Dust
By Jess McKay, a first-year ETA in Sejong Zoya Hsiao, “Yellow,” Busan My students know dust before air dust before wind and dust before breath. In our classroom, we translate the world around us; they point and pry for words to be known. “How’s the weather?” I ask. “Misemeonji is bad,” they say. “Dust. In English, it is dust,” I reply. The dust is bad. My students know dust before clarity. They string words together hoping their speech prompts a positive response. “Dust is good,” they say. Implying that we should go outside. My students know mask before grin Mask before laugh And mask before breath. Naomi Robalino, “Young Again,” Mokpo My students wear masks as they speak. “The dust is bad,” I say. “No, teacher. No, it’s okay.” Their small brows scrunch on their face as they search for justifications. They can do this before explaining the sensation of a laugh as it rises from the root of the belly. They can do this before explaining how rich the air tastes after a long swim. They can do this before explaining the breath before a cannonball the breath before a song. My students know dust.
S.A.D.
By Pel Doski, a first-year ETA in Docheon, Changnyeong Zoya Hsiao, “Spring Daze,” Gimhae Seasons change,Title. Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.) and I with them. Gently folding old skin and entering the new. When ginko leaves fell, so did my heart. When days became cold I followed suit. I imitate nature like when fish gather below their thick icy protection. When cherries blossom, I allow my skin to melt and water my feet as sunshine feeds my brain. Suzanne Chen, “Anticipating Love,” Buyeo When heat dries soil into a cracked terrain, I hide in a cicada song. Too afraid to fall in the cracks. When you ask me, How do you do? Look to the forecast for your answer. Or so I say, because it’s on days like these, when dark clouds wash the streets I wonder why I’m so… sad.
Oman Won
By Paddy Shea, a 2011–12 ETA in Gwangju currently living in New York City Zoya Hsiao, “Walkin’ & Talkin’,” Busan I left Korea with less than oman won in my pocket. At Incheon Airport, I dragged my two bags inside toward the baggage counter’s whirring bustle. I muttered what I thought could be my last, “Annyeonghaseyo,” to the lady behind the Korean Air counter and flung the bags onto her scale. She read from her screen-translation of weight to currency and said, “Oman won juseyo.” I reached in my wallet, and while God only knows the true amount of Korean currency I found inside, it was less than oman won. I had already closed my Korean bank accounts and wired money home, so at that moment I was broke. I had no phone. Remaining in Korea was not an option: I counted on my next meal coming aboard the plane or not at all. So, I said, “Sillyehamnida,” and dragged my luggage away to a rubbish bin, where I opened the cheaper of my two suitcases and separated keepers from trash. First, I dumped everything that didn’t bring me joy: old t-shirts, socks, and Korean study guides. So too the empty bottle of North Korean plum brandy I bought at the Korean Demilitarized Zone. I unloaded both suitcases and repacked the nicer one. Most of my belongings were strewn about three benches in the middle of Incheon Airport, with a whole suitcase in the rubbish. The toughest item to consider came from my host mother. It forced me to reconsider one of my final farewells in Korea. She had sent me packing with a box wrapped in pristine green wrapping paper. She said, “Paddy, do not open until marriage.” I laughed and said, “Ne, gwaenchanayo.” It occurred to me I had never seen Host Mom cry until then. “Saranghaeyo, Paddy!” she said. I said, “I love you, too, Omma.” An hour later, I weighed the bulky box’s significance. I did not know what was inside. Should I open it and see if it was worth it? Could I look any crazier if I started opening a present right now? No, I promised Host Mom I’d wait until marriage, so I did. Pel Dolski, “Graduation Performance,” Busan My mom and dad picked me up from the airport and drove me home through the swampy humidity of western Massachusetts summer. Mom made salads, and Dad grilled steak, American-style. This was our first family dinner in a year and a tribute to halcyon suppers before Mom got sick. She cut cucumbers into skin-on slices, a quarter-inch thick, and as a boy, I fiended for the stacks prepared for salads. On specious errands I criss-crossed the kitchen, swiping two at a time. “Paddy!” she warned after one too many thefts. “Leave some for the rest of us.” On this night, she threw open the windows and blasted Sam Cooke songs like when I was a kid. We danced the box-step to “Meet Me at Mary’s Place.” Things have changed since those days; Mom got sick when I was twelve years old. She was once a classic turn-of-the-century American housewife. She worked a job she hated at an insurance company. She critiqued my grammar and my baseball game with an expert’s eye. She snuck downstairs to do laundry and smoke cigarettes until I threw her pack out. After putting my brother, sister, and me to bed, she studied to become a teacher, and when she came home she sliced the cucumbers just the way I liked them. Mom was always doing the most. On the eve of her earning her Master’s degree and teaching license, a blood vessel burst in her brain. I stayed at my best friend’s house while she was in the hospital. We played ping-pong for hours in his basement before my dad arrived and called me upstairs: “Paddy!” I knew it was bad because he didn’t say anything to me when I appeared in the kitchen. He turned his back on me to lead me to the garage. A chill of loneliness and fear filled me from my toes as I followed his broad, hunched shoulders past the refrigerator out of the kitchen. The smell of gasoline pervaded my nostrils as we stepped into the garage, and my dad turned on his heel to face me. “Oh, Paddy,” he said and pulled me into a suffocating hug. His hugs always smelled smoky and sweaty like the firehouse in which he worked. “Mom is in the hospital,” he said. “She’s going to have surgery tonight.” “Is she going to be OK?” I breathed into his shoulder. He squeezed harder, so I could feel my ribs and lungs individually. “The doctors,” he said, and then he choked on a sob. He whispered: “She has a 50-50 chance.” “What should I do?” “Stay here, I’ll let you know.” The surgeons saved her life, but she was changed. The acidity of our blood is enough to kill our brain cells, so each passing moment cost her dearly. The woman who came home from the hospital was not the same as the one I remember, who scolded me for cucumber-slice thievery. She was slowed, mentally and physically. Shortly after she came home, my friends and I had gone around bush-lofting, or leaping into the bushes and shrubbery in our neighbors’ yards for fun. When our neighbors saw us flying headlong into their greenery, they called our parents. My best friend’s mom screamed in our faces, and the walk home was the longest of my life. I knew my parents knew what I had done, how I had embarrassed them. But my mom only had a vacant, anti-depressed look. “I am very disappointed in you,” she said, and my heart broke. This was how I knew she was different, that she had been discharged from the hospital but not fixed. The English language lacks vocabulary for this problem. When a body dies, we have funerals and