Between Belonging
Between Belonging By Iris Hyun-A Kim, 1st Year ETA [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] During my grant year, I attended a graduate school’s virtual DEI session for accepted students in hopes of hearing some words of comfort, perhaps along the lines of, “There will be an H Mart opening in town!” — but to no avail. Instead, the PowerPoint opened to the first slide of definitions of DEI terminology before launching into an hour-long session on Why You Will Love Our School. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Attempting not to spell it any other way, universities and corporations have adopted DEI as a catch-all phrase for their institutions, working to quantify and optimize the patterns that promote belonging among their students, faculty, and alumni. But how does one truly measure belonging, and why is it defined with equally ambiguous acronyms that seem to point at each other in an endless cycle? In Korea, the means of racial or ethnic identification are (thankfully) not a checklist. But they do feel almost binary: either Korean or non-Korean. Those in between, meaning part of the ethnic Korean diaspora, typically draw to one side more than the other. But even the between space holds another unspoken dimension of intra-diversity, where being Korean American can be further split depending on language skill, cultural knowledge, number of visits to the motherland, etc. There were too many moments when I did not feel “Korean” enough in college, where I met Korean international students and other Korean Americans who were well-versed in the above criteria. While it ultimately helped form my understanding of what it means to be Asian in America, and ultimately formed the basis of my Fulbright research on Korean diaspora and belonging, I was brought back to this insecurity upon moving to Korea. Most of the Korean returnees I encountered in Seoul, if not visiting for tourism or studying abroad, held strong ties to the peninsula. I asked some Korean American friends if they could imagine themselves living here for the long term, and to my surprise, most of them answered yes. Their family all returned to Korea, and the flexible F-4 heritage visa incentivizes Korean diasporic residents to stay as long as they want. But when I asked if they felt like they belonged, it was the opposite answer. “I feel more American, especially in Korea,” was one reply. “But there are a lot more privileges in being American in Korea than in being Korean in America.” Since when does one have to choose between belonging or comfort? I was perplexed by these answers. Yet, nobody seemed confused by these conclusions. There comes a point in all this wondering when I stop and ask myself if my research questions matter, if I am the only one asking these questions in the first place. When the DEI event opened for questions, I asked the question swelling inside of me. “I get that DEI is important, and the way to improve DEI seems pretty straightforward. But what about belonging? You can diversify a student population, and you can improve equity and inclusion in a similar metric, but how do you really improve upon belonging?” The DEI representative’s answer was summed up into one simple sentence. Diversity, equity, and inclusion, when being worked on in their respective parts, produce belonging. I digested these words slowly, and over the week, I found relatable truth in her words. Despite their flaws and bureaucratic obstacles, American institutions that actively work on their DEI initiatives are addressing these questions for the sake of people who wonder if their questions matter, if they matter, thousands and thousands of miles away from the comforts of home. Because home no longer has to be a singular physical place, but one that can be called, constructed, and committed to. In the words of the cheesy quote that I hung over my freshman dorm bed frame, “Home is where the heart is.” Comfort and belonging may not always come hand in hand, but there is always space to create belonging, whenever and wherever you choose.
Vignettes from the Metro
Vignettes from the Metro By William Landers, 3rd Year ETA “Life is like the metro. You’re sitting in the car while people get on and off. You don’t know how long you will have with them, but you can be kind in the time you have together.” – A mentor and friend My friends in Seoul often ask me what I will miss most about Korea when I go home. I have always provided a quick, easy response because the full answer would weigh too heavily on a light conversation. As departure speeds toward me, though, I feel an urgency to share some reflections on my journey here. There are so many precious stories I could tell about the people and places I will miss that I could never choose only one. However, I can share a few stops along my journey. Bongmyeong Station, Seoul Metro Line 1, Dongnam-gu, Cheonan Bongmyeong Station is nestled in a quiet corner of a mid-sized, mountain-ringed city on the north-central side of Chungcheongnam-do. The Line 1 Metro trains pass through it, carrying passengers leisurely toward Osan, Suwon and eventually, Seoul. Time exhales slowly and deeply between new arrivals here, on the southern edge of my first placement city. This place reminds me of the many small journeys I embarked on with my friends. It recalls the slap of three pairs of rubber soles on the hot summer asphalt, the musky air rising from the gardens in the rainy season, and the aroma of the BHC chicken that my group carried for an improvised Thanksgiving. When I ride here in my memory, I see crumbs from the ham and cheese sandwich that I devoured with my neighbor, another ETA, after a hurried departure from Fulbright orientation. I feel the warmth of the July sun as I roasted s’mores with my summer camp students. And I feel the weight of conversations with a dear friend, grappling with our experiences returning to Korea as adoptees. Bongmyeong Station is a quiet, cozy place, and it echoes with the soft whispers of new friends who welcomed me for the first time. Anguk Station, Seoul Metro Line 3, Jongno-gu, Seoul Anguk Station is long, straight and narrow to maximize efficient foot traffic to both ends. Its brown brick walls and black wrought-iron railings bound a race track for commuters who jostle for pole position in the mornings. The railways squeal with the arrival of new passengers, the stone floors clap against hard rubber footsteps, and the turnstiles groan under unceasing rotations. Anguk Station hums with the manic frequencies of rush hour and the urgent motion of bodies. I was blind the first time I walked out of this place. I literally could not see because the frigid air painted an impenetrable fog on my glasses. With each breath, I saw less of the world. I felt like a bat in my black winter coat, wrapping my wings around my body, using echolocation to judge the distance to the nearest footfalls. I would have laughed, except that I was also blinded by sorrow. Each step forward brought me closer to a new school and further from my first one. I understood that I was walking toward a desirable placement, one that offered support and opportunities to grow. One that many others had sought. But I was also walking into an unknown space, in the cold, far from the city I loved as a second home. As I trudged through the biting cold, I wondered if my former principal was standing outside the school, waiting to greet the students like he always did. I wondered if my previous co-teacher was briefing the new ETA on the textbooks. I wondered if my students remembered the s’mores I had made with them last summer. I wondered and worried, and I listened for the footfalls ahead. Riding through this place now, after another year, I can see. I can see the wide platform where my students smiled and waved at me after a busy exam season. I can see the broad columns that I leaned against while talking about dinner plans with other teachers from my school. I can see the tall staircases that I raced up at the start of each morning, and I can see the sunlight that hit my face halfway through the ascent. Slowly, after each ride at rush hour, discussion with a teacher, and greeting from a student, I warmed up to my new placement. I can see now that kindness flows through this place. As I ride away, I carry the farewells and notes and class photos from my time here. The next time I walk through a cold winter to an unfamiliar destination, I will hold these memories for warmth. Haeundae Station, Busan Metro Line 2, Haeundae-gu, Busan Haeundae Station lies several blocks inland from the beach. It is planted so far away that you can only see the blue waves on a sunny day if you squint. The station’s exits deposit travelers onto the surface with no cover. On stormy days, the stairs and passengers all shine with a coating of rainwater as they enter the underground portion. The walls and ceilings, like the train cars here, wrap around people and are no larger than necessary. A far cry from the Seoul Metro’s cavernous stations and wide trains. When I think of Haeundae Station, I remember the fat, soaking rain in typhoon season. There is something oppressive about feeling a raindrop fall so fast and hard that it immediately soaks through a jacket sleeve. There is something maddening about the whistle of water blown sideways in a gale. Even on sunny days, though, I feel a weight that clings to me. I feel the raindrops falling on me when the eyes of a waiter search through a group of my friends and then lock onto mine. They have assigned me the role of translator without uttering a syllable in my direction. I hear the gales whip
Motherhood
Motherhood By Brittany Scardigno, 1st Year ETA My host mother always touches my hair. She looks at my face, brings half of my hair to the front, and fixes the curls with her fingers. Her fingers twist the strands and they coil into singular, smooth curls. She plucks any loose hairs hanging from my clothing and places them on a roll of tape she keeps on the counter to not dirty the floor. My host mother also prepares food and fixes it on my plate before feeding herself. She holds the food up to my adult lips and feeds me. Every night at dinner she tells me “더 먹어” and “많이 먹어.” Additionally, she frequently touches my hands, my arms, my face, and my hair. She fixes my clothing and straightens up my appearance. The way a mother touches and grooms her child is something I had never realized I lost. It never occurred to me that I no longer had this. I felt foolish as a grown woman to feel the want to be groomed by a mother like a newborn pup. The fluidity of what it means to be a mother is much more complex than what I thought before arriving in Korea and meeting my host mother. I realize my own mother’s love is primarily shown through acts of service rather than physical touch. The way we love is different; it is not that I feel a lack of love from my own mother, but there was an absence of physical affection through neither fault of our own. The curls on our heads resemble one another, although mine are a bit tighter. Tears would silently roll down my round cheeks when she would brush it. Neither of us knew back then that you are not supposed to brush curly hair. The cold, metal pins of the large bows she would place on top of my head would scratch my scalp and give me headaches. This was when my mother still had time to touch me. It makes me wonder if this is one of the bigger cultural differences, or if this is simply how my single-parent household needed to be. My mother taught me how to protect and nurture myself when she could not physically be there. Perhaps there was no more time for her to fix my curls, hold food up to my lips, or straighten the neckline of my shirt, so she taught me how to do those things on my own. However, in Korea, I witness mothers show love so differently from my own mother at home. I feel an embarrassing tinge of jealousy when I watch a child’s eager hand reach for their mother’s as they walk downtown, and the mother’s hand is equally as eager to clasp their child’s. I watch with wide eyes as a mother and daughter exit a hair salon, the mother’s hand resting on [Featured Image by Wendy Owens] top of her daughter’s freshly washed head before she helps her climb into the backseat of their car. From a distance, I observe how my host mother and my host sister — her real daughter — interact. Sometimes I try, unsuccessfully, to remember the very last time my mother brushed my hair. After months of questioning what a mother’s love looks like, a pattern started to reveal itself. I found understanding that whether it is through physical touch or acts of service, a mother’s love is shown through their hands. It is shown through the hands whose fingers weave through the knots in your hair, hands that wipe the crumbs from your lips, hands that lift your arms to clothe you with fabrics that do not irritate your skin, hands that remove the heavy bags from your back, and hands that hold yours as she clips your infant fingernails. Love is also shown through the hands that form carpal tunnel from years of typing at work, making her left ring finger so numb that it turns purple; hands that learn how to write “happy birthday” in a new language. They are the same hands that picked up dust from the nursery floor as they crawled quietly beside your crib to not wake you. While the love shown through some mothers’ hands may be more visible, much of their work goes unnoticed. The invisible acts of love are not seen or felt by the child, but nevertheless, the mother’s hands still do the work. It took me having two mothers to recognize invisible acts of love are no different, nor less worthy, than visible touch.