Only Daughter Gets a Sister
Only Daughter Gets a Sister 자매가된 두 외동딸 [1] Written by Zoe Gioja When we pulled up to the restaurant, it was dark. I stepped out of the car, entered the restaurant, and saw at least twelve people sitting on the floor, all looking up at me. I bowed, mumbling some greeting in Korean. This is it, I thought. Now I’m really in Korea. The English teacher beside me explained who everyone was, pointing out my principal and vice-principal, but the person I really wanted to meet was my host sister. They’d left a seat for me next to her. I had wondered what she would be like – shy or outgoing? Would she ask questions, or would I have to do most of the talking? I was determined to build a relationship with her; for some reason I held onto this as the main key to success. All I knew was that my host family consisted of two parents and an only daughter, Jiyeong. What questions does one even ask a middle schooler? I wondered as I sat down next to her. How do you make conversation? But it turned out I didn’t have to worry. As we sat there, she was quiet at first. Then she turned to me. “Teacher,” she said, in English. “I found some informations about you on the Facebook.” “Oh really?” I asked. “I found some pictures. Of you and your friends.” She took out her phone. She showed me pictures of me at my graduation, pictures from orientation, that she’d saved on her phone. “Teacher,” she asked. “What is your favorite movie?” “Oh gosh, I don’t know… Maybe… um…. Lord of the Rings?” “Oh, yes, yes,” she nodded. “I like that one too. It is very good.” All right, I thought. This is going to work. Later that night, she sat with me as I unpacked, revealing that she’d wondered about me even more than I’d wondered about her. “I wanted to know would you be pretty or not,” she said. On their fridge was a low-quality photocopy of the form we’d filled out for our homestays, secured with two red-white-and-blue USA magnets. It had basic personal details and a picture, which had come out as a dark, vaguely Zoë-shaped smudge. “I couldn’t tell from the picture,” she said. “There were three things I was worried about: I didn’t want a foreigner who is fat; or a foreigner who is too shy, and just sits in her room all the time; and I wanted a foreigner who had lighter skin…. I wanted a pretty foreigner.” This was just the beginning of her bluntness. When I’d finished unpacking, she added: “You have a lot of clothes. I think you must be very rich.” Later that week, I asked her why her family decided to host me. “Because I always wanted a sister,” she said immediately. “Jo Teacher came to our class and said, ‘Who would like to have a foreigner in their house?’ And I raised my hand. At first my mom said ‘Hmmm….’ But she knew I want a sister. Sometimes I’m very lonely. But now I have you!” I thought how strange it was, instantly being welcomed in as a member of their family. I didn’t know them at all. They didn’t know me. But they were so willing, so instantly ready, to use all the titles that we can’t earn – the titles that we’re usually born into: “daughter,” “sister,” “mom,” “dad.” My host father was around often in those first few weeks, eager to show me Mokpo, drive us to museums and over bridges, to ply me with ice cream and ramen. He refused to speak to me in Korean, the way my host mom would, patiently working with me to create meaning. He relied on his translator. Once, he typed a string of words into his phone and put it up to my face: “I have two princesses so father is happy recently.” Days later, my host mom seconded, “He is happy because he has two daughters now.” That’s right, I thought. Two oe dong ddal; two only daughter, trying to be sisters. This is going to be interesting. *** One Saturday morning, I woke to my host sister poking me on the shoulder. “Teacher, it’s late,” she said. I looked at my phone. It was 10 a.m. “I was asleep,” I mumbled. I was distinctly irritated that she’d come into my room at all. I sat up in bed. “Okay, so… in the future… please don’t wake me up. Ever. Unless we have a special plan. Okay?” On Sunday, she settled for admiring me from afar. My room has a sliding window that looks onto the laundry room, covered by a pink-flowered curtain. I woke up, restless; I saw the curtain rustle. When I emerged, Jiyeong told me, “I was looking at you. To see if you were still asleep.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. At first, I’d loved everything, been grateful for everything – my school, my students, my host sister’s obsession with me, my host mom’s devotion and kindness. I’d spent all my time counting my blessings, trying my hardest; sitting in the living room assembling puzzles with my host sister and working at the kitchen table instead of retreating to my room. Endeavoring to be the pretty, social host sister she’d wanted. She asked me if she could nap with me in my bed, I said yes; she asked if I wanted to play Bananagrams, I said yes; help her with her drawing homework, her TOEIC studying, her English homework. But certain things began to wear on me. “What are you writing?” Jiyeong asked when I sat with her at the kitchen table, writing in my journal. She picked it up. I wanted to protest, but she was already reading it. “Oh, I can’t understand,” she said. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Your writing, this kind of thing,” she indicated the cursive.
Yut Noli: A Comic Explanation
I don’t consider myself an artist, but I started drawing comics during a language intensive in college as a way escape the frustration of language barriers. Not quite two years later, I have a handful of vignettes I illustrated for family and friends. Most are inspired by the inevitable miscommunications, hilariously awkward situations, and sweet little moments of sublimity that are my daily life in Korea.
The Brother I Always Wanted
I’ve always wanted a brother. My sister is tougher than 99.9% of men I know, but still I have this idealized image of what it would be like to have a protective older brother. Plus, I thought there would be the added benefit of having his friends around the house. Now I finally have a brother and it’s certainly not what I expected — a Korean fourth grader named Mingue (민교). Mingue’s an interesting fellow so I’m going to devote this post to our relationship.