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 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.