that developed my eye for compositions and improved my ability to hone in and pick up on the fine nuances of Seoul’s unique heartbeat and mores. In the course of this singular year, I gained a firmer grasp of Korea conveyed through image as well as a stronger sense of my visual philosophy. Returning to the U.S. in 2019 with these insights made home refreshingly novel. I found myself newly committed to photographing my family, especially as all the adults who were such timeless, defining figures in memory were visibly aging in the years after Ma’s passing. When I began to fully participate in family affairs and events as an adult with a desire to visually preserve those memories, I was made soberingly cognizant and all the more appreciative of the concerted effort and labor necessary to maintain our family’s close ties and heritage thus far. Love and devotion were clearly visible in the small,
The Second Side of Anger
The Second Side of Anger By Christine Lee, a third-year ETA When I applied for the Fulbright grant, I mentioned in my application that I wished to become more fluent. At that time, I meant in the Korean language. Two years later, unwittingly, I have become more versed in another language—one that I have yearned for years to understand. As a child, I hated how my mother seemed to breathe anger. A poor school grade? Anger. Letting a slight against me go? Anger. Picking at my chapped lips? Anger. Even when I got lost at Joshua Tree National Park for two hours, my mother did not run at me crying with open arms when she found me. Instead, she yelled. Angry. Always angry. Theoretically, I understood. Anger was how she showed care. She grew up in a war‑ravaged country in which children regularly starved to death during the winter. She survived dictatorships, poverty and the loss of parts of her identity, dignity and humanity as an immigrant in America. She learned how to make herself hard like her own mother because like her, she lived to survive. Her daughter, however, who had the emotional fortitude of a hamster, demanded a softness that she, herself, rarely received. So, we fought endlessly. Despite having mostly grown out of these battles for quite some time now, working as a native English teacher at a middle school in the motherland returned me to the front lines. At school, I operate under the guise of barely knowing any Korean in front of the students. Thus, involuntarily, I have become privy to certain vulnerable conversations and weathered the friendly fire of a considerable number of scoldings in my corner of the teacher’s office, especially those from a teacher (“Teacher”)1 who disciplined in a way that I can best describe as “compassionately angry.” Initially, the way they2 raised their voice caught me off guard. Not shy of cursing or shouting, their scoldings gave me war flashbacks to my own childhood. Yet the very students who came in yesterday to face Teacher with their heads bowed would come in today and lean their heads on Teacher’s shoulders, whining until they finally got their fill of Teacher’s attention. Initially, the juxtaposition jarred me as I wondered how the students were not repelled. But then I realized that these students came to Teacher not despite, but rather because of their admonitions. For as long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget one particular student (“Student”)3 and the scolding they4 received. It was early in the morning when Teacher dragged Student into the office and plopped them down onto a wooden stool, demanding an explanation for Student’s repeated tardiness. Through my peripheral vision, I recognized their lanky, hunched frame. Student was a quiet kid who didn’t know phonics but masterfully doodled on every page of their English textbook. Other teachers had also noted their inability to focus and had shared with me reports from Student’s elementary school behavioral record. At first, Student said nothing, sitting with their shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. A moment passed before Teacher repeated themself in a carefully measured tone. In response, Student mumbled a generic apology, shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. Even without looking up, I could feel Teacher’s growing frustration. What followed was a lecture not out of the ordinary. Had Student thought about how their repeated tardiness meant their 벌점, or “punishment points,” were stacking up to the extent that even with volunteer service, it would be difficult to get rid of them all? And did they realize what it meant for their high school prospects if they were to graduate with 벌점 on their record? Also, what about the fact that their late start throws them out of sync with the rest of their class? It was only the beginning of the year! Then, Teacher asked a question—a mundane one about family life. Student did not answer. Teacher tried again, rephrasing their original inquiry in case it was misunderstood. Again, radio silence. Then, a slight shift in posture. I glanced up. Was it my imagination or did Student’s shoulders fold more inward? Something must have clicked for Teacher then. Something I had missed completely. Teacher’s voice dropped octaves to something between a whisper and a murmur. They asked their third question, loaded and heavy. At the weight of it, the arch of Student’s back rose sharply as they caved into themself. From within the fortress of their body, something passed between their lips, but the words dissolved the minute they touched the air, too quick for Teacher to catch despite now hovering over the child. One more time, Teacher pressed for an answer. And in the air that stood patiently still, we heard a reply that shattered our hearts. I looked at Student who had become a ball balanced on the stool. They had their head cradled between their hands and knees as if enduring an earthquake. I could see their world shake. Delicately, as if unraveling a spider web, Teacher coaxed out details from Student. Then, Teacher sighed a prolonged sigh—one that conveyed the understanding of an adult who knew too much. That parents can prioritize their wants over their children’s needs. That siblings can share a bond as nonexistent as that between strangers. That a student can hide a world of hurt and loneliness behind antics that secretly call for help. Thud. Thud. Thud. No words. Just thuds as Teacher half‑slapped, half‑stroked the back of the ball balanced on the hard, wooden stool. Thud. Thud. Thud. Student resembled a threatened pill bug that had collapsed into itself. Yet with each blow, their grip on themself loosened and slowly from the mound emerged a child—tired, wary and impossibly young. Finally, Teacher spoke, “아침은? 밥은 먹었어?”5 Student shook their head. Teacher immediately began rummaging through their drawers where they located a packet of fruit snacks. “At least eat this, then go back to class.” With two hands, Student
To Wander: A 시조 Poem
To Wander: A 시조 1 Poem By Nimi Vachharajani, a first-year ETA In the cold I found myself in a land far from all I’d known. Budding leaves inspired hope, cherry blossoms evoked rebirth. Summer storms washed away the hurt. Is to wander to find home?