The Foreigner’s Phrasebook for Eating Alone
[Featured photo by La Toya Crittenden] by Paige Morris 1. 초딩 입맛 (A Little Kid’s Tastes) Life as a foreigner in Korea often relies on a fixed script of questions and answers. Where are you from? America. What are you doing here? I’m an English teacher. Over time, the questions grow weightier, more loaded. Are you married? Do you like Korean men? How do you do your hair? Slowly, I’ve acquired the vocabulary needed to respond. After two grant years and even more years of language study, I know how to politely say no, how to demur, how to describe the interweaving of strands, both real and synthetic, that form my braids and twists. But when I first came to this country, I was overwhelmed by the amount of language I didn’t have, all the things I didn’t yet know how to do. Certain lines of dialogue demanded to be learned with urgency. There were interactions I had to become fluent in, fast. One of the earliest lessons I had to figure out was eating in Korea on my own. This wasn’t a skill I was even sure I’d had in English. Back home in the US, I hardly ever ate by myself. In college, eating was a decidedly social occasion, with eateries and dining companions within walking distance from my dorm or apartment. My friends and I hosted huge potluck dinners at least once a month and shared at least one meal a day. I had gotten used to always having someone around whenever hunger set in when graduation scattered us all over the globe, and I found myself in a new place where I knew no one. When I ate dinner with my host family that first year, I felt like I was scratching at something familiar, starting to uncover a sense of closeness that came with eating a meal together. But it was also strange to be treated like another child in this family. I wouldn’t know what that night’s meal would be until I was called down to eat. I would ask questions about dinner, curious to learn all the words for the food laid out before me, but it seemed this frustrated my host mother, who had to set her chopsticks down to look up the words in Naver dictionary. I heartily ate what I was served, but when I set aside the little slivers of egg from my kimbap, my host father chided my choding ipmat and called me a pyeonsikga—a picky eater with the stubborn mouth of an elementary-aged kid. I started to question my every move during meals. If I ate only one serving, would my host mother think I disliked the food? If I went for another bowl of jjigae, would my host father think I was being greedy? Should I wait for my two host sisters to stop quarreling over who was the prettiest member of Twice and finish their rice before I got another pat for myself? Should I have eaten the hodu snacks—even though I’m allergic—so no one would think I was too particular? The anxiety around eating grew so intense, I decided I might be better off having dinner on my own. 2. 한 명이요. (Table for One) More than almost any other cultural differences, my efforts to eat alone proved incomprehensible to the people around me. When I mentioned at breakfast one morning that I’d be getting dinner on my own after work and volunteering, my host parents panicked. “With your American friends?” they asked. “With other teachers?” When I told them the other volunteers lived on opposite ends of the city and I was planning to go alone, they were scandalized. “You’ll eat alone?” my host mother echoed, incredulous. “We can save some dinner for you to heat up when you come back. You shouldn’t do that—eating alone?” She turned to her husband, murmuring, “Where would she even eat? By herself, at that?” It turned out this concern wasn’t for a lack of options, but for the perceived strangeness of the situation itself: a foreigner, or anyone, eating somewhere unaccompanied. The first few weeks of my experiment were predictably difficult. Even at restaurants in bigger cities, it seemed lone foreigners were unlikely customers. I would step inside a kimbap shop, a kalguksu place, a mandu-jip, and be greeted with a look of surprise. Sometimes the surprise melted into excitement, the thrill of spotting an opportunity to try out some English or to ask questions of the Black person who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. Other times, the surprise shifted into panic. What was anyone supposed to do with me? Why was I here, instead of off somewhere eating hamburgers or steak? In any case, the script was initiated as soon as I entered. The waitstaff would ask: 몇 분이세요? How many people? I’d hold up a single finger. The grammar to indicate the size of your party is a pure Korean number, plus the counter for people—myeong. 한 명이요. One person. Just me. Here is where the script might fracture. Sometimes, there was no issue. I’d be ushered to a table. Often, I’d have a good view of a wall-mounted TV showing a drama from the early 00s that I had never seen. Most times, despite some initial trepidation, I managed to order without a hitch, which would put all of us—the waitstaff and the foreigner—at ease. There were times, though, when I’d be met with a firm shake of the head. This was usually at places with grills and pricier cuts of meat: pork and beef. The owner of the restaurant would hold up two fingers and shake them to say there was no room for someone looking to dine alone. The first time it happened, I glanced around the restaurant and saw several open seats, which made me wonder why it was that business from one customer was made out to be so much worse than no business at all. I realized
Soul of Korea
by Grace Lee, ETA ’15-’16 I sat down, preparing for the English Bible study to begin. It was my first week living in Sejong and I was elated to see an elderly gentleman sitting across from me at the table. “Are you from the South?” He asked. “Yes, I am from Georgia.” I was a little surprised. “How did you know?” “You have a Southern accent. I graduated from Columbia Theology Seminary school in Atlanta.” From that moment on, I knew I wanted to learn about this 86-year old gentleman and Korean War veteran. I had partly come to Korea in order to interview the elderly community. My own grandparents passed away in 2009 and 2014. I could not ask them about their personal upbringings before their deaths because of the language barrier, but I yearned to talk to them. After my parents’ divorce, they remained a strong presence in my life and prepared me to live a prosperous life in the US. I knew their immigration story and of their successes with their hotel business. However, I knew that their stories started long before they immigrated to the US. Understanding that story meant understanding more of my Korean heritage. This is why any chance I have to speak to an elderly person here is a special connection for me. And here I was, sitting in front of an elderly gentleman who spoke perfect English. I could not let go of this great opportunity. After sharing my goals, he said “Grace, you are the only person who I want to share my story with.” He told me that I could tell his story to you. But, he had a wish. He wanted me to use his friend’s name Mr. Jung in this article, instead of his own name. He wishes to honor his friend, though it is only a name. I decided to honor him by complying with this wish. For five consecutive weeks, from September to October 2015, I sat down with Mr. Jung anywhere from half-an-hour up to one-and-a-half-hours at a time to hear his story. When I listened to Mr. Jung, nothing else mattered and nothing else existed. Although he was soft-spoken, I felt charisma through his words. They had a subtle, yet sweet conviction where you knew each one held wisdom. When he spoke, I concentrated. _________________________________________________ “Grace and Suffering.” Mr. Jung came from Jeollabuk-do, a small southwestern province in Korea. He prayed to live until he was 65 years old. The life expectancy of Koreans was 37 years during 1925-1930 and rose to 52 years during 1955-1960 1. He is now in his 80s. “Until [God] calls me, I have to pay back grace that he’s given me,” he said. “I still have one more Grace of God…next to me.” His last statement gave me goosebumps. I felt humbled to be in his presence, graced by hearing his story. ______________________________________________________ “Escaping from the Mud” His father died at a young age and left nothing for his family. From first grade until the sixth grade, he spoke Japanese in school because Japan occupied Korea at the time. He didn’t have enough time for studying though because he and his friends worked for families whose sons were drafted for the Japanese army. Mr. Jung worked diligently. Growing up, the Japanese educated Korean students to hate America and England. “We must destroy the Americans and those from England,” they told him. He and his classmates believed that the Japanese would win the war and destroy their enemies’ countries. “They educated us that way,” he said. Continuously, he and his classmates chanted: “We must destroy the Americans and those from England.” But while publicly declaring his animosity towards the British and Americans, Mr. Jung privately disagreed with his public outcries. I’m pretty sure that my grandparents had the same experience as Mr. Jung. They immigrated to the United States in the 1980s. But, I never heard about or felt any distrust or animosity towards the American or British people from them either. Like my grandparents, Mr. Jung empathized with foreigners and showed no prejudice towards them. But at the time, he had to keep those thoughts to himself. Living in the countryside, the Japanese in the community knew that he had little money. Wealth disparity was common in the living conditions amongst his friends. From 1911 to 1937, Korea was dealing with economic problems. When the Japanese gained a large access to Korean farmland, Korean farmers were immediately forced to become sharecroppers2. The Japanese governement owned all the industries and made it difficult for Koreans to get their own businesses running. They charged Koreans at least 25 percent more in interest fees than they charged Japanese people. This was one example of the hardship Koreans faced. One day while walking to middle school, some Japanese people said, “Even strong cow is in the mud.” Their statement made him believe that he could not escape from the mud, his poverty-stricken life, no matter his strength. With the help of his aunt, Mr. Jung moved to Jeonju. He had been a Christian since his childhood. His aunt knew a better life was waiting for him with the missionaries. By 1940, ninety percent of missionaries had left Korea because of the harsh persectutions they were facing during Japanese rule. However, some had stayed. The church took a lead role in helping mend the country of its suffering. By the church being advocates for democracy, Christian church members fought for the rights of Korean people3. Mr. Jung had been told by his aunt that he could help the missionary’s cook, so he went and worked faithfully and honestly there from 1946 to 1950, learning English while he worked. “[The missionary] helped me escape from the mud,” he said.“From that time, my life was changed. He would continually feel grateful for their kindness, for caring for him as if he was their own son. When Japanese rule over Korea
Pyeongchang
Pyeongchang: Quest for Revitalization By: Yung-Ju Kim Amid the pastoral landscape, in one of the least developed provinces in South Korea, where agriculture and fishing are still the most ubiquitous industries, and a population that is experiencing an overall decline while struggling to keep up with a rapidly growing senior population – is a county, home to 40,000 residents who are gearing up for one of world’s most widely publicized international events. Despite some of these challenges, the residents will have you focus on the positive aspects that their town has to offer: a pristine coastline, prized national parks, a 1400 year-old Buddhist temple that has remained intact and unharmed from fire or wars and an enviable food source that is highly sought after throughout South Korea. This is Pyeongchang, the host of the upcoming 2018 Winter Olympics. Most people will wonder how a relatively unknown county in Gangwon-do province came to host the Winter Olympics, one of world’s most recognized sports franchise. The story originates back to when Gak-gyu Choi, then governor of Gangwon-do in 1996 envisioned hosting the Winter Olympics as his humble province was preparing for the 1999 Asian Winter Games. With the construction of new, high-performance venues already underway, Governor Choi set his ambitions higher with the Winter Olympics as his ultimate goal. As part of his reconnaissance, he sent his Vice Governor Jin-Sun Kim to Nagano, Japan, as it was gearing up for the 1998 Winter Olympic Games. When Vice Governor Kim became the succeeding governor, he made it his campaign promise to bring the Winter Olympics to Gangwon-do province in order to revitalize its deteriorating economy, and during his three terms as a very popular governor the residents, too, believed that hosting the Winter Olympics was the answer to reversing the many years of depopulation and economic decline. No one, however, was prepared for the challenges that lay ahead. The mission to bring the Winter Olympics to Gangwon-do was an arduous task, which took three Olympic bids over the course of 12 years to accomplish. The first Winter Olympic bid was lost to Vancouver by a small margin 56-53 on its second round of voting. Despite the Pyeongchang Olympic Bidding Committee’s assiduous marketing efforts, the IOC (International Olympic Committee) mistook Pyeongchang as Pyongyang, the capital city of North Korea, and this lack of name recognition consequently leaned in favor of Vancouver. The second Winter Olympic bid was lost to Sochi 51-47 also on its second round of voting. While Pyeongchang’s name recognition had improved since the first bid, Vladimir Putin’s heavy handed involvement was no match for a provincial town led bidding committee. After two losses to Vancouver and Sochi, the local residents, planners, and government at both the provincial and federal level left nothing to chance for their third Winter Olympic bid. By this time much more were at stake: both chaebols[1] and international investors who had made hefty real estate investments were dealing with heavy losses; morale and the spirit of the Gangwon-do residents were riding on this third bid attempt; and the global strength and influence of the South Korean government were being tested by the Olympic bidding process. In order to demonstrate to the IOC that Pyeongchang was not only a viable candidate but the strongest candidate for hosting the 2018 Winter Olympic Games, many projects were highlighted during the course of the Olympic bidding process: the construction of Alpensia, a 5-star, $1.4 billion ski resort, that was to become the main hub of the Olympic Event and Planning headquarters; the approval of the long-anticipated high-speed rail that would connect from Incheon International Airport to the Olympic venues — essentially reducing the travel time between South Korea’s east and west coast by 50%; and a slew of international winter sports competitions to be hosted in Pyeongchang which showcased their Olympic-caliber venues and ability to host large-scale, international events. Pyeongchang Winter Olympic Bidding Committee’s efforts were rewarded when Pyeongchang won in the first round with the largest voting margin in history, 63-25-7, beating out both Munich, Germany and Annecy, France. The news of the Olympic bid victory was received by the Pyeongchang residents with overwhelming joy and relief. Over time, however, Pyeongchang was not immune to the challenges of Olympic planning and development. Differing national and regional concerns from environment to economy turned the locals from being the strongest advocates to a group of dissidents. Gangwon-do province is recognized as one of the most undeveloped provinces in South Korea. While on the one hand “undeveloped” has a rural connotation, Gangwon-do’s undeveloped terrain also emphasizes its pristine, untouched landscape. As a consequence of the Winter Olympic development, the environmental impacts became one of the most contentious issues between Pyeongchang Organizing Committee Olympic Winter Games (POCOG) and the residents. Among the string of environmental concerns was the felling of 500 year-old trees in Mount Gariwang. Not only did the 23 hectares of clearance include ancient, rare species, but the area dates back to 15th century Chosun dynasty when the forest was used to grow and procure ginseng for their kings. Not only is the Pyeongchang Olympics organizing committee’s promise of restoring the habitat to its original state unrealistic and “patronizing,[2]” but the 58,000 trees which were home to endangered species of plants and birds were deforested for three alpine skiing events to be held over the course of 14 days will leave the area of ecological, historical, and cultural significance permanently scarred. A second point of contention is the financial impact of the Winter Olympics. While Gangwon-do remains second lowest income per capita province[3] in South Korea, the property values have increased 50% since the announcement of the winning bid and 80% remain non-resident owned[4]. Real estate speculations have only benefitted landowners while hurting long-time tenants, farmers and small business owners, who are now displaced and forced to seek a more affordable option elsewhere. Another financial contention is the backlog of wages that have remained unpaid to the construction laborers. Since January 2016