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]
Please Forgive Me
By Teddy Ajluni, a first year ETA in Gwangyang, Jeollanam-do When I first arrived, it was too early to think about leaving. Everything was so new and exciting. You were all so welcoming to me. I was almost surprised at how few problems there were, especially for elementary schoolers like you. Sure, you could get a little chatty here and there, but you still showed a passion for learning—much more than I did at your age—and it gave me the passion to keep teaching. There were few times when I felt bored with my work, and those moments were so few thanks to your energy. I can only hope you felt the same during class, though I know that’s impossible. Having sat in your seat once, I know there were times when you must have been bored. Either way, you were patient with me, just as I was with you. It was all too exciting, too good to be true. Now I’m looking at the prospect right in the face: I have to leave. It’s a little strange thinking about it. I still have some time before I must go, but I know how quickly that will pass. I remember the days when such a span of time would feel like half of my life. I guess it really was half of my life back then. While I’ve known you for almost 10 percent of your life, you’ve only been there for a tiny fraction of mine. The odd part about it is, I know deep inside that it will feel like the other way around. Yes, you’ve only been there for a fraction of my life, but this episode will live with me forever. Meanwhile, while I’ve been there for so much of yours, I will slowly fade away. It might hurt for you at first, but I know what is likely to happen after that. It happened to me too. The portion of your life that I was with you will shrink smaller and smaller until it is almost nothing. I will become nothing but a memory—fuzzy and intangible—slowly morphing here and there in the recesses of your mind until you only recall half of my face or the sound of my name. You might even forget me altogether, and I would not blame you at all. Whether or not you forget me, I have to thank you for something. It’s not the behavior or the positive attitude I mentioned before, though I appreciate all those things. In fact, you might not even remember it, but it was when you answered a question of mine and returned something I didn’t even know I needed. You see, thinking about leaving made me ask why I came here in the first place. What was I seeking? What did I hope to find? There are answers to those questions, but now I know they’re not the right questions to ask. The real question to ask was this: what was I running from? Someone told me once that everyone’s running from something. I wasn’t sure what to think about it at first, but now I know that they’re right. I was running, and I still am. But you answered that question for me. And it wasn’t until you showed me what I was running towards that I found out what I was running from. I still remember the day you helped me discover why I was running. I had to go grocery shopping and I didn’t want to spend too long getting to the bus stop after work. Then a couple of you spotted me. “Do you play PoGo?” Pokémon Go. You said it in Korean, but some of you know as well as I do that the language of the Pokémon Trainer is universal. Despite my lack of language skills, I knew what you meant. I took out my phone and laughed. Of course I played. That game came out when I was in high school. And now, as all my friends seemed to outgrow it, they left me behind, stuck in my augmented reality. As time went on though, even I began to play it less. But it was still there on my phone, right where I left it. So I told you yes, I do play it. I opened the app and showed you. You were all amazed, even though some of you were a higher level than I was and knew much more about the game. It was funny to watch. Of course, I had a lot of the old Pokémon. Maybe that’s why you were so amazed. But you had a lot of the new ones, ones that I’m sad to admit I didn’t even know existed. “Raid,” one of you said, pointing at the virtual map. I looked. There it was. A five-star Raid Boss. Dialga. I hadn’t gotten it yet. Neither had any of you. “Come with us?” one of you asked me. Hearing such a question with such sincerity almost made me laugh. Or did it almost make me cry? I don’t know, but I smiled either way. No one had asked me to play for so long. Without even knowing it, I realized that it was the offer that I’d been waiting to hear for so many years. And now, it was being extended. “Yes!” Almost as if my subconscious were answering for me, I didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go!” You echoed me in excitement. So, we ran together. We ran towards Dialga. And that’s when I knew what I was running towards. Dialga, #483 in the National Pokédex. It’s a Steel/Dragon-type Legendary from Sinnoh. You can catch one, but only one, at Spear Pillar in Pokémon Diamond and Platinum. If you want to get it in Pearl, then you have to trade. In Pokémon Go, it doesn’t work like that. You can catch a lot, as long as you beat them in a Raid Battle first. But most of you already know