Twenty-one Twenty
Twenty-one Twenty By Brittany Scardigno, 1st Year ETA 2-1-2-0* The keypad lock on your apartment door beeps with rejection for the fourth time, setting off the alarm. Even though it is an alarm, and its purpose is to let others know that someone is trying to enter a space that is obviously not theirs (because if it was their own, they would know the code), the sound only lasts for thirty seconds. When the alarm stops, your fingers press: 2-1-2-0* Again. 2-1-2-0* You know this is not the correct code, yet your fingers keep pressing the same numbers. If you try the same numbers two more times, the useless alarm will sound and echo through the empty apartment’s stairway. You know this is not the code, because when you first moved in, you thought to yourself: “This code is so similar to the numbers my father used to use for his passwords.” You remember thinking this; so why do you keep pressing 2-1-2-0*? Because it is the correct code. There must be something wrong with the lock. It is the lock, not you. 2-1-2-0* Can a mind be conscious and unconscious at the same time? A mind can be conscious of a mistake being made while it unconsciously instructs the body to perform themistake. Consciously, you are sure this is not the correct code because it is not the same numbers your father used to use for his passwords. Unconsciously, your fingers push the keys: 2-1-2-0* There is an intruder trying to enter this space. Defeated, you walk up to your landlord’s door on the top floor. She becomes worried, asks if you are okay. You pay ₩200,000 for a man to drill into your metal door and replace the keypad lock. [Featured photo by Victoria Thiem]
할머니
할머니 By Grace Moon Meharg 할머니 no longer belongs just to me.Out of every man, woman, and childthe word slips from open mouthscasually, carelessly. Their teeth barely catching its edge. She was Halmoni and she was mine,growing into a god.Framed by a halo of storiessown by the lips of my mother. Grandmotherborn of her daughter, deliveredto the girl whoshares her name. I climb my roots across the ocean. Reaching within and without,glimpsing her in roses,curved backs in the market.The mountains gaze at us both. There’s so muchI remember I’ve forgotten.As stories start to fadethe gaps gain flesh and earth. Our bodies meet in Jeonju. My soles where my mother began.The air wrinklestogether. Three generations.One pair of shoes. [Featured photo by Kierstin Conaway]
Sounds the Mountains Make
Sounds the Mountains Make By Teddy Ajluni, a first year ETA in Gwangyang, Jeollanam-do At first, you won’t be able to hear it. It’s funny that way. Ambient noise is usually more noticeable to those whose ears it is new to. But not this. You will never notice it unless you were born there or until you’ve been there for a very, very long time. And even then, the first time you notice it, it will be coming from you—a soft, sweet tune that has been leaving your lips unconsciously as you hum it. But how do you know that tune? When did you first hear it? It’s no use asking those questions. You will never get clear answers. Instead, you should just enjoy the melody. Having said this, if you do ask any halmeoni or halabeoji about it, they will only laugh at your foolishness. Didn’t you know that the mountains make sounds? But it’s not just they who know. They are just the only ones who will talk about it. To everyone younger it is boring, merely a fact of life; but to those who have lived to the ripeness of an old age just before death’s doorstep, they understand that it’s more than just a “fact” of life. It is life. The sounds glide gently through the air, combing the sky in strokes reminiscent of the Jeulmun pottery of which those mountains have borne witness. They sweep through the valleys, mingling with the pansori of Joseon street performers long gone—and carrying their stories too. They cry out in pain for a land that has been colonized, and then indefinitely divided without their consent. Now, they even spread their wings and fly, beyond the shores of the country they call home, each flap of those wings making waves across the sea as the people they guide spread their culture worldwide. Sometimes hopeful, sometimes melancholic, the sounds tell us a story that changes its tune. But in the end, as varied as the tones might be, they all flow seamlessly together like the Han which they once blessed with a miracle—a symphony as beautiful as the land it blankets. Yes, the mountains make sounds. They are the heartbeat of a country, making a rhythm that will roll smoothly through your being like the beat of a barrel drum. You may see, you may feel, you may smell, and you may taste. But if you do not hear, then you will miss the most beautiful part of the whole. So please, if you wish to know the soul of this country then pause, breathe, and open your ears to all those sonorous notes, good and bad, loud and soft. The mountains are speaking. Just listen. Can you hear the mountains? Can you hear them? If you listen carefully—no, if you listen consciously—maybe you will start to hear their cry. Here is Korea, the land where the mountains weave a nation and a song. In every village, every city, every town, there is always a 동네 뒷산 . Sometimes, their nobility is hidden by the mist of morning’s humidity. Sometimes, their majesty is concealed by clouds that have fallen from the heavens above. But they were always there, and they always will be. And they will sing. [Featured photo by Lulu Johnson]