To the Stars and Birds
Translation by Ethan Fenlon, a first year ETA in Cheonan, Chungcheongnam-do My experience teaching at an all-boys middle school this year could be described as almost anything but serene. On the more chaotic days, I find it helpful to turn to the quiet good sense of those who came before me. I feel a particular connection with the poet Yoon Kon-Kang, author of “To the stars and birds,” who taught at Boseong Middle School in the 1940s and grew up in my adopted province of Chungcheongnam-do. Yoon often writes with clear, direct imagery influenced by the literary movement known as the Korean Artists’ Proletarian Federation (KAPF). His tone, somber yet resilient, also evokes his experiences as a political prisoner under Japanese colonial rule. Published four years after his release, this poem imagines Yoon’s own dissent like an echo that is heard at long last. To the stars and birds If I die without a hope, laid to rest in tranquil grass May my untold joy be sung by the woodland birds. But at night, the golden stars will paint above my woeful story. My friends and rivals, now alike, might listen on the mountain ridge. My body was born of a star, I will not shed a single tear! My fate is sealed — the day I die, nature will take my voice and go. 별과 새에게 만약 내가 속절없이 죽어 어느 고요한 풀섶에 묻히면 말하지 못한 나의 기쁜 이야기는 숲에 사는 적은 새가 노래해 주고 밤이면 눈물어린 금빛 눈동자 별떼가 지니고 간 나의 슬픈 이야기를 말해 주리라 그것을 나의 벗과 나의 원수는 어느 작은 산모롱이에서 들으리라 한개 별의 넋을 받아 태어난 몸이니 나는 우지 마자 슬피 우지 말자 나의 명이 다―하여 내가 죽는 날 나는 별과 새에게 내 뜻을 심고 가리라 [Featured photo by Miranda Magaña]
Foreword
By Rachel Youngeun Rostad, ETA ’17-’18, Editor-in-Chief of Infusion ’17-’18 To the Fulbright community— Since the beginning of the grant year, July 2018 has felt like the end of the world to me. Not in the apocalyptic sense, but in the sense of old seafarers’ charts, where the edges of the known universe disappear into mist. There, cartographers would draw sea monsters, dragons, and fantastical creatures, a metaphor for the dangers of unexplored territory. In July, we will all be crossing that boundary from the known into the unknown. Whether we’re leaving Korea or staying, this summer marks a time of transition. Fulbright Korea is in for a change as well; Director Jai Ok Shim is retiring at the end of 2018, an occasion we honor in our feature about her retirement. How fitting is it, then, that this volume is so rich with contributions from those on the Other Side—those who made it beyond the end of the world, and now send us missives back from the frontier. In addition to alumni submissions for Director Shim’s feature, we have two pieces by former grantees. In “The Way Home” by Bijou Nguyen, a medical student’s elderly Korean patient brings back vivid memories of her grant year. In “How to Eat Rainbow Play-Doh,” Charles Nelson IV reflects on his marriage to a fellow ETA, and how their time in Korea still has a powerful effect on them today. In a series of poems, “Ancient Ground,” current grantee Spencer Lee Lenfield explores five vivid images that linger in the mind like pressed flowers. “Marked Deck,” by Rebecca Brower and Gwangeun Cho, tells the story of a student with a knack for magic tricks, providing a glimpse into a unique school for North Korean defectors. We’re also pleased to include student work, selected by Fulbright Open Window Student Editors, Gaeun Han, Sooyeon Ko, and Hyeongdo Lee. This issue of Infusion wouldn’t exist without the support of current grantees, alumni, and KAEC. In order to ameliorate budget cuts, we ran two fundraisers, raising over 1,200 USD, most of which came from the alumni community. I’ve so enjoyed getting to interact with alumni through the Kickstarter and our feature on Director Shim. From our correspondence and reading their stories and notes, I know that when we leave Korea next month (or next year, or the next), we will be joining the ranks of an enthusiastic, caring, and inspiring community. Though I’m sailing into new seas, and there may indeed be monsters, I feel much braver knowing that I’m following in the wake of all those who came before me.
Letter from the Executive Director
Dear Readers, Another grant year is coming to its conclusion, and once more I am able to present to you all a publication of The Fulbright Korea Infusion. Volume 11.2 will be exceptionally memorable for me when I recall its stories, its art, and its message. As KAEC Executive Director, I have been able to witness the marvelous growth of Infusion since its induction in 2008, which in turn makes me appreciate the even more extraordinary growth of Fulbright Korea throughout this past decade. I am proud to have been part of the journeys that are recorded in each volume of this magazine and I extend my immense gratitude to current, past, and future grantees for living the mission of Fulbright. As you will soon read, my time as Executive Director is nearing its end, but that does not imply my time with Fulbright Korea will also expire. This organization will forever remain with me during retirement…in mind, heart, and soul. It is exciting to think that the next time I open Infusion, I will be truly a part of its audience for the first time, cheering and clapping alongside the Fulbright Korea community. These past 40 years have been nothing short of remarkable for me. As Fulbright Korea continues to evolve, so does South Korea and its relationship with the United States. Specifically, this year has marked a very crucial time in ROK-US history, which is evident in the pages that follow. It is my hope that a stronger appreciation of cultural exchange and international cooperation is achieved by every single reader once they close Volume 11.2, because it is what will take our world toward the peaceful future we all wish for. And so, please enjoy the newest issue of Infusion and also take a moment to acknowledge all of those who created it. From the editorial staff, to the authors, to the artists, they have all worked relentlessly and truthfully to produce an inspirational body of art. You should all be extremely proud. Thank you, Jai Ok Shim Executive Director of Fulbright Korea