Defining Moments
Defining Moments By Maggie Backus, 1st Year ETA When learning new languages has been a source of wonder since childhood, you know full well that some words simply lack one-to-one translations. Through my two years in South Korea, I have come to learn that the Korean word 친구, pronounced “chingu,” is one such example. Despite translating to “friend,” 친구 specifically refers to a friend of the same age. Moreover, age is so irrevocably infused within the Korean language and culture that it determines the precise vocabulary used in any given discourse, with more respectful language expected when speaking to elders, authorities, and strangers. It is more than the mere addition of a “Please” or “Would you mind…?” To speak is to enact a social stratification, ranking the addressee above, alongside, or beneath oneself. When asking a new acquaintance’s name, for instance, one cannot help but choose whether to inquire about an 이름 or 성함, where the difference lies in informal or formal usage of the Korean term for “name.” As I filter my day-to-day interactions through these parameters, I reflect on the growth of my cross-generational friendship with two native Korean women this year, questioning what it means to participate in and describe our social relationship when the very noun for “friend” is unavailable to us. On one balmy summer evening after language exchange, I followed Yura’s short but rapid strides down into the subway station. She flails her left arm and glares until her smartwatch relents and reveals the time. Yura moves as if every upcoming endeavor is infinitely more exciting than the last, and this attitude propels us downward and secures us a spot on the train just before departure. We drop into the seats. “유라님의 딸은 미라님의 딸이랑 친구예요? Is your (Yura’s) daughter friends with Mira’s daughter?” I asked Yura. Yura, Mira, Grace (my Korean-American friend), and I meet twice every week. We share our lives between sips of coffee and new vocabulary in each other’s mother tongues, hurriedly scribbled into notepads. Our paths first intertwined at the local Saturday language exchange. Seeking connection in a new place, Grace (a 친구, by Korean linguistics) and I lent each other the courage to enter the cafe in March. The space’s design — white paint covering every surface, dimensions accentuated by thick black lines tracing each edge — gave the impression of possibility, a real-life coloring book. The once starkly blank scene soon faded and the attendees’ personal hues and charms colored in the room. Mira and Yura, two mothers to young children, drew us in with their honest curiosity about our stateside lives and patient demeanors. Their habit of asking questions in lieu of making assumptions ignited a humbling reexamination of ageist stereotypes. Months later, I have forgotten what the four of us talked about that first day, but I remember the smiles, laughing ‘til hands smacked tables and chairs reeled back, and exchanging contacts. At the end of the night, I recall Mira’s hand on my shoulder, the toothy grin of a friend coupled with that universal maternal farewell, “Go home safely.” I bowed and wished her the same. Back in the subway car, I catch Yura’s reply. “아니. 미라 딸은 젊어. No, Mira’s daughter is young.” I pulled my head off her shoulder and met her eyes. She holds the last syllable, her tone fluctuating with animated denial to soften the rebuttal. Had I heard her right? “근데… 친하다고 하지 않았어요? But, didn’t you say they’re close?” “아 네, 네. 친해. Oh yes, yes. They’re close,” she said. In English, she continued, “They are friends.” Yura nodded and I leaned back. So, they were friends, but not 친구. A 친구 is a friend of one’s own age. I had learned this nuance before, but had mused that globalization and English’s presence in Korea would have rendered 친구 an acceptable translation for “friends” in the way that I knew them, transcending generations. While in this case the Korean “friend” label did not apply, the two could still be close, as indicated by the verb 친하다, (pronounced “chinhada”), signifying “to have an intimate relationship.” I marveled at the cultural significance of age, able to override hours of joyful company and declare that, despite only two years’ difference, a pair of primary school girls could not be called “friends” in their native language. Glancing over at this person with whom I share languages, culture, delicious meals, and quality time, [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] my anglophonic mind singles out “friend” as the truest label for our relationship. I transferred to my bus and continued my evening journey home solo, preoccupied by the thought. If we were not 친구, what were we and my friends, who happened to be a decade or so my seniors? At recent language exchange meetings, I have taken to introducing Mira and Yura to newcomers the same way they introduce Grace and me: “우린 베스트 프렌즈예요,” or “베프” for short, reifying the distinction between “friend” and “친구.” Language exchange was intended to afford all parties ample time to play teacher and student, the prospect of forming relationships threading it together. But our thread, tightly winding us together after six months, now dictates how our meetings unfold. Museum visits, drives around town, and spontaneous phone calls weave together in our recent past. We are so eager to grow closer that we speak whatever words come first; awe at the wisdom of my best friends fuels evenings of drowsy persistence to self-study Korean. I long to discern the nuance of their speeches about parenting, after-school academies, wanderlust, self-care, and societal change. Out the bus window, a view of brick and mortar structures shifts into lush green fields of ripening pears, and I think back to Yura’s switch from noun to verb when describing the relationship shared by her daughter and Mira’s. The 친 (chin) in both words shares the same hanja, which denotes closeness, intimacy, and familiarity. The hanja of 구 (gu) in 친구, intriguingly, implies
Connections Through Coffee
Connections Through Coffee By Isa Koreniuk, 1st ETA As one of the many, many avid coffee drinkers living in Korea, I often find myself in the following scenario: I walk into a trendy, inviting cafe and today’s Brazilian roast fills my nose as I search for the comfiest seats with the most aesthetic background. Is the chair with the window view better? Or the sofa next to the painting? Ultimately, I choose the window view, even though I will be next to the only other people in the cafe. It is worth it for the Instagram story. Eager to get my caffeine fix, I stroll over to the menu and see the same handful of drinks I could get at any other cafe. Although I understand the comfort of familiar flavors, I am always on the hunt for a new, interesting espresso like a maple brown sugar latte or perhaps even a lavender oat milk latte. As a recent graduate, I grew accustomed to the plethora of independent coffee shops in my college town.Local, small business cafes in the US are home to coffee experimentation and offer a variety of flavors, syrups, and roasts. In Korea, iced americanos, vanilla lattes, and caramel macchiatos dominate the market. Yes — Ediya, The Venti, Starbucks, and other chains have rotating seasonal flavors. They are good! However, these pale in comparison to the options back home. Since I would be without unique-flavored coffee for almost a year, I decided to take matters into my own hands. [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] In 2020, mainly due to the pandemic, I learned how to make my own coffee syrups and bought an espresso machine. I learned to make pumpkin spice syrup, almond syrup, cinnamon syrup, sugar cookie syrup, and my fridge was always stocked with my favorites: brown sugar syrup and lavender syrup. Unlike other sweeteners, syrups are special in that they give off the illusion of being quite sophisticated and time-consuming to make when they are really the opposite! Regardless of where I am in the world, mentioning that I make my own lavender syrup earns impressed “ooooos” and “aaaaaahs.” It is an ego boost, though I know I am lying by omission. In reality, the hardest part of the process is pouring the syrup into a jar without making the entire counter sticky. (A funnel would be a lifesaver — maybe one day I will save up and make the 4,000 won investment in one.) My recipe has three ingredients. Yes, you read that right, three. In fact, most syrups have less than five ingredients and all start with the same base: sugar and water. Plain tap water is fine and everyday white sugar is standard. The fun starts with our final ingredient: any kind of food-grade lavender. Here in Korea, I ended up buying lavender tea bags off of Coupang, but loose-leaf lavender is preferable to use. There is no precise ratio, and you can add more or less lavender buds depending on your taste. Ingredients 1 cup of white sugar 1 cup of water 2-3 tablespoons of lavender buds OR 2 bags of lavender tea Directions Step 1: Combine the water, sugar, and lavender in a small pot over medium-high heat Step 2: Simmer and stir until all the sugar is dissolved Step 3: Remove from the heat and let the mixture steep for about 30 minutes Step 4: Remove the tea bags and pour into your jar OR strain the syrup into your jar Step 5: Store in the fridge Storage and Usage Tips Storing the syrup is a beast of its own, though. Picture this: you have five minutes to get to school. You have made a decadent iced oat milk latte in your to-go cup. The final step is sweetening it with a spoonful of lavender syrup. Yet, you can not get the jar open because the syrup crystallized around the lid. You muscle it open but not before accidentally pouring half the contents onto your floor, your counter, your pants, and yes — your favorite leather boots… all because it was easier to buy a wide-mouthed jar instead of a swing-top bottle and a funnel. So, let me impart this wisdom onto you: store the syrup in a glass jar — preferably one that does not twist open. If you have any empty pasta sauce jars lying around that are dying to be repurposed, then use those. Just be sure to wipe the top before closing it after each use unless you want to be frantically changing your outfit and scrubbing your floors before work. Now that the syrup is made, what can you do with it? Ordered an Americano but it is a bit bitter? Boom. Lavender syrup. CU coffee tasting bland? Boom. Lavender syrup. Missing fancy flavored cocktails from home? Boom. Lavender syrup. Lavender works well in just about everything, but I do find it complements coffee the best. How Coffee Creates Community Coffee and syrups have a unique way of bringing people together, whether it be acquaintances, work colleagues, or close friends. During orientation with heavy eyes and tired smiles, English Teaching Assistants (ETAs) waited for the elevator — often debating if walking the eight floors to get a morning coffee would be quicker. I made small talk with my fellow coffee drinkers in the E-mart, sampling all of the pre-packaged cups of coffee because the nearest cafe was way too far from Jungwon University’s campus. As we sipped our drinks and gobbled up our snacks, we talked about our parents’ jobs, the differences between Standard Korean and the Jeju dialect, Tuesday’s schedule, and everything in between. After orientation ended, I headed to my placement city, Gumi, to start my new adventure. After lunch, I was trying to find a way to kill the extra 40 minutes I had since everyone here scarfed their meals down in five. I kept awkwardly roaming the halls during my first few weeks until one afternoon I stumbled
Between Belonging
Between Belonging By Iris Hyun-A Kim, 1st Year ETA [Featured Image by Victoria Thiem] During my grant year, I attended a graduate school’s virtual DEI session for accepted students in hopes of hearing some words of comfort, perhaps along the lines of, “There will be an H Mart opening in town!” — but to no avail. Instead, the PowerPoint opened to the first slide of definitions of DEI terminology before launching into an hour-long session on Why You Will Love Our School. Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Attempting not to spell it any other way, universities and corporations have adopted DEI as a catch-all phrase for their institutions, working to quantify and optimize the patterns that promote belonging among their students, faculty, and alumni. But how does one truly measure belonging, and why is it defined with equally ambiguous acronyms that seem to point at each other in an endless cycle? In Korea, the means of racial or ethnic identification are (thankfully) not a checklist. But they do feel almost binary: either Korean or non-Korean. Those in between, meaning part of the ethnic Korean diaspora, typically draw to one side more than the other. But even the between space holds another unspoken dimension of intra-diversity, where being Korean American can be further split depending on language skill, cultural knowledge, number of visits to the motherland, etc. There were too many moments when I did not feel “Korean” enough in college, where I met Korean international students and other Korean Americans who were well-versed in the above criteria. While it ultimately helped form my understanding of what it means to be Asian in America, and ultimately formed the basis of my Fulbright research on Korean diaspora and belonging, I was brought back to this insecurity upon moving to Korea. Most of the Korean returnees I encountered in Seoul, if not visiting for tourism or studying abroad, held strong ties to the peninsula. I asked some Korean American friends if they could imagine themselves living here for the long term, and to my surprise, most of them answered yes. Their family all returned to Korea, and the flexible F-4 heritage visa incentivizes Korean diasporic residents to stay as long as they want. But when I asked if they felt like they belonged, it was the opposite answer. “I feel more American, especially in Korea,” was one reply. “But there are a lot more privileges in being American in Korea than in being Korean in America.” Since when does one have to choose between belonging or comfort? I was perplexed by these answers. Yet, nobody seemed confused by these conclusions. There comes a point in all this wondering when I stop and ask myself if my research questions matter, if I am the only one asking these questions in the first place. When the DEI event opened for questions, I asked the question swelling inside of me. “I get that DEI is important, and the way to improve DEI seems pretty straightforward. But what about belonging? You can diversify a student population, and you can improve equity and inclusion in a similar metric, but how do you really improve upon belonging?” The DEI representative’s answer was summed up into one simple sentence. Diversity, equity, and inclusion, when being worked on in their respective parts, produce belonging. I digested these words slowly, and over the week, I found relatable truth in her words. Despite their flaws and bureaucratic obstacles, American institutions that actively work on their DEI initiatives are addressing these questions for the sake of people who wonder if their questions matter, if they matter, thousands and thousands of miles away from the comforts of home. Because home no longer has to be a singular physical place, but one that can be called, constructed, and committed to. In the words of the cheesy quote that I hung over my freshman dorm bed frame, “Home is where the heart is.” Comfort and belonging may not always come hand in hand, but there is always space to create belonging, whenever and wherever you choose.