The Dragon Head
by Julia Zorc, ETA ’20 Along the Mugunghwa train line between Mokpo and Busan is a station with no name. When I have dinner with the Lim family, it is Tae Hee, my closest confidant among them, who tells me about it. I ask her for a more exact location on the line, but she doesn’t know. Her smile crinkles her face and she seems somewhere between a mother and a mischievous child. “It’s like a little legend. Maybe not true. But friends say they saw it.” She refills my glass and then calls out to her daughter, asking her to go to the corner store for some ice cream. There’s something I find romantic about this train station, but I attribute the mystery to a sort of clerical error that happens frequently here, like when a new address is put on a collapsed house. Tae Hee doesn’t have to mention it again. She knows the seed has already been planted. She knows that I like these kinds of out-of-the-way places, where few other foreigners have bothered to go. Places of quiet adventure and solitude. ********** I watch the landscape outside the train window. Mountains, high-rises and rice fields drift by. This season’s rice crop—not yet planted when I arrived in this country—is now ready for the harvest. Two hours of vigilance has made me drowsy, but I finally see my destination. The train stops at a small, square building; the yellow sideboards are faded and peeling. A discolored rectangle on the wall acts as the ghost of a signboard. I stand suddenly, afraid to lose my chance, and throw myself off the train as the door shuts. I am the only one on the platform, and when I look back at the train as it pulls away, I see concerned and confused faces looking back at me. I imagine that some of them think I accidentally wandered onto a plane, ended up in Korea and have been lost ever since. I walk purposefully into the station building to fool us all. The ticket window is shuttered, and the room is empty save for some benches and a banner reading “COVID-19 regulations: please stand two meters apart” in Korean. On the walls are old photos of railway workers, blurred by years of sunlight. I wonder if there is anyone left who remembers them. Outside of the station is a village that is nothing more than a handful of traditional homes in various states of decay. Beside them are rusty motorbikes and the occasional truck with a bed full of odds and ends. I see an elderly woman bent nearly in half, feebly pulling a wheelbarrow of vegetables behind her. I am suddenly self-conscious in the knowledge that I don’t belong here. But I have to see this through. I want to explore this place after taking all the trouble to get here. So I pass by the houses, their closed gates shuttering me in. A cat runs past, mewling, with sores all over its body. Blankets on clotheslines flutter in the breeze. On the edge of the village lie the remains of a small theme park. Child-sized rides sit buried in tall grass, more rust than paint. There is a merry-go-round of tiny rabbits instead of horses and a ferris wheel with seats that dangle from brittle chains. The most imposing one looks like a pirate ship ride—universal at any fair or carnival worth its salt—but the head of this ship is a great dragon. The red paint is peeled back, exposing the rotting wood beneath. I take a picture of it, and am taken aback. This beast is not dead. In fact, I can see it breathing and hear its ribbed body creaking. Its grimacing face seems to twitch. I hold my breath and close my eyes. When I open them, the movement has stopped, and I’m able to pretend that I imagined it. A voice calls out to me from a pavilion a little ways away, where two women are sitting and eating lunch. One woman is small, elderly, dark and wrinkled. The other is like a doll: tall, elegant and made-up to perfection. “Aigoo, a foreigner,” the old woman says in Korean. “Where are you from?” “America.” “What are you doing here?” “I’m just…walking.” I do not know the right English words to describe what I’m doing, let alone the Korean ones. “Walking? Cham! Take a rest. Please eat with us.” Her dialect is difficult to understand, but the kimbap in her outstretched hand says enough. I take it with a bow, remove my shoes and sit beside them. I want to ask about the dragon ride, but the younger woman is quick to speak. “You are bored here?” she says in English. “Not at all.” “Foreigners not come in here. Seoul is more interesting place. I live there.” “Stop using English,” the older woman interjects in Korean. “I can’t understand you!” “This is grandmother,” the young woman says, stubbornly sticking to English. “She live here.” “We can speak Korean,” I say with my faltering, pitiful accent. The grandmother doesn’t seem to understand me and her granddaughter continues on in English, undeterred. “I want to see L.A. and Vegas. You know? You go there?” I tell her that I’ve been to Vegas and wasn’t that impressed. “Really?” she says, her hand shooting up to hover over the little “o” of her mouth. It’s a perfectly choreographed gesture of surprise. Her grandmother is muttering beside us. I cannot understand what she is saying, but feel like I must address her. “Halmeoni,” I say, “how long have you lived here?” I notice that her granddaughter takes out her phone, and begins taking selcas with the serene, mountain landscape behind her. The old woman understands me this time and brightens considerably. She launches into her family history, snatches of which I am able to understand. I gather that she had ancestors who were of great importance in this town and
Inner Dialogue
By Diana Inguito, ETA ’20; Photo by Lulu Johnson, ETA ’20 6:30 AM: “Diana, wake up. Come on, we’ve been over this a million times. Discipline!” “This loud American is being too hard on you again. You can sleep in for 50 more minutes. You have time.” *while yawning* “I’m going back to sl…” I slowly drift back into my dream. One by one, Filipino food reappears in front of me. First, Chicken Adobo shows up. It is a dish marinated in soy sauce and vinegar and then sauteed with paprika, oregano, and garlic. Next Shrimp Sinigang appears. It is a sour and savory soup that is often associated with tamarind. Finally, I see Turon, a dessert made with bananas, dusted with brown sugar, and wrapped in a crispy spring roll wrap. The smell of savory, sour, and sweet fill the air, reminding me of home and the smiles and laughter on the faces of my loved ones. 7:20 AM: “PUT THE CHICKEN DOWN! It’s time to wake up!” *whining* “But I miss Filipino food! Korean food is always spicy and sweet. I want the sour and savoryyyyy.” “I know. I know. But you need to get ready for work.” Reluctantly, I remove my blanket. The cold morning air shocks my body. removing hints of slumber that remained. My favorite part of my morning routine is eating breakfast. My host mom is a sweet fashionista who makes the best Korean dishes. Originally from Seoul, she chose to live in the countryside to keep her family away from the unhealthy societal pressures of the city. She wants them to pursue a life of happiness, and every day, she carries this motherly warmth that reminds me of my mom. 8:15 AM: “OMG I smell egg and soy sauce. I hope 엄마 (eom-ma: mom) is making 계란밥 (gae-lan-bap: egg, rice, soy sauce, sesame oil, and sesame seeds)! Let’s pretend to fill up our water bottle and check.” “Skip the passiveness! Just ask her directly!!” “Similar to Filipino culture, we have to use our 눈치 (nunchi- ability to read the room or perceive the positive or negative energy in the room). Right now, you’re both under time pressure, so asking directly will scream, ‘Hurry up!’” The smell of 계란밥 lures me into the kitchen while I tightly carry my water bottle in front of me. I greet my host mom a good morning, and she invites me to sit down for breakfast. My taste buds dance with delight, and 엄마 tells me that we will have dinner with her friend tonight. Afterwards, I head off to school. 8:25 AM: *Sigh* “I wish my shoe cubby wasn’t in such an awkward place. It’s so embarrassing holding up the entire line just to switch into my indoor shoes. The weight of people’s stares haunt me everyday!” “QR Code Diana. Take out your QR Code.” “Oh right, I have to scan in.” I walk up to my 교무실 (gyo-mu-shil: office). The 교무실 is big. There are about 40 of us in the office, so there is very little privacy or personal space. This also means that they can hear when my stomach is growling for food and see when I am on Netflix watching movies. 8:35 AM: “Find the vice principal. Make sure you greet her first.” “Okay.” “Oh and don’t forget to greet the head of the English department. He’s such a kind man and treats you so well. Did you bring him the Filipino beer he really likes?” “Yes, it’s in my bag.” “Okay, be discreet when you give it to him. People are always watching, and we don’t want them to give the wrong impression.” As soon as I walked in, I made eye contact with my vice principal and then my boss. I bow and then greet them good morning with a big smile and wave. Afterwards, I head out to teach my classes. 8:45 AM: “Game! Game! Game! All they want to do is play games.” “But it’s the 2-3 class. They’re always so good and engaged! It’s hard to say no.” “But you played a game last class. You need to do the book lesson you prepared.” “Hmmm… Okay, let’s compromise. Let them know that you will play a game if they finish their classwork early.” My students keep me busy until lunchtime. I teach 22 classes a week and have around 280 students. My school asked me to focus on English speaking and listening, so I divide my lesson plans between book activities, games, and cultural lessons. 12:30 PM: “Shoot it’s pork today! Aww I thought it would be Shrimp Katsu!” “WAIT… Diana look! They prepared a separate meal for you! In the US, you would have had to bring your own lunch!” “OMG My heart is so overwhelmed! They’re so kind… but now I also feel bad because I can’t express my gratitude enough.” “Don’t worry Diana. If you can’t communicate it with words, you can do it with actions. Remember how Filipinos would give presents all the time? We can stop by the bakery tomorrow and grab some pastries to give to them.” “Yeah, let’s do that!” The lunch ladies made me fried mackerel. I enjoy eating my lunch, making sure to finish all of my food to show my appreciation. Then, I head back to teaching and lesson planning. 1:30 PM: “For next week, I think you should create more vocabulary and speaking games.” “Hmmm… but I also haven’t taught them a cultural lesson in a while. What have we covered so far? “American High School, Fourth of July, Astrology, Tipping Culture in the US, and the Black Lives Matter Movement” “Remember when they were shocked that most people tip 15-20% of their total bill?” “YES! I remember one of the students saying, ‘Teacher, I no eat. I no tip money.’” “HAHAHA Let’s do a cultural lesson. It’ll encourage the students to speak and utilize the vocabulary they know.” “Okay! Halloween is coming up, so we
Paper Heart
CW: suicide, mental illness The lifetime prevalence of mental health disorders in South Korea is one out of every three people, slightly higher than the world average of one in four. In light of the high profile celebrity suicides in 2019, I decided that I wanted to know more about the state of mental health care in South Korea. In doing my research, I learned much more about the mental health care system in South Korea and the types of care that are available to South Korean citizens. However, there was a dearth of information regarding the care available for the non-Korean speaking, expat community in South Korea. So how do therapists in South Korea work with the multifaceted and deeply cultural mental health issues that foreigners experience here? This was the question that guided my search as someone who has dealt with anxiety since college and has peers who have experienced various forms of mental illness. I sought out Dr. Ebesutani to hear more about his experience working with the English-speaking foreigner population in South Korea. Dr. Chad Ebesutani is a US and South Korea Licensed Psychologist and Director of the Seoul Counseling Center. The Seoul Counseling Center—with locations in both Sinsa-dong (Gangnam) and Pyeongtaek (near the Camp Humphreys US Army Base)—is a space for English-speaking expats, international students, Korean Americans, and army personnel and families to receive counseling from certified South Korean and American therapists. Dr. Ebesutani is also an Associate Professor of psychology at Duksung Women’s University, where he runs a Child Psychology Research Lab focusing on evidence-based treatments and the assessment of mental health skills usage among both clinical and non-clinical populations. I started off our time together by asking Dr. Ebesutani about the most common mental health issues/disorders that he encounters among his foreigner clients. He stated that depression and anxiety are the most common disorders. With South Korea having the highest suicide rate of all OECD (Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development) countries, this observation was not surprising even among the foreigner population. He noted that social anxiety and panic disorder were also common problems he encountered at his center. I recalled a time when I used to suffer panic attacks in college as a result of my uncertain academic future. I would wake up in the middle of the night, heart thumping so hard that I could feel it in my ears. Social anxiety is also a condition I deal with on a day-to-day basis here even as a Korean American—so this observation was, again, not surprising to me. I wondered how foreigners, who often have left a significant part of their support systems back in their home country, work through such problems. But there were two additional issues that Dr. Ebesutani raised that I had not expected: societal integration challenges and alcohol abuse. According to the Journal of Korean Medical Science, South Korea is home to the highest prevalence of alcohol abuse/alcohol dependence among OECD countries, with approximately 7% of the population suffering from this disorder. These two problems often strongly impacting the expat life in South Korea is noteworthy, as often in South Korean workplace culture, alcohol is the gateway to inclusion in the greater workplace ecosystem through what is known as ‘hwe-sik’ (회식), the South Korean after-work company dinner. Dr. Ebesutani and the psychologists at his clinic work with many Korean American clients. Korean Americans in Korea belong to a unique niche of people who straddle the line between belonging and alienation. And it is not surprising that Korean Americans also deal with issues of societal integration. Dr. Ebesutani noted that lack of comfort with the Korean language was often the issue that prevented this population from feeling like they are truly “Korean.” Ultimately, this issue boils down to the issue of identity and feelings of isolation from one’s community. As a Korean American, I empathized deeply with what Dr. Ebesutani’s Korean American clients were feeling. I came to Korea hoping that by being here and integrating into the social fabric of my home country, I could feel more “Korean.” And after a year and a half of being here and working on my Korean as well as my mannerisms, I have integrated somewhat. But as a Korean American, that is not enough. Korean people asking me where I’m from, innocent comments from teachers about how well I eat the food, and the phrase “You’re so American” all contribute to the separation of Koreans and Americans. This idea of isolation from community as a Korean American in South Korea may seem paradoxical at first. However, unlike “proper” non-Korean foreigners, Korean Americans are often met with criticisms along the lines of “You’re Korean, so why can’t you…?”. As long as you look Korean or reveal that you are part Korean, there is a certain expectation that Korean people have of you even if you have never engaged with the culture for various reasons; meanwhile, our non-Korean foreigner counterparts are given praise by local Koreans for their smallest dip into Korean culture. Our hyphenated identities often create conflicts within ourselves regarding our sense of belonging and identity as Korean people. The mental health issues that people face in South Korea, just like anywhere else in the world, are embedded in culture and require a nuanced understanding in order to address. The South Korean government has been slowly but surely developing its response to mental illness in the past 20 years. The Mental Health Act of 1995 in South Korea and its subsequent revision in the 2016 Act on the Improvement of Mental Health and the Support for Welfare Services for Mental Patients (AMSW), are two of the most prominent government initiatives to promote the welfare of people suffering from mental illness. However, Dr. Ebesutani informed me that these Acts were created primarily to care for individuals with serious mental illnesses (SMI), such as those with schizophrenia, severe bipolar disorder and severe major depression who experience substantial impairment to their daily functioning.