From the Editor
From the Editor We were optimistic. With glittering eyes, we embarked on our 2023 Fulbright grant year with ambitious goals. A fervor surged through us as we rushed to build connections in our placements. The local cafe became our favorite. New friends and neighbors quickly became our family. The students and school community became our joy. As our grant year comes to a close, these memories will be the most precious to us. In conjuction with the joys of living abroad, we also overcame challenges as we tried to acclimate to this new environment called South Korea. Mirroring our encounters, both familiar and unfamiliar, this volume is structured into different chapters that represent the phases of culture shock one experiences when moving to a new country. Guiding us through this journey is our search for belonging. Our volume opens with the chapter “New Home” as grantees are forced to reconcile with their new environment. Leah Yan Doherty’s “River Child” beautifully illustrates the merging of her background as a Chinese adoptee with her life in Korea. Brittany Scardigno also highlights this boundary of familiar and unfamiliar through contrasting acts of physical touch between her host mother and real mother. As Doherty and Scardigno discuss the collision between identity and host family interactions, they bring a whirlwind of emotions and memories as they search for a true meaning of belonging. Once faced with these new possibilities, we move onto “The Honeymoon Phase.” Here, things are new and thrilling. Each interaction creates a burning memory. A fever dream. Martha “Cati” Pudner’s “Mangoes” captures this feeling exactly as she details an encounter with a mango seller in the countryside. Then, Isa Koreniuk’s Connections through Coffee shines a light on a special part of Korean culture: cafes and coffee. The chapter ends with two art collections, both memorializing different facets of the ETAs’ precious memories. Noé Toroczkai’s Landscape Reflections depicts her travels in Korea through scenic digital paintings, and Elisabeth “Suds” Sudbey’s When Words Are Not Enough illustrates her experiences in her new placement city through a collection of frames. However, the next chapter brings us to a pivotal change as “Reality Sets In.” Ky Pontious’ At Summer’s End brings us through a whirlwind of emotions as the seasons change. With such change, there often comes turmoil. Iris Hyun-A Kim’s Between Belonging and Sunday BEEF illustrate her conflict of identities throughout her grant year, while Brittany Scardigno’s Twenty-One Twenty tackles feelings of frustration when forgetting the code to her digital keypad. Finally, we arrive at the last phase of culture shock: “Adaptation.” In this chapter, we see reflection on multiple aspects of our lives in this new environment. Maggie Backus kicks off this new phase with Defining Moments, portraying her local community and exploring the true meaning of “friend.” Then, William Landers travels through key points of his life in Korea with Vignettes from the Metro. Grace Moon Meharg’s poem “할머니” depicts learning about the generations of women in her family by living in their birthplace. We close this chapter of our journey with Kat Ray’s the goldfish and a great lake, an allegory about self-growth and self-care in a foreign environment. Just before the reader finishes, you will notice the student contest placed at the very end, as if to signify us succumbing to a type of “Peace” with our journey. As you read the selected student entries, we hope it brings you a kind of peace as well. Sprinkled throughout all these chapters are photos taken by our cohort. You will notice that every single photo is taken in Korea, immortalizing time in a photograph. This brings us to this year’s theme: Snapshots of Belonging. As we progressed through our grant year, we all searched to reconcile our identities with this new experience. We sought warmth and comfort by delving deep into specific memories and asking ourselves what it truly means to belong in a community. As you read, I encourage you to take part in this experience with us — to imagine yourself living in these snapshots of our memories riding the waves of emotions that come. I am incredibly fortunate to have overseen this volume as Editor-in-Chief. This work would not have been possible if it was not for the dedication of our staff, writers, photographers, and Publishing Coordinator, Heidi Little, who tirelessly worked towards our goal of sharing the Fulbright experience. Additionally, we are grateful to the United States Embassy and the Korean-American Educational Commission for their continued support of our magazine. It is with great pleasure I welcome you into the world of Fulbright Infusion Volume 16. I hope you enjoy looking into these snapshots of our lives. Francesca Duong Editor-in-Chief 1st Year ETA, Changpyeong, Jeollanam-do
Sounds the Mountains Make
Sounds the Mountains Make By Teddy Ajluni, a first year ETA in Gwangyang, Jeollanam-do At first, you won’t be able to hear it. It’s funny that way. Ambient noise is usually more noticeable to those whose ears it is new to. But not this. You will never notice it unless you were born there or until you’ve been there for a very, very long time. And even then, the first time you notice it, it will be coming from you—a soft, sweet tune that has been leaving your lips unconsciously as you hum it. But how do you know that tune? When did you first hear it? It’s no use asking those questions. You will never get clear answers. Instead, you should just enjoy the melody. Having said this, if you do ask any halmeoni or halabeoji about it, they will only laugh at your foolishness. Didn’t you know that the mountains make sounds? But it’s not just they who know. They are just the only ones who will talk about it. To everyone younger it is boring, merely a fact of life; but to those who have lived to the ripeness of an old age just before death’s doorstep, they understand that it’s more than just a “fact” of life. It is life. The sounds glide gently through the air, combing the sky in strokes reminiscent of the Jeulmun pottery of which those mountains have borne witness. They sweep through the valleys, mingling with the pansori of Joseon street performers long gone—and carrying their stories too. They cry out in pain for a land that has been colonized, and then indefinitely divided without their consent. Now, they even spread their wings and fly, beyond the shores of the country they call home, each flap of those wings making waves across the sea as the people they guide spread their culture worldwide. Sometimes hopeful, sometimes melancholic, the sounds tell us a story that changes its tune. But in the end, as varied as the tones might be, they all flow seamlessly together like the Han which they once blessed with a miracle—a symphony as beautiful as the land it blankets. Yes, the mountains make sounds. They are the heartbeat of a country, making a rhythm that will roll smoothly through your being like the beat of a barrel drum. You may see, you may feel, you may smell, and you may taste. But if you do not hear, then you will miss the most beautiful part of the whole. So please, if you wish to know the soul of this country then pause, breathe, and open your ears to all those sonorous notes, good and bad, loud and soft. The mountains are speaking. Just listen. Can you hear the mountains? Can you hear them? If you listen carefully—no, if you listen consciously—maybe you will start to hear their cry. Here is Korea, the land where the mountains weave a nation and a song. In every village, every city, every town, there is always a 동네 뒷산 . Sometimes, their nobility is hidden by the mist of morning’s humidity. Sometimes, their majesty is concealed by clouds that have fallen from the heavens above. But they were always there, and they always will be. And they will sing. [Featured photo by Lulu Johnson]
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]