Running
Written by Gabrielle Nygaard So this is why these Korean winter gusts are called “knife winds.” They slice at the space between my eyes, and I wonder if my skull might split clean in two if not for the 2,000 won [1] headband that encircles my forehead, desperately gripping things together. Nearly a year ago, when my former host father insisted I wear a face mask while running outside, I widened my eyes and gave him my “you’re not serious… are you? You might be, so I won’t say anything, but… you are joking?” look. Such meaning-packed looks are necessary when dealing with both a language barrier and a taciturn Korean man you share tight living quarters with, but aren’t sure even knows your name. But I suppose that’s alright; after a year together, I never figured out his first name either. He was just addressed as “hello” or “goodbye,” and indirectly referred to as “Hungyo’s father.” But Hungyo’s father was not joking. Disappearing momentarily, he returned and put a white surgical mask in my hands and said, “wear it.” He’s a man of few words; not counting church songs and soju-fueled bellowing. I could count the things I’d heard him say on my fingers with digits to spare; so I felt I couldn’t disregard the rare occasion of him instructing me to do something, even if it made me look like an axe-murderer running down the street. Mask or not, I think that’s the impression people had of me in my old neighborhood, where nobody would run, except maybe to flee the scene of a crime. Living near the huge police station, I don’t doubt this possibility crossed the minds of some of my bewildered onlookers, including the police officer that chased me down mid-jog one day. I froze, startled to see him streaking towards me in his fancy hat and neon yellow windbreaker, but in the end, all he did was ask for my phone number so he could practice English with me. Over the course of our ensuing “friendship,” he told me his dream was to produce songs for Taylor Swift and encouraged me to try a hamburger from Mom’s Touch [2] (“Patty was so soft! Perfectly different from Lotteria.”). The only other accepted reason for running in 소촌동 [3] was to catch an approaching bus. That’s often what people thought I was doing, and they would sprint a few steps after me before realizing that I was not, indeed, making a beeline for the nearest bus stop, and would then sheepishly fall back into an unhurried gait. To my annoyance, taxis also misunderstood my purpose and honked at me all the time. Did the drivers really think the gangly foreigner chugging down the sidewalk in workout clothes, ponytail flailing and arms pumping, was looking for a ride? And if she was, would they have wanted to haul that human sweat puddle around on their pleather seats anyway? With all of these things against me, I didn’t want to heighten my bizarreness with the face mask. But I did want to show my host father I appreciated his concern, so for the next few days, I put it on before I left for my run. Once I was a respectable distance away, I removed and pocketed it, then replaced it on my face again just before arriving back home. But then the strain of covering my oversized nose caused the ear strap to snap off. I lamented this fact to my host mother but took the opportunity to ditch the mask mandate, laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. Yet 11 months later, pushing into the knife winds in a different part of town, I would give anything for a face cover. I pull my headband down and my jacket collar up in a futile effort to shield my big, vulnerable nose. It seems colder here on my new running route. Instead of a crumbling, uneven street, it outlines a fertile reservoir. Though it’s chillier along the water, without buildings to cut the wind, it’s more appropriate. This path is actually meant for running, which I see people doing every day. Plus, rather than three, my run is disrupted by only one crosswalk signal now. I have learned that crosswalks are not something you want on your route, not just for the literal roadblock halting your progress, but because they provide an opportunity for an elderly man to step closer and closer until he’s blatantly sniffing your shoulder, while you stand prisoner to the red light and sweat anxiously in the summer sun. Though, to be fair, this is quite the motivator. I don’t think I’ve ever taken off sprinting so fast. Perhaps I should ask the nearest 아저씨[4] to take a good whiff of me at the starting line of my next 5K. I only ran casually before coming to Korea, so I’m no expert in running etiquette. But I’d venture to guess when confronted with a jogger in America, most people would not make a sudden U-turn, pulling over to insist the person get in the car, nor grab their arm and nearly rip if from the socket to ask if they know “our savior 예수[5].” And I doubt it’s seen as normal (or a good idea) to ambush a jogger on the curb, thrusting a garbled love letter with such perplexing lines as “The sun why the sunrises? The moon why crocheting?” upon them before jumping back in your white van and speeding away. The closest I’ve come in the U.S. is having a pick-up truck full of teenage boys honk their tacky novelty “The Yellow Rose of Texas” horn at me, but in general, running the streets is ordinary enough to make me invisible. Stateside, nobody asks me “where are you going?” or “who are you?” as I jog past. But they don’t flash me enthusiastic grins and a thumbs up, or shout encouragements such as “you can do it!” and “fighting!” either. In
Omma
Written by Lea Crowley Two days after moving to my placement city, a coteacher called me and told me an administrator from the school was sending her daughter, Amy, to my apartment to show me around town. I imagine there had been rumors floating around the school about the new foreign teacher’s disaster of an apartment, and that the administrator wanted to see if there was any truth to them. Amy soon saw for herself the state of my apartment—broken windows, no sink, the smell of sewage and lots of bugs — and called her mother to let her know. When she finished the phone call, she encouraged me to stay in her family’s apartment until my living situation was sorted out. That night, I met 엄마 (omma) for the first time. Omma—the Korean equivalent of “mom” or “mommy”—was an intimidating woman. Although she’s tiny (maybe five feet tall, probably under 110 pounds) her presence immediately commands any room she enters. She speaks in a thick regional dialect, uses lots of slang, and constantly barks orders at her children and coworkers. The night I met her, I was nervous, covered in mysterious bug bites and incapable of carrying a conversation in Korean. I was pitiful, I’m sure. I wasn’t prepared for how powerless I felt. Until moving into my apartment, I had considered myself well-prepared for living abroad. I soon learned that I was mistaken, and working out my apartment debacle made it painfully clear that I had no idea what was going on in Korea. From the moment I stepped into her home, Omma took care of me. For the next few nights, I would sit quietly on an oversized rocking chair, internally thanking the universe for introducing her into my life as she made tutting sounds and smeared gooey pink medicine over the welts that covered my face, neck and arms. For the first time since coming to Korea, I finally felt like I could make myself at home. Because of Omma’s sudden dedication to my happiness and health, I felt like I belonged. As Omma tended to my bug bites one night, I silently reflected on my pre-arrival preparations. After being accepted to Fulbright, I frantically began trying to familiarize myself with my future home. I listened to Korean pop music over and over, did Wikipedia searches of Korean celebrities, followed Korean fashion blogs, and attempted to teach myself the Korean alphabet. I believed that knowing about these things would somehow lessen the impact of culture shock and make it easier to befriend Koreans. This search for an “in” to Korean society continued at Fulbright Orientation, where I listened to lecture after lecture on Korean culture. One concept in particular grabbed my attention: 정 (jeong). Even though my understanding of jeong was limited and I struggled to articulate what exactly it was, I was eager to experience it. I kept waiting for a thunderclap of inexplicable affection, but I just didn’t feel that strong, immediate and undeniable connection. The reality sunk in that maybe I would not experience jeong with anyone in Korea. But then I met Omma. Despite her no-nonsense attitude, she took me into her home, cooked for me and seemed genuinely concerned about me. I constantly thanked her in Korean for doing so much for me, although I could not come close to expressing the extent of my gratitude. During one of my many clumsy attempts to thank her, I asked “Why?” in Korean. I didn’t understand how she could take a pitiful foreign stranger into her home so easily. She determinedly looked into my eyes and said simply, “You are good woman” in heavily accented English. I was taken aback because I had never heard her speak English before. But more importantly, I was shocked at the air of finality she spoke with that made it all clear. She was saying she felt jeong with me, too. I had finally found it. A few days later, I moved out of her home and began settling into my new apartment. To my delight, our relationship continued to grow at school. I regularly visited her in her office and tried to speak to her in Korean. She hoarded snacks in her desk to share with me, and patiently listened to my atrocious Korean to tease out what I was trying to communicate. We spent hours chatting back and forth, relying heavily on a translation app she installed on her phone specifically for the purpose of talking to me. Whenever she got the impression that I liked or wanted something, she immediately tried to make it happen for me. For example, when I told her that I wanted to go swimming, she personally drove me to the local pool – to the amusement and shock of the Koreans present – and showed me around. If I said I liked a certain food, she brought some to school for me the next day. Sometimes, she even lugged full bags of groceries to school for me. Even though I couldn’t understand most of what she said at first, the sound of her voice comforted me. I will be the first to admit that she talks to me like I am still a child, but I still love the way she coos “Aigooo, Lea-ya!” at me whenever I do something that makes her happy. Sometime during the course of our relationship, we began saying “Korean mom” and “American mom” to differentiate between her and my actual mother. She is my Korean mom, and occasionally she would ask about my American mom. I began opening up to her about my relationship with my American mom, which has been tumultuous to say the least. To my surprise, she replied by saying she experiences the same struggles with her Korean daughter. I had witnessed some of the lower points of their relationship, but I didn’t expect my Korean mom to openly acknowledge it as an issue. The few times I saw
The Unathlete
Written by Ben Harris Out of all the events spanning the two-day sports festival at my school, the scrimmages between the teachers and the students were the most anticipated. People shuffled around listlessly when two classes faced off, but the atmosphere surrounding the teacher-student matches befitted a professional game. I’d been invited to play in the volleyball game. My co-teacher asked me well in advance, a few times, and I agreed whenever the question came up. When the net was up and the other players were in their positions, a teacher grabbed my hand to lead me to my spot. I became chicken. I pulled away and backed off. It must have seemed sudden, and it was, but although I hadn’t anticipated my own reaction, I wasn’t surprised by it. They found a substitute, another teacher who wasn’t happy to play, but at least he did. I watched the game left out and a little ashamed. Feeling that I needed to do penance for my cowardice the day before, I agreed when a different teacher asked me to play basketball. Because all Korean high school boys seem to love either soccer, basketball or both, the basketball game was going to be hot. Basketball was the filet mignon to volleyball’s cheese sticks, and nobody was about to miss it. I knew this was the case, and still said I would play; this is how reckless I am. Students rushed in to sit on the stage and in the balcony to watch the teachers warm up. I didn’t warm up. I barely even knew how to play. Just watching them from the sidelines made me sweat. To celebrate Sports Day, students’ parents brought a buffet of fried chicken, rice cakes and pig’s feet for the teachers to eat in the back room of the gym, and I would have been much better off spending the day there. The truth is that I am as interested in sports as I am in car mechanics or doctor’s office waiting rooms, which is to say: not at all. When another ETA told me that her first impression of me was that I was a sporty guy, I had to laugh. As a child, I was awkward, sniffling and asthmatic. I had nosebleeds and did breathing treatments. My parents never had any hope for me as an athlete. “We knew it wasn’t for you early on,” my mother once told me. “I mean, my God, you couldn’t even throw a football.” It wasn’t mean-spirited. It was fact. My mom always encouraged my interest in music, and didn’t even want me to play sports because I might get hurt. My dad is so loyal a Detroit Lions fan that he kept faith even when they broke records one season by losing every single game. Yet if he was disappointed that his oldest son was more interested in the piano than in being a quarterback, he never showed it. I finally picked up running after high school, at first as a sometimes-habit, because I felt like I needed to do something. All my friends swam, wrestled, played football or baseball, and all I did was go to school and go home. I asked myself if I wanted to go through life on a rolling chair. I wheezed all the way through my first run with my best friend, who I’d held back so much that he ran another several miles after finishing our route. I hated it at first, but eventually grew to like it. I like the way I feel after a long run, and how during it I can think clearly. What I don’t care about is proper technique unless it’s something that keeps me from hurting myself, and I don’t care about speed. I’m trying to train for a half-marathon, and I don’t care about my finishing time. Finishing at all is the whole point. Running does not make me an athlete. Everything I know about true athleticism suggests that it is graceful, competitive, and technically artistic. As a true unathlete, I am far away from all those things. Although sports are everywhere in the United States, they are still easy for me to forget. In a conversation, if someone asks me if I like a certain team or saw a certain game, all I have to do is say no and we change topics. There’s a sports section in every newspaper I read, although to me that article titled “Pistons Score Big Win Over Cavaliers” might as well be called “Better Seed Storage Methods for the Best Yield from Your Summer Garden.” Many people like sports and many people like gardens. In America nobody seems to care that I care about neither. In Korea, my indifference to organized sports is often met with genuine bafflement. I used to think it was disappointment, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve been told more than a few times that I’m very small, too small, and that I should be lifting weights. People sometimes tell me this with great concern, as if my arms were so small that they were in danger of withering away. I can never resist stealing a look. Really? Are they that puny? Some people seem to think so. They ask me to flex so they can feel my muscles. There’s not much to feel, though. I rarely have to lift anything heavier than a cell phone. The spring of my freshman year of college, my friends sometimes wasted time on the basketball courts behind our residence hall and every once in a while let me play, too, though they laughed at the way I dribbled. Later, an opportunity for a casual one-off tournament between two or three halls came up, and I must have gotten the wrong idea from their inclusiveness, because I asked the same best friend who took me on my first jog if he wanted me to play. Sheepishly, he told me he’d already dreamt up a