Noona, Onni, Agassi–Names my Host Family Calls Me
Noona, Onni, Agassi –Names my Host Family Calls Me Before meeting my host family, I thought that living with a Korean family would be a fun, perhaps sometimes challenging cultural experience. I never imagined that we could really come to accept each other as family, especially over the short period of just one school year. Each and every member of this family proved me wrong. Imo “She’s coming on Friday. You have 24 hours to decide.” I cannot imagine the conflicting feelings of curiosity, doubt, excitement and anxiety that my host mom must have felt that fateful Wednesday afternoon when she hung up the phone. My school’s host family arrangements had fallen through at the last minute, and in a desperate attempt to find me a new place, one of the teachers had called up her sister and given her this crazy proposition. Imagine this: a total stranger and foreigner who may not speak your language will come live in your house with you and your family for a year. You will have to share your personal time and space with her, cook for her, allow her to interact with and influence your children, and probably deal with not only logistical but also any physical, emotional, social or psychological problems she may have while adjusting to life in Korea. Sounds fun, right? In what I can only imagine as a moment of spontaneity and tremendous grace, my host mom (or “Imo,” as she asked me to call her) accepted. I knew before I met her that Imo doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. Having accepted the challenge of welcoming me into her home three days before my arrival, Imo immediately directed the full renovation of her son and daughter’s shared room from floor to ceiling, redesigning it to the best of her ability to fit the unknown tastes of her new host daughter, including replacing half of the furniture. She chose green for the walls and white for the furniture, making the room feminine but not too girly. She selected a white bed and matching vanity desk and stool. A white carpet and white slippers added a nice touch of warmth to the room, and a little white cloth shade hanging over the doorframe created an aura of privacy and welcome at the same time. A rolling chair with a firm back was also ordered to meet the needs of a new teacher’s busy lesson planning after school hours. Imo’s final touch was a soft, bright yellow blanket, patterned with big white hexagons, making the bed look something akin to a giant beehive. I imagine the yellow blanket was intended to make anyone feel like a queen bee coming home to sweet dreams at the end of a long day. Besides moving my host siblings out of their childhood room, Imo also got rid of almost all signs that they had ever lived in it, presumably to really make the space feel like my own. She was reluctant only to take down the framed baby pictures that hung on the walls, I know, because she must have put them back after the repapering. She mentioned at one point later on that I might take the baby pictures down and replace them with my own, but looked relieved when I told her I didn’t mind; actually, I rather like them because they make me feel connected to the family at all times. Moreover, they are a constant gentle reminder of the history that the family has had before I came and imposed myself on their lives, giant suitcase and emotional baggage and all. During our first week together, Imo went very quickly through the phases of familiarization that were necessary to accept me fully into her life. First, the pleasant surprise that I was not so alien as she had imagined: “You know, I was worried about living with a foreigner, but you are like neighborhood lady!” Second, a comforting affirmation that I was a welcome presence in the house: “At first when I said ‘yes’ to having you come stay here, I was very excited. Then, I became very anxious, very worried. Now, I know I made the right decision.” Third, a crossing over from the polite refrain of acquaintances to humorously correcting my over-exaggerated “Korean” mannerisms: “You are so polite. Too polite! Like Joseon Dynasty woman.” Finally, we reached the positive declaration of friendship: “You have been here for just one week now. But it feels like I’ve known you so long!” Over more time, I came to love her, but it happened first by allowing her to love me. I remember so clearly the day I came home in early November, distraught because of a frustrating day at school on top of the heaviness of homesickness that had just started to seep out of the seams of my pretended perfection. I had a sort of meltdown as I sat at the kitchen counter, sobbing through mouthfuls of pumpkin tteok, trying to catch my breath and explain five things at once, hardly understanding my own emotions. My host mom cried with me. She spoke many words of reason and comfort, but what I remember the most is this: “I understand. You miss your mom. I have a daughter, and I am a daughter. When you are here in my home, you are my daughter too.” Her unconditional acceptance of me, a total stranger for the last twenty-three years, as her daughter, even just for this year, shattered the walls I kept up between us out of politeness, or reserve or fear. I understood from that moment on that we were family. Imobu My host father, Imobu, is not a man of many words, but the few he does speak to me are always accompanied by a big cheesy smile and an even bigger effort to be understood through his thick country accent. Every night, just before going to bed, I inevitably catch a glimpse of Imobu stretched comfortably
Homerun Homestay
Uiseong, South Korea- September 2015 My host dad told me early about his love of baseball, and demonstrated it one night as he inhaled dinner and bounded back to the television to watch Korea beat the United States. The first week into my homestay, he also told me that his nephew had recently signed a contract with one of Korea’s professional teams, the LG Twins. Prior to joining this team, he had also played for the national team, and before that, Yonsei University. I’ve never cared much for baseball, my heart lies on the volleyball court and in the hammer-throwing circle, but even so I could tell that my host dad’s nephew had a pretty impressive resume. So, as the Chuseok holiday approached, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would be able to meet the all-star. ——— “Oy!” I turned from watching my host dad chase down a missed baseball behind me to see his nephew waiting to send the next one my way. He had not learned my name yet. In fact, he really had not said much at all to me since we met the day before. I thought maybe he was just shy and intimidated by English. Or was it that a big time athlete couldn’t care less that I existed? Regardless, I refocused my attention and watched through the blinding afternoon sun as he tossed the ball and connected with a loud “CRACK!” The ball zipped and bounced across the ground like all of the other balls he hit towards me. It was meant to be a softer hit, a “manner” hit as a Korean might call it, and a hit that paled in comparison to what he was truly capable of. To me, though, every hit of his was challenging for my awkward baseball skills. Prior to that weekend, I had not touched a baseball since the sixth grade, when a poorly calculated swing left me with a purple knuckle. Nevertheless, I played on, thankful that I had been included in the family fun rather than sitting in the house. ——— “Becky, what do you think of my nephew?” My host dad broke through the silence after breakfast as we all sat together on the floor. He was waving Vanna-White-style in the direction of the baseball player, who sat at his side, looking quietly down at his hands out of shy embarrassment. Undeterred by the silence of his nephew, my host dad moved on in an attempt to sling arrows like cupid: “He is one year younger!” Hoeun had come just the day before, flanked by his equally tall, handsome, and athletically built brother who was just one year younger than him; there was no doubt they had caught my attention. Both brothers loved sports, were sons of a farmer, single, and about the same age as I was… As my host dad looked on with eager eyes, I could feel my face burning red while I tried to think fast. Hoeun seemed nice, but I didn’t think I was interested in dating him. Still, I needed an answer. A quick answer. An answer that wouldn’t hurt feelings. An honest answer? What was the answer he was hoping for? “He’s…handsome” I finally replied. Thankfully, my awkward answer was quickly forgotten in a sudden commotion, as the wives hurried to move everyone out the door for grave visits. ——— While Hoeun remained shy most of the morning, not muttering much more to me than “be careful” as I stumbled over a fallen tree, his brother, Hogang, chatted excitedly with me as we made our way up a mountain to clean the grave of their great-grandmother. “Do you like sports?” Hogang was smiling cheerfully as he walked, unfazed by the weight of the weedwacker engine and gas tank strapped to his back, even as we ascended upward. Like his brother, he loved baseball, and took an interest in other sports as well. He also told me that he would be starting his two year military service in February; he was currently in the ROTC and so would later serve as an officer. After clearing the area around the grave, we all sat together resting under the shade of a tree while passing around a large Sam-da-soo water bottle. My host dad’s older brother decided to use the break to ask me about my relationship status. “Becky…you…boyfriend?” After answering that I did not have one, he proceeded to gauge my interest in his son; this time the younger one, who now sat resting just a foot or so in front of me. “How about Hogang? He is strong. He is farm-boy. Hogang you like? Hogang you want!?” Before I could answer, his younger son whipped around and grinned in amusement as he offered up a flexed bicep: “Touch!” He then extended a fist to bump in approval of my response to his father’s question, with which I had answered simply: “He’s a nice guy.” Uiseong, South Korea- February 2016 “Best team!” Hoeun gave a thumbs-up in approval as my friend, Margaret, and I stuffed newspapers into a foam board. We were working much faster than my homestay parents, which kept Hoeun busy as he carried them to the other side of the greenhouse. It was the Seollal holiday weekend, and my homestay uncles were taking full advantage of additional labor to help with work on their farm. “Margaret…boyfriend?” My host dad had noticed his nephew’s sudden friendliness, and as my friend shook her head “no” I could see him gearing up for his usual cupid routine. I suppose he had given up on me after he and his brother failed at their second attempt in December, and was ready to pursue a fresh, new target. “How about my nephew? No girlfriend!” Hoeun, who usually feigned ignorance whenever my host dad started the conversation, retorted this time with “있어요”[1. Issoyo, I have one] and a clever smirk as he exited the greenhouse in search of something to
Study Sessions
I’m 12 years old and staring at a Spanish test. The words are twisting together so that all I can see are blurs on the paper. I think I may actually be crying. I don’t even understand what I’m supposed to be doing, all I know is that I need to pass this test so I won’t get a bad grade in Spanish. I failed the last two tests though, and I don’t think I can pass this one either. I can’t do it. And I can only cry at how stupid I am. ****** The test in front of me has strange words swimming across it. They make no sense. I know that it is English, and I know that I recognize a few of the letters, but the rest is a mystery. What sound is that supposed to make, and what sound is my teacher making? She’s standing at the front of the classroom, reading from a paper with all the words we are suppose to know. But I don’t know, I don’t know any of them. My paper blurs, and my eyes sting. I know I’m too old to cry. I know that I can’t let anyone else see. But it’s not fair. I’m good at everything else. I pass all my other classes, so why can’t I pass this? Maybe I’m just stupid. ****** I’ve been in Korea for two weeks now, and I’ve been studying Korean for equally as long. I’ve mastered the alphabet, though in truth I had studied that before I even set foot on this continent. Back home I had the help and encouragement of half a dozen Korean students from the adult English classes I taught. They praised me for memorizing the alphabet so quickly, and they were excited to teach me words and phrases. It felt good, exciting. I couldn’t wait to get to Korea and show how much better I was with this language than I had ever been with Spanish, or Latin, or French. But two weeks in and all I could do was grit my teeth and complain as loudly as the students beside me that this was unfair. Why would the teacher cover their mouths when speaking the vowels and consonants? When would we ever be talking to someone without seeing their mouths? And when would I ever need to know exactly what vowel sound they had just made? How unfair was this test? And why, when I had been so confident the weeks before, could I not get it now? What was wrong with me? ****** There is a new English teacher today. She smiles at us and says hello. She shows us pictures of her home and her friends, and she talks about something. She seems nice, but I have don’t have a clue what she’s saying. Everyone around me is nodding in agreement, sometimes they even ask something, in Korean, or in English. But I don’t. I don’t ask anything, not to her. I couldn’t understand her anyways. A new picture is on the screen and there are people in it doing taekwondo. One of the students asks, in Korean, who they are. The new teacher doesn’t understand but our teacher, the Korean teacher, says something. The new teacher laughs and says something too I think. I don’t understand. I want to though; I want to know how she knows these people. I turn to my friend and ask him. When he doesn’t answer I ask again, and then a third time. Finally, I hit him. Why won’t he listen to me? The new teacher comes over and scowls at me. She says something I don’t understand. I do understand she is angry. She crosses her arms. And I cross mine. I hate English. ****** In a brightly lit and very cold room a woman hands me a certificate of completion. I have finished the intermediate Korean course offered at city hall. I smile, and shake her hand, laughing towards the man with the camera. My teacher pats me on the shoulder and says something in Korean. I don’t know what. But I smile and laugh and pretend to understand. After the ceremony, and after the dinner, I take a long bus ride out to my little village. Once off the main street the path becomes windy, and dark, and I have to wedge myself into the corner of the seat to keep from falling over. Outside the window the few lights from the small houses that line the road blur past, until suddenly we are once again washed in the yellow street lights of a main street. I get off the bus and wrap my scarf tighter around myself, shoving one hand into my pocket while the other one clutches the certificate. My fingers ache in the cold, even with the gloves. I want to drop the stupid thing just so I can get my hands warm. I want to leave it in the frozen mud where it will get buried under leaves and dirt, and by the time the spring comes again it’ll be unrecognizable. I don’t deserve it. I didn’t learn a thing in that class except that I am as bad at languages as I remember being in seventh grade. Instead, I take it home. I pack it in a box in the laundry room, along with all my Korean books, and both sets of notebooks almost completely filled. There’s no point in pretending anymore. I’m never going to understand this. ****** It’s the start of the new semester, and I’m on top. My new teacher likes me a lot, and my coach is proud of me because I helped to win the last match. She tells my teammates it’s because I never do anything halfway. When I get into the ring I go at it with all I’ve got, even if it means I might make a mistake. I put as much force as I’ve got into