Vignettes from the Metro

Bongmyeong Station, Seoul Metro Line 1, Dongnam-gu, Cheonan

Bongmyeong Station is nestled in a quiet corner of a mid-sized, mountain-ringed city on the north-central side of Chungcheongnam-do. The Line 1 Metro trains pass through it, carrying passengers leisurely toward Osan, Suwon and eventually, Seoul. Time exhales slowly and deeply between new arrivals here, on the southern edge of my first placement city.

This place reminds me of the many small journeys I embarked on with my friends. It recalls the slap of three pairs of rubber soles on the hot summer asphalt, the musky air rising from the gardens in the rainy season, and the aroma of the BHC chicken that my group carried for an improvised Thanksgiving. When I ride here in my memory, I see crumbs from the ham and cheese sandwich that I devoured with my neighbor, another ETA, after a hurried departure from Fulbright orientation. I feel the warmth of the July sun as I roasted s’mores with my summer camp students. And I feel the weight of conversations with a dear friend, grappling with our experiences returning to Korea as adoptees. Bongmyeong Station is a quiet, cozy place, and it echoes with the soft whispers of new friends who welcomed me for the first time.

Anguk Station, Seoul Metro Line 3, Jongno-gu, Seoul

Anguk Station is long, straight and narrow to maximize efficient foot traffic to both ends. Its brown brick walls and black wrought-iron railings bound a race track for commuters who jostle for pole position in the mornings. The railways squeal with the arrival of new passengers, the stone floors clap against hard rubber footsteps, and the turnstiles groan under unceasing rotations. Anguk Station hums with the manic frequencies of rush hour and the urgent motion of bodies.

I was blind the first time I walked out of this place. I literally could not see because the frigid air painted an impenetrable fog on my glasses. With each breath, I saw less of the world. I felt like a bat in my black winter coat, wrapping my wings around my body, using echolocation to judge the distance to the nearest footfalls. I would have laughed, except that I was also blinded by sorrow. Each step forward brought me closer to a new school and further from my first one. I understood that I was walking toward a desirable placement, one that offered support and opportunities to grow. One that many others had sought. But I was also walking into an unknown space, in the cold, far from the city I loved as a second home. 

As I trudged through the biting cold, I wondered if my former principal was standing outside the school, waiting to greet the students like he always did. I wondered if my previous co-teacher was briefing the new ETA on the textbooks. I wondered if my students remembered the s’mores I had made with them last summer. I wondered and worried, and I listened for the footfalls ahead. 

Riding through this place now, after another year, I can see. I can see the wide platform where my students smiled and waved at me after a busy exam season. I can see the broad columns that I leaned against while talking about dinner plans with other teachers from my school. I can see the tall staircases that I raced up at the start of each morning, and I can see the sunlight that hit my face halfway through the ascent. Slowly, after each ride at rush hour, discussion with a teacher, and greeting from a student, I warmed up to my new placement. I can see now that kindness flows through this place. As I ride away, I carry the farewells and notes and class photos from my time here. The next time I walk through a cold winter to an unfamiliar destination, I will hold these memories for warmth.

Haeundae Station, Busan Metro Line 2, Haeundae-gu, Busan

Haeundae Station lies several blocks inland from the beach. It is planted so far away that you can only see the blue waves on a sunny day if you squint. The station’s exits deposit travelers onto the surface with no cover. On stormy days, the stairs and passengers all shine with a coating of rainwater as they enter the underground portion. The walls and ceilings, like the train cars here, wrap around people and are no larger than necessary. A far cry from the Seoul Metro’s cavernous stations and wide trains.

When I think of Haeundae Station, I remember the fat, soaking rain in typhoon season. There is something oppressive about feeling a raindrop fall so fast and hard that it immediately soaks through a jacket sleeve. There is something maddening about the whistle of water blown sideways in a gale. Even on sunny days, though, I feel a weight that clings to me. I feel the raindrops falling on me when the eyes of a waiter search through a group of my friends and then lock onto mine. They have assigned me the role of translator without uttering a syllable in my direction. I hear the gales whip past my ears when the taxi driver asks if I am Korean, even though I have stayed silent the entire journey. They want to confirm what they think they know about me. But they do not know me. They do not know that I was born here but taken and raised elsewhere. They do not know that I grew up speaking no Korean. They do not know that I have answered these questions dozens of times and have never had my answers accepted as satisfactory. They look at me but do not see me. They hear me but do not listen to me. The raindrops soak into my clothes, and the wind whistles in my ears.

Living in Cheonan or Seoul, I can fold the messy tapestry of my childhood into a box and shut the lid. I can avoid erroneous translator duties by walking into a restaurant at the very rear of my group. I can dodge piercing questions from taxi drivers with vague allusions to immigration. I can slow the typhoon to a light drizzle if I try hard enough. In Busan, however, I feel the full weight of my history as an adoptee. I was born here. I was taken from here. I cannot hide from it here, pressed into a small train car and shivering under my wet clothes.

[Featured Image by Victoria Thiem]

Incheon International Airport Terminal 1, Airport Railroad, Jung-gu, Incheon

Terminal 1 is one of a few stops in a big loop, ferrying travelers between Seoul and Incheon International Airport. The best time to enter is in the evening, when orange sun rays bounce down from the glass roof and give warmth to the gray platforms. I am riding toward it now in my thoughts, leaving Seoul and its tunnels behind a haze of memories and meonji.

When I think about Terminal 1, I think of saying “see you later” instead of “goodbye.” I think of getting my nose swabbed on a freezing December morning and hugging a loved one before shuffling through the stark white security line. I think of waving to companions departing for home and wondering when I would see them again. I think of boarding an airliner for a short visit to a friend in the southern hemisphere. The day will come soon when I walk off the metro in the belly of Terminal 1. It will be my turn to fly home, a one-way itinerary. 

I think of journeys in loops and circles, of wanderings away and back again. I think of the friends and mentors I have ridden beside on this journey, the ones who have left, the ones I will leave behind. I remember the land and its miles of tracks, looping through the cities, linking the people together. As I think of boarding the airliner at the end of this journey, I know I’ll say “see you later,” a phrase I could not know when I was first carried from Korea a quarter-century ago. This time, though, I know my way back. The metro continues onward. People get on and off. It will still be here when I return, and I will ride it again someday.