Walls and Paint
by Breanna Durham, ETA ’15-’16 Have you ever had the urge to throw paint on the wall? No paint brush, just hands plunged in color and then scrapping against blank barriers. I have no paint in my room, except for an old primary-colored set of face paint. That’s for the students I teach. So, they can express themselves in colors when words fail them, add some excitement to their usual routine during lessons. One student used the paint to make herself look like a mime. She sat up confidently in her chair, arching her back and lifting her head high. The careful brushes of black paint neatly fold around her eyes and mouth over a chalky white foundation. She checks herself in the mirror. I snapped a picture. I was told that the school needed pictures, confirmation that the students had done something, had progressed, and enjoyed the process. The combinations of them looked that way. I’d like to think that it’s true. However, the truth of it might not be as clean-cut. I still have the pictures, tucked in between books on my desk, waiting for a scrapbook to be made at the end of my grant year. There are plenty of other pictures, of when I traveled, of when I stood in front of my school, of when I joined an activity, of when I spent time with my friends. I took a lot. Others took a lot for me. You can see my gums in many of them because I’m smiling that wide. I don’t have all of the pictures. I deleted many of them. Many were lost by accident too. I comfort myself that I’ll have the memories. My next thought is that those fade. For the scrapbook, I’ve collected tickets, posters, bits of art made by my host brother, and the handful of diary entries that I managed to write. I think about burning the diary entries. They just sound angsty and overdramatic to me. I rarely write diary entries when things are going well. Diaries, to me, are more for purging emotions than remembering them. When I usually write, I write stories about other people and things. There’s so much out there to discover and so much that people should know. I want to know. I want to share. I want to connect. I haven’t written much lately. I can’t think of things and I have trouble focusing on the page. I’ve had spurts here and there, but nothing consistent. Usually, I come home really tired and my day starts much the same. And in the middle of my day, I’m busy teaching or planning. When I teach, I feel like the sun pouring out for the plants. My students often get excited. They easily burst out in laughter. Their voices shout and bounce off the walls until I tell them to bring it back in. If a lesson is good and the mood is right, I can get them excited about writing and speaking English. I laugh at some of the things they come up with for assignments. I love it when they write stories and perform skits. They’re a creative bunch. When I get to my office, I realize that I now feel more like a lightbulb with a switch. It’s likely that I won’t make the scrapbook. The only one I’ve ever made was a college photo album that I gave to my dad as a present. My parents worry. They want to know that I am happy and doing well. The album, filled with my smiling face would give some relief to them, even though I was states away. Now, I am a country away. On a national grant! It’s amazing that I can be here. It’s an opportunity to do something, to do anything that I can think of. And have support. And have a community. And help the community. And do something. Do something different. Move! I look at the white wall paper from my bed. It has silver-ish lines running down it, like a tree if I am feeling imaginative and happy, like crooked bars if I’m imaginative and not happy. If I am numb, it looks like nothing. I have a red marker, part of a birthday gift from my host family. The whole body of it is red. It feels smooth in my hand except for the cap. When I lift it, it makes a small pop. A tiny red triangular tip greets my eyes. You can see the red bleed into the white tubing like a sponge. When I place the cap back on, it makes a snap. I can’t paint the walls. They aren’t mine. Even if they were, what would people think? I turn and look out the window next to my bed. There are giant crane like machines working at the port nearby my apartment. I hear the soft rumble of their movement. They never seem to sleep. At night, the yard of them looks like a sparkling city, full of wonder. In the day time, it loses much of its magic. I see their colors clearly, faded yellows, blues, and reds. But still, it’s comforting to hear their rumble when I’m lying in my bed.
Fans
By Allana Wooley
Vegetarian Vignettes
“Why do you only have rice and kimchi? Do you not like Korean food?” A concerned teacher asks me this in Korean on my first day as I set down my nearly bare plate on the table. Before I can respond, my co-teacher replies, “Monica does not eat meat. She only eats chicken.” Then, she turns to me and sighs, “You know, Monica, our cafeteria serves a lot of meat because without meat, these students will not grow well.” “Oh I understand. It’s okay,” I say with a smile and with far too many enthusiastic head nods. It’s only my first week here, and I do not want to be difficult or annoying. “Besides, my host mom makes delicious chicken and vegetarian food, so I eat a lot for breakfast and dinner,” I assure her, the other teachers and myself. ~~~~ “Why is Monica only eating rice and kimchi?” Another teacher asks me in Korean later that week. “Gogi anmeogeoyo[1. I don’t eat meat.],” I proudly reply with one of the most useful phrases I have learned in the past few days. ~~~~ A few weeks have passed since the beginning of school, and I now dread lunch time. The cafeteria has become one of the most uncomfortable places for me in school. After carefully inspecting the meat in the orange sauce, I scowl at it. It’s pork, not chicken. Picking up my tray of rice and kimchi, I tread carefully towards the table, trying to avoid teachers I have not interacted with before, solely so I do not have to entertain… “Do you not like the food? You didn’t take any meat or oyster soup.” …those questions. I sigh and annoyingly make eye contact with the concerned teacher behind me, “gogi anmeogeoyo,” I say in a tone harsher than I mean. ~~~~ After a two-hour drive to our condo in Boseong, the five other English teachers and I drop our bags on the floor and check out our room for our English retreat. I take a seat at the dining table while the other teachers gather on the floor of the main room, a stone’s throw away from me. “Seonsaengnimdeul![2. Teachers] Let’s eat raw meat for dinner tonight,” a teacher suggests at the sound of growling stomachs. “Yes! The school is paying for this English teacher’s retreat, so we should indulge,” another teacher excitedly agrees. “Okay, I’ll look for a good restaurant, so we can eat well tonight.” The conversation is in Korean, but from experience, I already knew what is going to happen next. I feel everyone’s gaze shift across the room towards me, despite the fact that I am intently staring at the super interesting thing happening with my hands in my lap. Eventually, the awkwardness forces me to meet the assortment of pitying and slightly frustrated eyes. Though, their voices drop to a whisper, I can still make out the conversation. “Oh, but Monica cannot eat if we go there,” a teacher sadly remarks. “She can’t eat any meat? Not even pork?” another teacher says in a voice laced with disbelief. “What about fish? She has to eat fish, right?” With a sigh, “No, we should go somewhere else. Maybe we can find a bibimbap restaurant nearby or…” “Aww I really wanted to eat raw meat tonight.” “This is too bad…” We ended up at the raw meat restaurant. ~~~ I convince myself to endure the awkwardness and feelings of being burdensome at school. It’s okay, I tell myself, because I can always eat everything served at home. My host mom makes kimchi jjigae[3. Stew usually made with kimchi, pork belly and tofu] without sausage, japchae [4. Glass noodles with stir-fried vegetables and meat] without ham, and bibimbap[5. Rice with mixed vegetables, beef and red pepper paste] without beef. However, I feel like this comfort and food security at home will not last long. Day by day, I notice it slowly escaping my grasp. For example, lately, my host mom has been making more meat dishes. Today, as I was picking out the ham from my fried rice, my host brother asked me, “Teacher, why don’t you eat meat?” “I was raised Hindu, and Hindus believe it is our duty to God to not harm God’s other creations, including animals. For us, eating meat is like committing an act of violence.” Before my host brother can ask why I eat chicken, I add, “When my parents immigrated to America, they found it difficult to be completely vegetarian. So, they raised my brothers and me as semi-vegetarians—vegetarians who eat chicken.” I look at him with squinting eyes wondering what he is thinking or if he even understands me. Feeling guilty and burdensome, I apologize for my dietary choices. “I’m sorry. I know it must be hard to feed me. It seems that there’s a lot of seafood and meat in this area.” “Oh teacher, you should not say sorry. You come from another culture. I think it is important that we respect other cultures and lifestyles. It’s important to understand other people,” he reassures me in broken English. I was touched. I’m not sure his mother or my co-teacher share the same sentiment, but now I feel like at least one person understands me. ~~~~ Charlie and Kingsley, two of my Fulbright friends, are visiting my placement city, Naju. My host mom has unexpectedly planned the entire weekend for us. I’m a little hesitant, but I suppose she will do a better job of showing off Naju than I will. Our first stop is the neighboring town of Yeongsanpo’s famous Hongeo row—a line of restaurants that serve fermented skate fish. The smell wafting in the streets should have been enough warning, but we felt it impolite to protest. We did not want my host mom to think we were unwilling to immerse ourselves in a new culture. As we walk in, two older men point and laugh at the absurdity of foreigners trying the local dish. My friends and I exchange concerned glances—hongeo is