Phone Calls
Written by Teri Bunce I stood, winding and unwinding the cord to my window shades around my index finger as she spoke. “It’s not good, honey. They say these are probably signs of heart failure…” Tears well in my eyes as I press my forehead against the cool glass, pushing her voice out of my head. ** Feeling the heavy, balmy summer heat, I scooch closer to the passenger door, and reach for the crank handle. My bare legs are stuck to the faded brown vinyl seats, and it requires all the strength of my eight-year old arms to lower the window of his 1986 Volvo. As the breeze hits my face he says, “Sorry hun, you know this thing don’t have AC.” “I know.” I reply, “I don’t mind.” And I really don’t. I lay my face on the windowsill, my right arm lazily swooping and cutting through the air as we drive. How many hours have we spent this way? Driving around with nowhere in particular to go, winding down the dirt roads of Wayne County, Georgia, lazily watching the cotton and tobacco grow. “Do you want to head home now, sweetie?” “No. I want it to be just you and me a bit longer, Grandpa.” ** I open my eyes now and the flat endless fields of Georgia cotton that fill my memories have been replaced with the ceaseless mountain peaks of Korea. They’re speckled with the last, persistent buds of pink and white cherry blossoms, and I can begin to make out the brightest hue of green across the prickly mountains. The view is a reminder of how far from home I’ve come. I remember the cell phone in my hand and interrupt, “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll be late…” I lie. I hang up the phone guiltily and walk towards my bathroom. I turn on the shower as I push away the streams of self-criticism that fill my head. Selfish. Heartless. Cowardly. Under the streams of hot water and self-criticism, I collapse against the cool tile with burning skin. I close my eyes and attempt to block out my thoughts for a moment, but ultimately a scene from earlier in the day creeps up. ** Steam swirled, but I could still see them across the room. She wasn’t more than 16, and her halmeoni must’ve been over 80. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes from them, the way the girl lowered her grandmother in and out of the warm, steamy baths. I watched as she gently washed her grandmother’s back and arms. Stared as she tenderly rinsed the shampoo from what was left of halmoni’s wispy hair — careful not to let any suds drip down onto her face. ** Sitting alone in that jimjilbang [1], I was aware of how very different I was from the Koreans that surrounded me. And not in the usual, superficial ways I was used to. I tried to remember a single time with my grandfather, whom I consider the most important and influential man in my life, that was as selfless and caring as the moment I was witnessing. I tried to remember a single moment when our relationship wasn’t centered on my happiness or well-being, but his. Yet here was this teenage girl, choosing to devote her Saturday afternoon to caring for her grandmother. ** 효 (hyo), the word for filial piety in Korean, is one of the most enduring influences of Confucianism in Korean culture. The cultural value of hyo was so strong that Yi Sun Sin, the most revered admiral in Korean history, retired in the middle of a war when his grandparents passed away. Until the 1950s it was common for Koreans to visit their familial and ancestral tombs, daily, to show respect and appreciation. While today, this practice has diminished in frequency, the value of hyo still dominates Korean life. To allow your grandparents or parents to grow old alone is unfathomable; to be considered bulhyo, or un-hyo, is one of the worst crimes you can commit. ** In Korea I am reminded of how very un-hyo I am. I moved a world away from my family, in their time of need, to chase my own dreams. I wonder if I am the type of person who can ever be hyo — if my self-imposed distance from my grandpa, as his life runs out, is a convenience I gladly hide behind. I consider if it is easier for me to avoid his illness and seek refuge in our memories. The weight of these thoughts feels too much to bear. I stand up to turn off the water and make my way to my bed. Collapsing, I wrap my comforter around my wet body and bury my face into my pillows. “6,000 miles…” I tell myself. What could I possibly do from over 6,000 miles away? ** I wake up to the sound of rain, and my eyes drift to the framed photographs on my desk — three in a row. Me beaming, sitting in my Easter dress on a proud, strong grandfather’s lap, clutching my kindergarten diploma. An 18-year-old me, a bit too obviously posing in a tight, short dress under my high-school graduation gown, held close by an even prouder grandpa. The most recent photo reveals his steep decline. At my college graduation only four years later, his hair is entirely white, and he leans on me to steady himself. He smiles, but his eyes look tired. I wrap my blankets around me tightly, looking back to the man from the first photo. Suddenly, I feel like a small child again, hoping grandpa can solve my problems. I reach for my phone and dial, biting my nails as it rings. He answers, and although I have so many fears and his greeting barely masks the weakness in his voice- I exhale and say, “Hi, grandpa, it’s me.” Teri Bunce is a 2014-2015 ETA at Yeunnam Elementary School
Somewhere Else Everything Is Significant
A series of poems by A. Moriah Jones The weight of water If there was a sound like the violent rending of a marble floor I’d liken it to that – the sky has cracked in Gwangju a bowl tipped over its contents poured through and it seems appropriate to mention that at this juncture I am ill prepared to hold the weight of water – and so I find more often than not – I have spilled over meanwhile drops have condensed on the surface of clay vessels – as if to suggest the water within is cold but really there are cracks in the cisterns – they cannot hold water Portrait of a room crowded with plants – the family is letting the vines crawl across the wood floor paneling and all along the walls – there is a stain like thrown coffee above the TV and since she gets on her knees every day to wipe around the low hanging leaves – the stain must be left as a reminder or warning: shrunken skulls wind tossed and jangling against each other: a music as broken as the ecstatic screams of children at play and all of it carried past teal neon crosses that are gaudy against the night sky she pulls the towels from the rack where they dried – they’ve all been stolen from hotels – and presently the intimations of halting piano scales drift into the room through ceiling vents ridiculous at this hour – but why not? Dinner on the stove at Café the Big Banana pots coppered and brown with use hang like decorations hand dripped coffee gathers in a spiraled glass there’s English on the signs and bananas with bruised skin the place is eclectic in a way that seems like home – which is unexpected piquant waves from someone’s cooking dinner clash against my saccharine honey lemon tea its tepidity informed by my leisure and the trafficked entrance I’ve been here for hours – and finally evening has come perhaps to say understand more fully the fragments of silences broken by a flippantly earnest bless you the space between the entitlement of naivety the assorted ways of being Somewhere else – everything is significant there is just enough blood to make you curious to make you draw closer to the heavy bellied bird hunched in the ditch – the breast is concave where the wing was pushed bluntly into the hollow boned chest – proven as fragile as you imagine you will hurt appropriately – long enough for you to note where the feathers have been stained where the life has spilled over you will get close enough to be too close – so the bird will stutter away but you will see its eyes and know enough to name your face in its fear It is wet in Korea again The window frames in Caffe Pascucci are all painted red their panes wink with the most recent rain’s sputter – it is wet in Korea again and the bottom panels glisten where the light makes glitter of the dust and crumbs – gnats crawl along gathering what they can bouncing from one sill to the next – at times I can do little more than consider – the man on the corner sorting trash and how he handles it all in a way that seems informed – and I want to look at him until he is beautiful – until he gleams – and I want to tell the woman working her store front touting the benefits of emulsion and essence to use her language precisely – but I don’t understand a word anyway because here to call a women glamorous is to call her buxom – which is to realize the unstated excess in the folds of your body – we’ve been consumed here – we’ve been resisted – but look the streets tidy even though he wore no gloves the sounds at once diffuse and discrete – everything dazzles Moriah Jones is a 2014-2015 ETA at Jeonggwang Middle School in Gwangju.
Regret
Written by Mathew Goldberg III. I sit squished against my student’s side in the single wooden chair stationed in front of the class computer. Our fingers bang against the keyboard in a dashing fury, pressing our respective keys: punch, kick, combination move. A crowd of students watch Tae Kwan and I play Tekken Street Fight. Exasperated cheers in broken English overwhelm the classroom. I smile, feeling reinvigorated and alive in these ten minutes between classes. All the while, I dread the bell as much as my students, reluctant to resume teaching. The hallway is in its usual disarray with innocuous fights and student horseplay, but I remain focused on the glowing monitor. Tae Kwan snickers, “Die, Mat. Die!” when we hear a jolting yell. My stomach sinks. The classroom window shatters under the force of flesh. I jump out of the seat and run into the hall to see He Young thrashing against the wall still screaming. Students are hovering, but I am the only teacher around. Blood drips from the fractured window. Queasy, unsure, and impulsive, I grab He Young and repeat, “It is okay. Calm down. Just listen to me.” His body is rattling with anger and he could easily throw me to the side, but he doesn’t. The math teacher steps in and begins talking to He Young in Korean. My hold weakens as He Young’s shoulders collapse, blood still oozing from his knuckles. Moments later, He Young, the teacher, and a fellow student are proceeding downstairs to find the nurse and go to the hospital. Two other students are grabbing the broom and dustpan and begin cleaning. The rest of the hall disperses, leaving me in an eerie silence. I. The bell rings. English class is over. Students lift their heads and rub the sleepiness from their eyes, readying to leap from their desks and run to the maejeom [1] or into the hallway. I maneuver through the mayhem that now feels familiar, looking for He Young. I notice he’s leaning against the window outside his homeroom class. He is short in stature, beaming with a charismatic smile; I look at him and see a person who is as clever and kind as he is misunderstood. I call to him. He swipes his hand through his auburn-brown hair, walking toward me through the maze of students with a tough façade. “Mathew, what?” he whines. “Why, did you drop out of the speaking contest today?” “English, boring.” “Lies, you are so good at English. You are one of my top students.” He Young laughs and says, “Thanks, Mat. Class time, sorry.” I am left, unsatisfied and confused. Later, I see He Young again out of class and run up to him. “We didn’t finish talking.” He Young looks at me in frustration. “I don’t know English words.” “That’s okay. Try.” “I am scared … Why do you want me?” It’s my turn to laugh at his words. “Why, because you have great English, you are a leader in school, and I believe you can win the competition.” “Mat, phone,” he commands. I pull up the translating app and hand it over. When he holds the phone to my face, the translation reads, Shame. “What, why?” “I get angry. I can’t … control myself. I can hurt what people think of school. I don’t trust myself with people.” Anger management problems. “How do you control your anger?” I ask, concerned. “I use to go to hospital. But, girlfriend helps me now.” “Ah, that’s good.” I say plainly, unable to communicate my feelings. I wrestle with my next words and whether to hug him. I want him to know he can trust me; that I believe in him. But instead all I say is, “Will you think about the speaking contest?” I settle on giving him a high five, and we head in opposite directions. Awkwardness and disappointment swell in me. Later that night, He Young texts me. My fingers open the message in nervous excitement. He writes “Thank you for the many opportunities ☺” This was my second chance. This was my opportunity to be the person I want to be for him. To be more than a teacher and to be a part of his life. I craft my words carefully and push send with renewed hope. We continue talking until we exchange our goodnights. He calls me Mat brother, and I fall asleep proudly, wishing Mat teacher and Mat brother could coexist. But I know that tomorrow if He Young sees me, he will call me Mat teacher, but silently I will hope to hear Mat brother. II. Two days later, He Young storms into the classroom where I am playing with Tae Kwan. Enraged, he slams his fist against the black board slurring curses in Korean. “He Young, what’s wrong?” I ask, while still engaged in the computer game. He Young doesn’t respond and I feel conflicted. I lean backwards in the chair preparing to jump up, but I hesitate, continuing to kick, punch, and battle. My fingers can’t compete against Tae Kwan as he delivers punch after punch. He Young walks out of the classroom. My attention is divided: Should I follow He Young outside to make sure he is okay? This is my first time invited to play with Tae Kwan and his friends. By leaving do I risk my friendship with Tae Kwan? I decide to stay, noticing He Young and his girlfriend talking. Everything is okay. Minutes later, a scream and the sound of glass shattering tell me I was wrong. Coda. He Young’s mother enters the gymuoshil [2] with her son behind her. Their resemblance is undeniable. I scan over his face, noticing he has his mother’s eyes and a similar dimple on his right side and wonder if he’s a momma’s boy at heart. A cast masks his bruised and cut hand. I sit stationary at my desk, finding it painful to look at him as it only