Homeostasis
Written by Diem-Tran (Bijou) Nguyen I received verbal consent from my NKD tutee to share this story. Her name was changed to protect her identity. “What did you think?” I prompted Ji Min as she pulled the article, printed on heavily creased computer paper, out of her bag. Ji Min adjusted her thin, wire-framed glasses, before meeting my eyes. “I,” she said, in her soft, understated voice, “I really like this article. It reminds me… much of my mother. She died from cancer.” I was suddenly gripped by a fear that I had crossed a line. In our training for working with North Korean Defectors, we had been instructed to never ask our students about their families or life in North Korea, or bring up any sensitive issues that might trigger a negative or emotional reaction. Therefore, I was at a bit at a loss at what to do as Ji Min started to share her story. Ji Min was my NKD student, whom I had met one-on-one during my first few months in Korea. Among her peers, Ji Min was by far the most advanced in English—I remember, upon our first meeting, she told me her goal was to be able to recite Steve Job’s commencement address at Stanford University by the end of our sessions. In spite of her evident skill and mastery with the English language, Ji Min was rather cautious and timid when speaking, and I often had to prompt her with questions to create a dialogue. One night, we discussed Brittany Maynard’s story and whether or not “death with dignity” should be legal. While topics we had discussed in the past had sometimes seemed too abstract for Ji Min, she seemed very excited and passionate to discuss euthanasia. She believed euthanasia should be allowed, because the role of a doctor is to listen to the patient and to ease pain. I wondered how she knew so much about the Hippocratic Oath. “I am very interested in this topic,” Ji Min continued, “because in North Korea I was a doctor.” I was shocked to hear this. As far as I knew at the time, Ji Min had grown up and lived in North Korea, until she finally escaped to South Korea with her two sons. How, I’ll probably never know. She had attended Chungnam University in Daejeon, and had a steady job that she enjoyed as an accountant. She worked full time to raise her two sons. Hardworking, soft-spoken, and diligent, she was dedicated to studying English, though she sometimes cancelled our appointments for business meetings or her sons’ open classes. But now, here she was, telling me about how she had worked as a physician in North Korea. Ji Min continued to share that when she finally escaped to South Korea, her medical license was invalid. “I had two babies to take care of and no job,” Ji Min said carefully, “and medicine in South Korea is very long. So I studied accounting instead so I would have a job more fast.” “Are you happy as an accountant?” I cocked my head and looked at her, trying to get a read on her face, which usually was so solemn and stoic. Ji Min paused and looked skywards for a moment. She normally seemed tired at our sessions—with a full day of work and a long commute on the Daejeon subway line, followed by a bus to get to Chungnam University—but right now, she looked especially exhausted. She sighed a little wistfully, and then continued. “I think,” she said finally, “if I could be a doctor, I would in South Korea. I miss medicine and helping people with my hands, but this job I have right now—I really like it and it is good for my family. I saw a lot of suffering in North Korea, but now I am lucky to have a new life. So this article—thank you.” Though there was nothing extreme or emotional about Ji Min’s reaction that day, I couldn’t stop thinking about her story as I boarded the train to head back to Jochiwon. I thought about Ji Min’s story, and how many pieces of her I will never know or understand—even if she chooses to share them with me. I am not a stranger to hearing about hardship. My parents came to America as teenage refugees during the Vietnam War. They had nothing. The obstacles they had to overcome and the prejudice they faced are forever foreign to me. My mother was valedictorian of her high school class, but she was forbidden from making her speech at graduation because she could not afford an outfit nice enough to wear. My father lived squashed with his five siblings and two parents in a tiny room, as he worked three jobs in high school to help support his family. Because of the suffering they had witnessed and faced, they were inspired to pursue careers in medicine. When I was three, my younger brother was diagnosed with leukemia. He spent two years in the hospital, but the cancer’s effects didn’t dissipate when he was in remission. Instead, his chemotherapy and radiation therapy drastically slowed his mental processes. As his older sister, I became his teacher and watched him work tirelessly to compensate. He is now a first year student in pharmacy school. I think about Ji Min, who has gone through so much. I imagine seeing starvation firsthand, being desperate enough to leave all my family and friends, and risking being caught and tortured, all in hope of making a better life for myself in a country I have never even seen. I think about not having a second chance at the job I love. I think about how my parents and my brother succeeded in spite of all the odds stacked against them, and I am struck by the unfairness of Ji Min’s situation. Why couldn’t Ji Min do again, what she so badly wanted to do? What if
Healing
Out of concern for the author’s identity, this piece has been published anonymously. June 2014 The ahjumma at the roadside cafe smiles kindly at me as I sit sipping my coffee. My friends, brandishing a DSLR, have just left to explore the streets of Ewha Maeul, a colorfully painted tourist attraction on the streets on Hyehwa. I feel tired and self-conscious. I haven’t been outside and active in a month. I impatiently wait for my coffee to cool. The faster it cools, the faster I can slip on my mask and leave. “It’s too bad,” the Korean woman chirps as she straightens a plant beside me. “If your face wasn’t like that you could go out and take pictures with them,” she says sympathetically. The sun is shining too brightly on my face. I wish very hard for her to go away before smiling and saying nothing. “But all for the price of beauty,” she chuckles. “Where are you from? China? We have a lot of tourists from China who come for that.” “No, I’m American,” I answer quickly before snapping my face mask back on. She looks surprised as I quickly bow and exit the shop. A few hours later, a Chinese shop assistant asks me the same thing. “What’d you get done?” she questions, peering curiously at my face mask. “Your nose?” I pause before telling her the truth. “I didn’t get plastic surgery; I was in an accident.” She looks at me skeptically. “So you were in an accident and you decided to come here and get your nose done?” “No,” I answer curtly, leaving the shop. July 2014 Sometimes it’s hard for me to talk. My once-clear pronunciation has deteriorated into a slight lisp. I suppose I should have expected it when I lost half of my teeth. “Where do you want to go again?” the taxi ahjusshi asks again. I try, for the tenth time, to enunciate clearly for him my destination, but between my mask-muffled words and garbled pronunciation, he looks very confused indeed. Finally, my non-Korean speaking brother impatiently imitates my words before the taxi driver finally understands. “No one can understand you like that,” he snaps irritably. September 2014 My first day of Korean class went off without a hitch, but ten minutes into my second my Korean teacher asks me to take off my mask. “Can you take it off? You were wearing it yesterday too, right? Do you have a cold? It’s just that it’s hard to hear you with it on. Your voice is all muffled.” I pause. “I don’t have a cold; I was in an accident.” “An accident?” “A biking accident,” I hesitate, “I rode down a hill and ended up falling off of a cliff. I split my face open… I’m wearing bandages.” She pauses and looks directly at me in the eyes. “I see.” Her voice is soft, strong, and slow as she speaks the next words, “You know, it’s okay. We won’t care about such things. If it’s okay with you, will you take off your mask?” I quietly take it off; from my left I hear the creak of my classmate’s desk as he leans forward to get a better look of my uncovered face. My teacher looks at me. “See, it’s okay? We’re okay with this, right?” One of my classmates nods silently in agreement. I smile. November 2014 A friend of mine is complaining about her day. “Ugh, I’m just so sick and stressed out,” she wheedles as we sit together. I listen, comforting her as she continues on, but after twenty minutes of complaining about her school, her health, and how her life is the worst, I’ve reached my limit. “My goodness, I just feel like I’m dying, like ser-” “Trust me, you’re not dying. I know the feeling of almost dying.” She stares at me before quickly backpedaling, “Well, I know I’m not actually going to die but still…” “You’ll get past this; trust me, it’ll be OK.” “Yeah, I guess.” January 2015 I’m running late to my first piano class. Rushing through the door, I quickly greet my teacher before stripping off coat, backpack, and mask in rapid succession. I turn to her and flash a smile before introducing myself. She returns my smile, and points to the music. “Turn to page four…” March 2015 “You haven’t seen your nose yet, right?” my doctor says excitedly as he begins peeling back the bandages from my latest surgery—the fourth I’ve had post-accident. He immediately calls for a mirror as I shake my head no. “Look, it’s much better! We’ve fixed the nasal deformity at your nostril—I mean, it’s not perfect, but much better! We cleaned up some of the scarring on your face too… well… not all of it… but next time we can do more!” He is obviously very proud of himself. I look at myself in the mirror for the first time with my “new” nose. The long scars across my face have faded to a slight pinkish color over time. A few are covered in stitches from my latest surgery. My nose, well, it certainly looks different. I’m not sure what I expected, but maybe it was this? My doctor hovers eagerly over me, his eyes shining. “It looks good, right, right? Not bad!” “Good job.” He laughs and pats me on the back. June 2015 — Now Since returning home to Dayton my mask lies buried somewhere in the pile of suitcases I have yet to unpack. Disembarking from my flight, one curious look from the customs agent was all it took to do away with it. The need to be covered doesn’t exist in me as strongly as it did before — or maybe I just don’t fear being judged as much. My relatives and friends all call me “strong” or “courageous” for going through this ordeal, but it feels strange to be labeled as such. I don’t think I should be rewarded or praised
Someday We Will Meet Again
Someday We Will Meet Again “언젠가는 우리 다시 만나리” Morrow Willis died in 2015 after a battle with cancer. He was a 2011 ETA in Mokpo, Jeollanam-do. The photo re-printed here is one of many he contributed to Infusion. There isn’t much to do in Mokpo, so on weekends we would often find ourselves at the Mokpo Dancing Fountain near “new downtown.” The show was more or less the same every time: there would be about five songs with choreographed fountain movements and colors. We each had favorites but there was unanimous consent that the best one was a ballad by Shin Moon Hee (“Moony”). The finale of the song is particularly epic. It’s kind of like if you combined the endings of “The Star Spangled Banner” and Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” (seriously, YouTube it). One Friday night, Morrow got really into it. He stood up at the end and, somewhere between comical histrionics and genuine inspiration, performed the final chorus. As the Koreans around us looked on in confusion, he arched his back, clenched his fists, opened his mouth to the night sky, and dramatically lip-synced the finale. I often look back on our time together and I cry but, when the person you lost was Morrow, it’s impossible not to look back and laugh as well. (Henry Lyford) “Don’t mess with the best.” For Morrow and myself, this was the dictum that steered the better portion of our winter break. The statement seems narcissistic, immature, and idiotic—and we would completely agree. But we didn’t care. It was our life force that winter, our guiding compass during a season of uncertainties and dilemmas. This phrase convinced Morrow to grow mutton chops. It justified every one of our 3 a.m. fried chicken deliveries. It was the first, middle, and final points of all our arguments with the other housemates. It was the impetus for every action. Of course at times it drove us to our physiological and psychological limits, but there was no stopping us. Ever. Because the best are those who live life to the fullest. This was what Morrow taught me and embodied in his life. This is the lesson that is manifested in the lives of those he impacted. So here’s to you Morrow, the best of all. Cheers brother. (Samuel Izumi Han) “Christiana, look up.” Click. Morrow chuckles- a short-second breath which escapes his mouth when he smiles. He puts his camera in his lap and locks eyes on David who is sharing a story about one of his students. I glance at the camera, knowing I won’t be able to ‘inspect-then-delete’ the undoubtedly not-Facebook-ready photo. But Morrow wasn’t looking for the model shot. He looked for the moment shot. The shot that created a memory: for him, for the group. And when he took your photo, you didn’t care if it made it to Facebook. That moment, with those people, that’s what mattered. The time he spent with you mattered to him. And the time that mattered to you was the time with him. (Christiana Bay) Three years after Morrow and I were roommates in Jungwon University and teaching buddies in Mokpo, I had the privilege of flying down to Austin, Texas to visit him and the rest of our “Mokpo Mafia.” Morrow was the same wonderful guy, spending the whole day to show me around his favorite Austin haunts in spite of his chemo-sickness. Seeing him again brought back memories of our final dinner in Mokpo, when Morrow asked us to share annoying yet endearing traits about one another. We went around the table, six of us revealing secret annoyances in turn. Not intending to shame our friends, we shared only those uniquely annoying quirks which won us over – those which defined us as imperfect individuals, loved despite, and even for, our shortcomings. Morrow’s camera, that omnipresent, endearing annoyance, transformed my experience of Korea from one of vague recollections to one brimming with vivid memories. More than a camera, it was us he had strapped around his neck as he traveled to every corner of Korea. That was my dear Morrow. Thoughtful and loving, a true friend with an eye for the present and a mind for the future. I’ve not forgotten the trait of mine he found so endearingly annoying… my inability to tell short stories. Well pal, I hope that this long story does you justice. Thank you for the good times, 형 [1], and for sharing the photos that help me remember them. (Daniel Lambert) Henry Lyford, Samuel Izumi Han, Christiana Bay, and Daniel Lambert were all 2011-2012 ETAs. [1] hyeong, older brother