Defining Moments

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 “베프¹” 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 hanja², which denotes closeness, intimacy, and familiarity. The hanja of 구 (gu) in 친구, intriguingly, implies a long time and oldness.

Perhaps these definitions were more apt than I had realized. For we are a generation apart and our friendship is young, but it is very much something that we actively nurture, continually strengthened by the ways we give and receive care. We may not be 친구, but we are certainly 친하다. Each request for clarification that seeks cross-cultural understanding, every act of kindness that transcends words, are additional temporal knots in our thread, securing these precious moments in our memories. 

Weeks later, twisting clouds wring out their final humid showers before summer gives way to fall.

I sit in my studio eating a late dinner, taking a moment to empty my mind after a day of constant thinking and rethinking at school. A vibration flows through the table to my arms, which instinctively reach for my phone. A call has come from Mira.

“여보세요? Hello?” I cheerily answer, always a little too high pitched on the phone.

“어, 매기. Yeah, Maggie.” A gravelly reverb. She is probably driving her kids.

“미라님! 잘 지냈어요, 오늘? Mira! Are you doing well today?” The first impromptu call sparked concern, initially. We now do this at least once a week. “괜찮으세요? Are you okay?”

Mira’s voice is a deep one punctuated by sharp breaths, a seasoned giggle. “넹 괜찮아용. 매기 목소리를 듣고 싶었어, 그냥. 보고 싶어. Yes, I’m okay! I just wanted to hear your voice. I miss you.” I can hear her smile as we volley about her work in software, Yura’s barista certifications, Grace’s marathons, and my student anecdotes in multilingual codes.

Korean culture maintains the union of age and language, and thus I peer through the concentric lenses of both in my mind’s eye whenever I reflect on our memories. To nurture this intergenerational and intercultural bond has been to celebrate my elders for expanding my empathy, showing love in the stead of my faraway family, and challenging the oft-bleak narrative of a middle-aged mother. Both excel at caring for their circles while developing new skills and boldly building a margin for unapologetic fun. Our acts and exchanges have served as the palpable definition, the proof, of the existence of a relationship whose label is absent from the dictionary.

I am comforted by the knowledge that our relationship will outlast my eventual departure. I sensed it when Mira guided me towards lively market stands, positioning herself on the narrow sidewalk’s edge, closer to the cars as we walked downtown. I believed it when Yura brought me

fresh pumpkin bread from her baking course and watched wide-eyed for my reaction. I knew it when a subway encounter had me rattled, and they both met me at the next station. No questions. They just held my hands and brought me up and out into daylight.

“미라님, 전화해 주셔서 정말 감사합니다. Thank you so much for calling,” I told her.

With the end of each call, I am overwhelmed in two parts. The anticipatory sadness for the coming goodbye fights for expression, futilely endeavoring to ease that ultimate farewell. Then the gratitude wraps around it, soothes it; for what a privilege it has been to be loved and seen by a friend, especially a friend who strives to truly know you through differences in culture, words, and age.

In English, I added, “It was nice talking to you!”

“아니야, 매기. No, Maggie,” she interjected, then switched to English. “It is nothing.”

But it means something to me. So the next time, I dialed first.