To My Loving Grandmother
To My Loving Grandmother 사랑하는 우리 할머니께 [1] Written by Andrea Kang I’m frustrated that I can never send you this letter because it will be in English and you wouldn’t understand a word of it. As my friend always said, English is a colonial language and I too have been colonized—stripped from my mother’s language, your language. But I hope that this letter reaches you in spirit. I saw you many times when I was young but I didn’t know much about you. You were only a distant memory, a faint scent of flowers and myeolchi bokkeum [2], bright red-stained lips, and small notebooks filled with Japanese kanji and paper cranes—perhaps remnants of a “globalized” past, harbingers of both nostalgia and trauma. I remember you used to use words like denki, shashin, and jishin [3]—words that I thought were distorted Korean from your Daegu accent but in reality were Japanese words that you would have only learned from your school days. As I studied more about Korea and its history, I began to understand that war taught you to be bilingual. In a way, it taught me to be bilingual as well. But for me, it has been a different kind of war, where assimilation was not as direct as it was in your era. I remember styrofoam mats and magic carpets. A wall full of colorful drawings and alphabet posters with pictures of worms and apples, trumpets and roses. The smell of gingerbread and disinfectant wipes overwhelmed any visitor who walked in through those burgundy metal doors. My white teacher with round, golden glasses and graying brown hair hit me because I could not understand the odd words that she was speaking—the first time I was punished without really understanding the reason why. This was just the first of many moments that would try to teach me to forget the complexity of my heritage and identity, and to force myself into the dominant culture. My mom and I were greeted by the sounds of ringing phones and the clicking sounds of the money counter sifting through dollar bills. It was a typical day of running simple errands. “Canu I depositu thisu?” my mother said with perfect grammar. The bank teller looked to me in confusion, asking me to translate the English coming out of my mother’s mouth. I apologize. Why did I apologize for a mistake that the bank teller made? Have you ever apologized for something that was not your fault? I am sure you have. You grew up in a time when knowing and speaking in Korean meant physical death. For me, and for my mom, looking like we didn’t know English was a mark on our foreheads that said FOREIGN. NOT AMERICAN. We were all branded. How did you survive your branded past? I wanted to know. You were like a book of war tactics that I wanted to open, because to understand your past was to understand my own, to understand how I could equip myself for the future. When I came back to South Korea to study abroad in college, all those years after the first time I visited as a child, I wanted to get to know you better. But weeks turned into months, and months turned into a whole semester of interrupted times together, and I began to realize that it was more than just a language barrier that kept us apart. Our family told me you were too sick to talk to anyone. They told me your depression had gotten worse so it was best that I didn’t bother you. Perhaps they didn’t want to burden you with another person to take care of in your home. That would make sense since the last time I saw you, a week before Chuseok [4] this year, you looked like you were carrying a jigae [5] full of bricks instead of wood. On your better days, you would always talk about memories that even I had forgotten. But that day, your hair seemed a little grayer and the wrinkles on your face were not from smiles but from furrowed brows. Your movements were slower, and it seemed like you couldn’t remember what you did a minute before, let alone those memories from twenty years ago. Maybe you were too busy fighting the demons that kept your doors shut. But I couldn’t help but feel that I was somehow being kept from getting to know you. Perhaps they were too afraid of what would come out of our conversations. Too afraid that those conversations would give you the power you once had—the power to present your beautiful, imperfect self to a world that tried so hard to cover the blemishes, the not so pleasant things. Maybe they were afraid that our conversations would make me realize that they were human, vulnerable and imperfect like you, like me, like everyone else. But in the end, I understood your small gestures. The way you peeled the goguma [6] for me with your shaking hands, pained by arthritis. The way you picked up a small morsel of kimchi with your chopsticks and put it on top of my rice for me to eat. The way you dusted off my coat and asked me if it was warm enough for the South Korean winters, because it’s not just cold up North. The way you hugged me when I knew that hugging was not a practice you’re accustomed to. In the end, they couldn’t silence the language of compassion that our bodies spoke. And I think that it was this form of communication that helped me understand you a little better. Your vocal silence did not mean that you were silent. Because you were speaking in other ways. And these other ways showed more compassion for those who had wronged you than anything else. I understood that compassion was in itself your power, and that you had never really lost any of it at all. These were the war tactics
The Wrong Kind of American
Written by Judith Foo and Zerin (Zarin) Tasnim This piece features alternating vignettes from two ETAs sharing their respective cultural experiences while in Korea. We sat in the back end of the coffee shop, my small suitcase jammed next to a fake ficus, and the contents of an even smaller bag threatening to spill out. My stomach growled audibly and I felt sweat seeping through my stiff blazer. After four hours on the bus, I was tired, hot and ready for a cold shower. My head buzzed back to that very morning, when I woke up groggy and dreading the day. A haphazard placement ceremony, tearful goodbyes, boarding a bus to Busan —after a summer of anticipation, this very moment was underwhelming. As I tried not to give into my exhaustion, a small, plump woman approached the table. Caught off guard, I stood up and quickly bowed, gasping “안녕하세요” [1] under my breath. The woman nodded and stared at me even after she took a seat. I smiled and shifted around nervously. Finally she spoke, slowly and deliberately. “What did you study in college?” “I studied political science and history.” I answered automatically, wringing my hands underneath the table. “When did you graduate?” “This past June” “Do you have any teaching experience?” “Not any formal experience but I did learn a lot during my orientation,” I said not considering that she already probably knew all these things about me. “How long have you been learning English?” she asked studying my face. I noticed she hadn’t once smiled at me. “Excuse me?” “How long have you been learning English?” She repeated slowly. I gaped at her, unsure of how to answer. Surely she was aware that I am an American… “I’ve been speaking English ever since I can remember.” I finally answered. She looked at me as if she didn’t believe me and exchanged a look with my coteacher sitting next to me. “Where are your parents from again?” She asked. “…Bangladesh.” I replied unsure of what that had to do with me being a teacher. “Bangladesh,” she repeated. I nodded as my stomach began to fill with a sense of unease. The hum of warm summer night conversations swirled around the tension that filled our space. “Well, let’s go find you a place to sleep,” she sighed, as if disappointed. “Your apartment isn’t ready yet, so you’ll have to stay at a motel for a week or so.” She grabbed my wrist and led me out of the coffee shop. II. The sun is already setting over the Busan International Film Festival by the time we clamber off the bus in search of a 7 PM screening. The ten of us are huddling together around our crumpled festival map when a man, middle aged and garbed head to toe in bright red BIFF-stamped apparel, approaches us from behind. Hardly any speaking is required; all it takes are a few gestures towards his official badge and his enormous, professional camera to get the point across. He’s with official festival staff, and he wants to film us. “Just…hello!” He instructs, waving both hands enthusiastically in demonstration. “Say hi! Hello to BIFF!” Why not? We crowd laughing together, arm in arm and hands on shoulders. He squints into the lens, then frowns, squinting over it. “Korean?” He asks. I realize he’s staring at me, where I’m standing in the front row. The frown is for me. “Korean? No, she’s American,” my friend responds dismissively, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and clinging still more tightly to my arm. We settle back into formation, but the signal doesn’t come. Instead, the man steps out from behind his camera, steps up to us. We all straighten up, unsure of what’s happening. The man grabs my arm and walks me forcibly out of the frame, deposits me a few feet away on the sidewalk. Then he hops back behind the camera, beaming as if nothing of consequence has happened. “Just hello!” he shouts into my friends’ enraged faces. “Just hi!” III. I straightened up to answer the student who had just bounded into my classroom. “Teacher, teacher! My brother, did you see?” “Erm…yes. What’s his name again?” I asked trying to recall the faces of the 16 new third graders I met just 7 minutes ago. “Park Woobin” [2] she said, searching my face for any sign of recognition. I thought hard, trying to remember if any face was similar to this student but came up blank. “What was he wearing?” I asked “He wearing orange jacket.” I could tell she sensed that I didn’t have the vaguest clue. Not wanting to disappoint her, I pretended to have a moment of recognition and prepared myself for a tiny white lie. “Ah yes! I remember your brother!” My student broke out into a smile. “He is very cute!” I exclaimed. Technically, all the third graders were tiny and adorable. My student looked surprised and tried to convey her thoughts “Ah..yes. Cute… 하지만 섹갈 이상해요 [3]…not good color.” I blinked trying to process what she said. Color? Was he sick? My student sensed my confusion and pointed to her skin. “His color bad” she elaborated. Ah. I knew who her brother was now. Park Woobin, a little boy with cute dimples and a giant orange jacket, was similar in almost every aspect to his older sister but he had one difference. “Dahyun,” [4] I said with a slight smile, “Your brother and I have the same skin color.” My student blinked, realizing what I meant. “But teacher,” my student began, trying to find the right words once again. “선생님은, 이뻐잖아.” [5] IV. The first time I hear the crinkle of a coat behind me, I pay no heed. The café in downtown Seoul is bustling with strangers, each wearing a bright winter jacket puffier and noisier than the next. But a few moments later, I hear it again, right by my ear, so I turn. There’s a middle-aged Korean man,
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.