Issuu

FULBRIGHT KOREA

I N F U S ION VOLUME 10.2

Infusion aims to capture the diversity of the Fulbright Korea experience by publishing work from Fulbright Korea Senior Scholars, Junior Researchers, English Teaching Assistants and program alumni. We support artists in the creation of work which honestly engages with their grant year and their craft. The Fulbright Program aims to increase mutual understanding between the people of the United States and other countries through cultural and educational exchanges.

STAFF PUBLISHING ADVISOR Jai Ok Shim

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Matthew Walters

MANAGING EDITORS

MONITORS

Rachel Fauth Helen Packer

Heidi M. Little Tessa L. Sydnor

DESIGN EDITOR

ASSISTANT DESIGN EDITOR

PHOTO EDITOR

WEB EDITOR

Paige Aniyah Morris

Mara Guevarra

Eugene Lee

Talia M. Cowen

STAFF EDITORS

SOCIAL MEDIA COORDINATOR

Lisa Chang Gabrielle Goodloe Arya U. Mohanka Katherine Moncure Sarah Muscutt Annie Schaeffer Susan Skaza Jared Thompson Kendra Van Nyhuis

Taylor Kuramoto

OPEN WINDOW TEAM

Hattie Blair Shannon Coombs Alex Ford Christopher W. Hoffman

PUBLISHING COORDINATOR John Kaleekal

A ROK’n New Year’s Eve

Jared Thompson, Yongdusan Park, Busan

CONTENTS 2

Letters

Foreword

Jai Ok Shim + Robert Ogburn

Matthew Walters

A 45-Minute Exercise in Stalling Katherine Moncure

Mr. Yang Candy Lee

Niceness Sarah Muscutt

One More Time Heidi Little

Eastern Medicine at a Gangnam Café Eugene Lee

Damyang Rachel Fauth

Open Window Various Students

LETTER FROM THE EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR Jai Ok Shim, Executive Director of Fulbright Korea Dear Readers, I am proud to present Volume 10, Issue 2 of The Fulbright Korea Infusion. As the program year comes to a close, Infusion allows us time to reflect on our trials and accomplishments. This issue often works complementary to the first as an anthology of the unique yet shared experiences in the Fulbright Korea Program. Regardless of whether you currently live in Korea or not, you will likely discover a piece in which you can see yourself. Now, as the magazine continues to grow, I hope we can all look to the future of not only this magazine, but also crosscultural exchange between Korea and the United States. Several years from now, the written narratives and media showcased in this magazine will provide valuable glimpses into the histories and development of Korea from the vantage point of American Fulbright grantees who came from diverse backgrounds.

Let us further this important dialogue on the unique relationship between Korea and the United States through this publication. For now, please enjoy this well-produced issue, and let us appreciate the hands that came together to create it. Editors, writers, photographers, designers and several others have worked tirelessly to procure this magazine and I am proud of their exceptional work. I hope we can all take a minute from our busy schedules to reflect and learn from the contributors’ visual and written works. Thank you,

Jai Ok Shim Executive Director of Fulbright Korea

LETTER FROM THE MINISTER-COUNSELOR Robert W. Ogburn, Minister-Counselor for Public Affairs Dear Readers, It is my great pleasure to extend my greetings once again in the spring issue of the 10th volume of Infusion magazine. Congratulations to all who have contributed their energy and passion to highlight their experiences as scholars of Fulbright Korea. This publication stands as a testament to the diversity and creativity that makes the Fulbright program so unique, and it is evident from your contributions that the experience that one gains through Fulbright Korea is not limited to the academic or language exchange, as important as that is, but extends to something far more profound.

As I depart Korea, I take with me the knowledge that the ties which bind our two countries are stronger than ever. You should all feel extremely proud on account of the work you are doing in schools and communities across Korea as cultural ambassadors of the United States. Sincerely,

Robert W. Ogburn Minister-Counselor for Public Affairs

FOREWORD by Matthew Walters The end of the grant year invites a range of emotions: a sense of accomplishment, teary-eyed wistfulness and, perhaps most prominently, nervous anticipation for what comes next. That next step could be graduate school, another year in Korea or a year of searching. Regardless of what we’re wrestling with, many of us have our eyes anxiously fixated on the future. This kind of restless uncertainty is in our nature. But we’re going to be okay. Very little can be as challenging as taking on a different culture and career halfway around the world from our friends and loved ones. And yet, in the midst of this immense challenge, we have all experienced moments of growth and clarity. These moments equip us to handle our uncertain futures. From revelatory cafe interactions—such as in Sarah Muscutt’s “Niceness” and Eugene’s Lee’s “Eastern Medicine in a Gangnam Cafe”—to staying afloat in the classroom, like in Katherine Moncure’s “A 45-Minute Exercise in Stalling,” the lessons we’ve learned about ourselves will direct our paths in the coming year. Equally comforting is the fact that we will not be alone in the challenging decisions we must soon make. We will inevitably forge new friendships just as we did in this past year. The 60-year-old coworker in Candy Lee’s “Mr. Yang” and the fiveyear-old playmate from Heidi Little’s “One More Time” are some examples of the unlikely yet beautiful relationships we have all established. These bonds have undoubtedly changed and enriched us. Finally, we cannot forget that the future brings not only worry but a sense of wonder. As Rachel Fauth recalls a pivotal day in her experiences through “Damyang,” we, too, must take credit for the bravery and receptiveness we’ve honed during our time in Korea. We are ready for whatever is next. The future is frightening, but it is ours. I hope that the stories in this issue remind you of what you have accomplished and embolden you in a time of vulnerability. Please enjoy Volume 10, Issue 2 of Infusion.

Gwanghwamun

Heidi Little, Seoul

Palace Gardens

Tessa Sydnor, Seoul 5

A 45-Minute Exercise in Stalling by Katherine Moncure

Today is my second day of tutoring North Korean defectors, and I have absolutely nothing planned. Yes, I know that’s pretty bad. During the week, I teach at an all-girls high school and last week I tutored older students, but today I’m switched to a room with five boys somewhere between ages seven and nine. And I’m already sweating. These little boys can barely hold themselves in a chair. I take a deep breath. They ignore me completely, speaking in Korean and wrestling each other as my friend Emma and I try to get their attention. “Okay! Yay! Okay! Hello!” We both have absurd smiles glued to our faces as one of them glances at us, then keeps speaking Korean. Emma and I pat on the desk and their chairs, and a couple more students break their conversations to look toward us. A young Korean woman walks in to help, and she calls them each by name and gets them to be quiet for about 30 seconds. “My name is Katherine! Katherine!” They stare blankly and then gradually slip away. “My name!” I try to shout over them. “My name is Kae-suh-reen! Kae-suh-reen!”

“Chicken!” they all laugh. “Chicken chicken!” “Kae-suh-reen!” I reply. But honestly, “chicken” is English so it’s close enough. * Whenever I have a crazy lesson, I always think back to my first time in a formal classroom. It was senior year of college, when I volunteered to teach second graders immersion-style Spanish using a lot of hand motions, repetition and context. Our official training wasn’t until after the first week, so the organizers pulled together a short meeting to make sure we weren’t totally clueless before starting. Still, I felt like I was going in cold. I arrived at school that day to find out that the teacher I was supposed to assist (and the one who had a lesson plan) was in a meeting that day and there was a substitute instead. The substitute teacher was a small, middle-aged woman who sat in the corner of the classroom. “Do you know Spanish?” I asked her. She laughed. “No. Good luck.”

Before I had time to react, little kids streamed into the classroom and I could feel my heart rate increase. There were 23 of them, so I figured I could kill 23 minutes on names? * The little boys struggle to move to the carpet, and I quickly realize they cannot stand still in a circle and act like miniature adults, as I assumed they would. I think we can get them to learn Simon Says, and Emma and I start yelling the names of body parts. “Head! Head! Nose! Nooooose!” I shout about my nose as if I’ve just discovered it on my body, right there below my eyes. Sticking it up in the air, I jab it with my pointer finger, momentarily going cross-eyed to look at it. Two boys are still in their chairs—one has completely given up and has his face down on the table, refusing to speak to anyone. Another boy is half on the chair and half on the floor, his feet slowly sliding across the tile. Two kids on the carpet start wrestling again, and one of them pretends to have a gun. I pause from trying to play Simon says. Oh no, toxic masculinity already setting in. When I look at the boys as a group, they remind me of the musical scene from Charlie Brown Christmas, where all the Peanuts flop around in a weird sort of dance. Except right now, these little boys are pulling at each other’s shirts, and this is not a musical. This is the real life version. I glance at Emma, who seems to be just as lost as I am, and when I turn back to the boys, one of them is on the floor crying.

* After finishing “me llamo,”1 I looked at the 23 little kids on the floor in front of me. I had nothing left, and I had contributed a total of 23 minutes of service to public education. They looked back at me. I looked at the clock. It hadn’t moved much. Someone once told me that a good transition for young kids is standing up or sitting down. “Levántate!”2 I yelled and motioned with my hands to stand up. Feeling like a magician, I commanded the sea to rise. Once the whole class was up, I paused and said, “Y… siéntate!”3 They all sat down again. “Levántate!” And up again. “Siéntate!” And down again. “Levántate!... Siéntate!” We kept going like this for a while until some of them started to look confused. Thankfully, I remembered that we did Simón dice4 in our short training meeting. “Quieren jugar Simón dice?”5 I asked them. “Simón dice! Simón dice!” they chanted. This was an obvious winner. I let them take turns being Simón, but after about 10 minutes they got bored. We stopped, and one girl burst into tears. Apparently, she didn’t get to be Simón. Her scrunched up, tear-streaked face stared me down from across the circle. My name is / I call myself Stand up! 3 And ... sit down! 4 Simon Says 5 Do you want to play Simon Says? 1 2

Uhhhhh, oh god, oh god. I could feel myself getting sweatier now, the magic gone, to the point where I was sure the kids could smell my nervous body odor. Kids can smell fear, right? “Ahh, pobrecita! Estás bien?”6 She continued to stare at me. “Estás bien?” I repeated. I did a thumbs up and thumbs down hand motion. “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING!” she shouted across the circle. I shouldn’t speak English, right? That’s not allowed? “Quieres un abrazo?”7 I held my arms open, gesturing a hug. Reluctantly accepting, she stopped crying. I later found out that hugging students, or touching of any kind, is generally accepted as a Big Time Bad Idea in the United States. Who knew? * Emma checks her watch. 15 minutes to go. The crying boy gets ushered outside by the Korean woman who’s been translating for us. I watch him walk out, and his head is so big for his little-kid body, I wonder how it stays on. The kids can’t handle the carpet, so we move back to the table. I am determined to teach them “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” even though I’m terrible at singing, and my sudden start seems to draw their attention. At “mouth and nose,” my voice nearly cracking, I sing louder because maybe the louder I get, the more they’ll learn, right? Emma and I stick our feet up on the table every time we say “toes” and one of the boys is really into this—he sticks his feet up too. 6 7

Ahh, poor girl! Are you okay? Do you want a hug?

* The only song I knew in Spanish was about feet, and it was called “Pies.”8 The lyrics to “Pies” were pretty simple: “Pies pies pies, pies pies, pies pies!” (Clap clap). Stomping our feet into the carpet, we jumped around chanting. After a few repeats, finally, magically, we were down to the end of class. All the students stood up and formed a line to leave the classroom. A lot of them were smiling. Like they had fun? And learned how to say “feet”? They turned toward me and waved goodbye before shuffling out. I collapsed into one of the tiny chairs. It didn’t fit my hips, but I could make it work. * The last few minutes with these boys are eaten away by our efforts to keep them in their seats. Emma and I look at each other before edging toward the door. “Is it time to go?” I ask. “Yeah, it’s time.” “Okay...so...we can go?” Emma nods and glances at the students. They’re in their own worlds, talking to each other. For a moment I imagine the past 45 minutes as some kind of alternate reality, where I was actually the baby here, shouting random sounds at them as they speak a sophisticated language I’m still learning. And then one boy pushes his palm straight into another boy’s face. “Goodbye!” Emma and I wave our hands. They all suddenly seem aware of our presence, as if they had forgotten we were there. “Insa!”9 the woman commands. 8 9

Feet Korean etiquette, greeting/saying goodbye

They look up one by one before tumbling onto the rug. “Bye!” “Bye!” “Bye!” * We walk out. One lesson down, 11 to go. I think about the weeks after my first Spanish class at Oberlin College, and how the little girl who cried later became the most eager class participant. By the end of what had become a unit on body parts, she could remember more Spanish anatomy words than I could. For five minutes of my last class with them, I broke the Spanish rule to say my final goodbye. “She speaks English! I knew it!” someone shouted.

There were audible gasps. On my way out the door, they barrelled into me with a group hug, one that I was allowed to accept. Fellow teacher Riki meets us outside the NKD10 classroom. “Did you survive?” she asks, and Emma and I laugh. “Yeah, we did.” Maybe this will turn into a body parts unit too. 10

North Korean Defectors, English tutoring program

Katherine Moncure is a 2016-2017 ETA at Weongwang Girls’ High School in Iksan, Jeollabuk-do.

Sandbar

Sazzy Gourley Palawan, Philippines 9

10 10

Stagecoach

Rachel Fauth, Bagan, Myanmar.

11 11

Cherry Blossom Road Eugene Lee, Jeongeup.

Mr. Yang by Candy Lee The first time we meet is marked by a large bouquet of flowers and the click click of his DSLR camera. It’s departure day at Jungwon University, and I’ve just met my co-teacher. I’m nervous; my first impression of him is that he is older than the majority of other teachers in the crowd. Later, when I learn he is almost 60, I will tell him he is so young for his age. At first, we speak in stilted English, with many gesticulations and repeated questions. I talk slowly and carefully, measuring out my language before speaking so I can slice off any superfluous words that might be difficult to digest. He shows me our gyomushil1—ours, because it’s solely for English teachers, and in our small school, that means me and him. Our gyomushil is our sanctuary from the rowdiness that is an all-boys school.

There are succulents on the table—he shows me how they grow and how much water they need. When a spider’s egg sac hatches on one of the plants, he gives them a day in our gyomushil before bringing the plant outside—just because he wanted to see how far the spiders could build their web. When it’s cherry blossom season, he brings in a fallen branch and places it in a cup of water to see it bloom. He identifies the horticulture on the school grounds; plucking unassuming garden weeds and telling me that in his time, people used to boil and eat them. He tells me he wanted to be a tour guide for English speakers visiting Korea’s national parks, but he didn’t think his English was good enough. His teachers were German, and their pronunciation was very difficult to understand. The Korea he remembers is a very old Korea, one that lives solely through memories and history books. He has never ridden the KTX and tells me that his children frequent Starbucks although he himself has never been. Whenever I have a problem with anything tech-related, he goes to get someone else to help. Once I showed him how Google Drive worked, and it amazed him. 1

Teachers’ office

Cherry Blossom Festival Tessa Sydnor, Seoul.

When summer gives way to autumn, we go see the oksae2 during our lunch break and the danpung3 at Mudeungsan.4 He shows me a special tree that is used to make wine corks, teaches me how to differentiate pine trees based on their fascicles and takes me to an old friend who sings pansori5 for us. We go to the small island where he taught for two years and where the parents of his old students still call him to ask for advice. I hold wriggling abalones in my hands before eating them raw, drenched in sesame oil. We go fishing with a simple pole and bait, and every time I cast it into the water, I’ve got a floundering fish on the other end of it. They are sliced and cleaned of guts, then eaten raw with spicy gochujang6 sauce. Despite all our adventures together hiking and traveling, I would remember our gyomushil best. It was the space where we felt safe, where we would sit on the sofas and talk about politics and history with steaming hot tea in front of us. It was where I brewed coffee, and where I managed to get my co-teacher hooked on the delicious black beverage (no sugar for both of us). It was where drowsy wasps managed to fly in through the closed windows in the winter, attracted by the heat. He would bring in homemade yogurt made with the leftover school milk. Miscanthus sinensis, also called maiden grass. In the fall its foliage turns golden and silver from afar. 3 Fall foliage 4 Mudeung Mountain 5 A Korean traditional art of storytelling through a singer and drummer 6 Red pepper paste

We would eat cup ramen and go on shopping trips to Lotte to replenish our snack supply. If he disappeared mysteriously from the gyomushil, it usually meant he would return with some treat. Periodically he would go downstairs to the general gyomushil and bring back fried chicken and slices of pizza held on napkins. He asked me if I wanted sangchu7 because he was tending to the school garden. I went along once, and he identified all the plants for me: rows of purple and green lettuce, garlic, chicory, beans, beets, Chinese bellflower, green onions, carrots and potatoes. He showed me which plants would turn into tomatoes and which ones would grow into peppers. I would walk back to our gyomushil after, tracking in dirt from the garden. The second time we meet at Jungwon, he’s there empty-handed. We go to a flower shop and I pick out a plant—a huge, spiky succulent. The principal explains that it was my co-teacher’s idea to get a plant instead of a bouquet this year. Something that will continue to grow instead of something that will wither away. I can close my eyes and recreate our room down to the battered paper snowflakes taped to the window. Too soon, other people take our place in the thirdfloor gyomushil. But in my memories, we are sitting on the sofas, drinking our tea and coffee and wondering what sort of adventure we should try out next. 6

Lettuce

Candy Lee is a 2015-2017 ETA at Yeongsan Middle School in Naju, Jeollanam-do.

“What a rainy sky wants you to know is that you’re not alone.” — Tablo, Blonote

Cloudburst (series)

Mara Guevarra, Digital Media

Cherry Blossom Pup, Bryan Betts, Jeonju

Dogs of Burma, Rachel Fauth, Myanmar 16

Niceness by Sarah Muscutt

I stared at my 자몽에이드,1 which was sweating drops of water all over my clammy fingers. My thoughts did laps around my head, making me dizzy. How did I end up here, in this chair, drinking juice that’s too sweet and peeling a grapefruit with two girls I’ve only spoken to a handful of times? Why did I even have a grapefruit in my purse to begin with? That was perhaps the most pressing question. The absurd urge to laugh out loud bubbled up within me from some confused place, as the eyebrows of the two 언니s2 occupying the same cafe table moved just a little closer together on their faces. I could imagine what they were thinking. Why is this girl peeling a grapefruit? I didn’t have an answer, but I gave it my best shot. 1 2

Jamong ade, grapefruit ade Eonni, older sister

“The 자몽에이드 is too sweet, so maybe if I eat it together with my grapefruit it will balance the flavor better.” The explanation sounded dumb even as it was coming out of my mouth, but one of the girls had bought me the drink, so I couldn’t just take one sip and then be done with it. I was just trying to be nice. “Would you like a piece?” The tone of my voice ended on a note that was just a little bit too high to come out sounding like a normal question. The two girls looked at each other, then at the grapefruit in my sticky fingers. Their eyes found my face again quickly, nodding. “Yes, thank you.” I smiled sheepishly and gave each of them a section. The sweat that had been dampening my lower back began to dry a little.

I continued to alternate between sips of the sickly drink and bites of the tart, juicy fruit as one 언니 began to describe her recent trip to New York. She was speaking in Korean the whole time, so I only understood maybe 40 percent of what she was saying, but I nodded and tried my best to focus on the meaning as her monologue continued. She must know that I can’t understand most of this, right? I vaguely caught references to her friend’s boyfriend’s friend and her various interactions with him in New York. She added morals about life and relationships to the story that seemed to fall at random intervals because of the gaps in my understanding. “I’m telling you, I don’t think it’s wrong to date people of other cultures, but you know, some differences just really can’t be overcome in the end…” My mind flashed back to a note I had written a few weeks ago—something I thought had been forgotten, until now. This is definitely about me. * My first week in my placement, I went to church with my host mom, but by the second week I had found my own church to call home, and from then on I went every week. At first it was just something to do, but the church members welcomed me with open arms and many of my 집사님3 spoke fluent English. At church I found a piece of my identity from home, preserved, and I began to count on that little bit of familiarity to carry me through those first months of my exciting but draining new life. Every Saturday I sighed with relief as I slipped into my sanctuary, shrugging off my teacher persona which often felt so heavy and stained with mistakes by the time each Friday arrived. I latched onto the comfort of singing familiar hymns in Korean and felt the joy of becoming part of a community spreading through me like a cup of hot chocolate on a cold day. My Korean vocabulary of religious and spiritual terms quickly expanded. After a year I still can’t communicate with my bank in Korean, but just get me started and I can talk about the Holy Spirit all day long.

I joined the choir, as well as the Korean Young Adult group, strangely abbreviated as “KAY.” It wasn’t long before I was spending all my Saturday afternoons in the KAY loft after service and lunch chatting, eating snacks, playing games, singing and praying with my new friends. The days with my small group members began to stretch longer and longer, as we shared dinners, birthdays and evening bowling outings. One week in March I confided in one of my 언니s in the KAY group. 은비4 언니 and I sat with heads close together whispering about my crush on one of the guys, thoroughly enjoying the chance to act like middle school girls again. “I wrote a note to him in Korean confessing my feelings, but I was too scared to give it to him on Valentine’s Day,” I told her. Her face was serious when she said, “You should try anyway.” “Really?” I scrunched my face in skepticism. “Yeah, I would definitely want to know if someone liked me, no matter what.” “Oh, okay, fine. If you think so, then you give it to him.” I was taken by surprise when she agreed without hesitation. I pretended seriousness as I ceremoniously handed the note to her. She carefully unfolded it. Do you like me? Check “yes” or “no.” We both couldn’t help but erupt into giggles. Meanwhile, my crush was stuffing his face with snacks on the other side of the loft. Startled by the outburst, he looked up, always wanting to be part of the fun. Butterflies tickled my stomach as 은비 언니 carefully tucked the note into her purse. After the delivery of the note, I waited, feeling a bit foolish. I knew it didn’t mean anything and cared little about the outcome, but the suspense was entertaining nevertheless. I was prepared to dismiss the note and the boy, but I held 은비 언니’s kindness of serving as my messenger in my heart like the feeling of five o’clock sun on a summer day. * I sat captive, nodding and humming agreeably as their conversation unfolded. Eyes brimming with sympathy, their soft palms conveyed the weight of what they did not say, pressing me more and more heavily in my chair. I found it increasingly difficult to put together the words in either English or Korean and ask for the clarification that would make my head stop spinning. Even the confused little voice in my head thought it would be the wrong move to ask directly about the boy or the note. 3 4

Jipsanim, church member Eunbi, a woman’s name

I had thought of church as a sanctuary, an escape from fake niceness. And while the invitation to coffee had taken me by surprise, it had fleetingly felt like I was connecting deeper with my 언니 s in KAY, but now here I sat in a hard plastic chair feeling isolated, handled, put in my place. Is it because I’m foreign, or because I’ll leave soon that the guy rejected me? Is my Americanness preventing me from appreciating these 언니s’ gesture as genuine attempt at kindness? How did these girls even become involved? The mismatch of norms between our two cultures blurred my perception just enough in that moment that I couldn’t tell the difference between the inauthentic niceness of playing a role— drinking a too-sweet 자몽에이드 because someone kindly bought it for me—and authentic kindness displayed by 은비 언니 in delivering my note. I realized I had zoned out as the story began to wind down. My eyes slid to the table and I saw peels, little white fibers and splatters of grapefruit juice. I couldn’t finish the syrupy 자몽에이드. Do you really like me? Check “yes” or “no.” * I ran into my crush before the service two weeks after 은비 언니 delivered the note and my eyes darted quickly around his face, looking for a sign. He was tall with mischievous, twinkling eyes. His habit of getting distracted playing with any small child that crossed his path, his open, friendly face and a laugh that infected his surroundings with mirth often made him the center of attention in our KAY group. Strolling toward me, he smiled brightly, looked me in the eye and chatted easily about his week in his expressive Busan accent. Huh?

If he had dodged eye contact and made obvious attempts to avoid me from the time he received the note onward I would have read rejection between the lines easily, but this niceness was something new, and it utterly perplexed me. I went to my seat wondering if everyone could see how bewildered I felt and feeling silly about the whole situation. Who did I think I was, anyway? A foreigner, trying to flirt like a middle school girl, with a guy who doesn’t even speak English fluently, in church no less? “Let’s go get coffee,” one of my KAY 언니s said that afternoon after lunch, quickly grabbing her friend and whisking me out the door before I could decide what to think. You’ve never even talked to me one-on-one. I remembered the note as they took me by the arms on either side, smiling.

Sarah Muscutt is a 2016-2017 ETA at Gwangcheon Elementary School in Hongseong, Chungcheongnam-do.

Kaleidoscope

Nikki Brueggeman, Jeonju.

Inhale, Exhale

Erin Nishijima, Sokcho.

23 23

Afternoon

Katherine Moncure, Kolkata, India. 24

One More Time by Heidi Little “Il, ee, sam, sa, o, yuk…” I count up the numbers as I hear a rustle and giggle behind me, small, fast feet pattering across the wooden floor, a door opening. I know if I open my eyes I will see her, long black hair flowing, eyes shining, smile widening as she runs to find her hiding place. A minute ago, her small face looked up at me, coaxingly. “Soom-ba-kkok-jil, Hide-and-Seek,” she said. “Han beonman, just one time,” she said, delighted when I nodded my head in agreement. I finish counting and start moving from room to room in my host family’s third-floor apartment, searching. In the living room, I glance at her futon bed lying in front of the TV, the place where she showed me Big Bang’s “Fantastic Baby” and “Bang Bang Bang” over and over again. Her childish voice declared that G-Dragon was the most “sexy,” a word she probably doesn’t fully understand; I didn’t at five years old. The only figure watching TV now is a large, golden furball of a cat, relaxing as it knows the threat of being picked up and cuddled by small arms is temporarily suspended. I glance from the living room into the kitchen, noting the familiar white rice cooker on the counter and heavy, red iron pot on the stove. Maybe we will have potato soup tonight. One of my favorites. Some nights when the family is busy, though, we eat ramyeon.1 Not much of a cook, and not knowing how to light the stove, the first time making ramyeon for her and me to share involved a call for help. I laugh as I remember handing her my phone, knowing she could speak to her mother better than I could in my broken Korean, recalling how she stood by instructing me as I prepared our food, dishing out noodles and broth into her small, metal bowl—child-size chopsticks, spoon and fork at the ready. Now, the kitchen is empty. 1

Korean ramen

I pass into my host parents’ bedroom. Wooden lid piled with a disabling amount of clothes, an electric flyswatter resting on its bench, an upright piano stands in the corner of the room, inviting me to sit down and play. Finding myself living in a Korean home with a piano was a small miracle to me, and she liked it too. Standing or sitting next to me as I played, she would request her favorites from the song books I had carried with me from the States. “One, two, three,” happily beating her own tune on the keys above me to the waltz-like rhythm of the song. Now, the piano is quiet. “Heiding!” I hear her yell her special pronunciation of my name. She is getting bored and wants to be found quickly. I exit my host parents’ bedroom, passing down the hallway to my bedroom. Stepping into the room, I enter one of my own hiding places. Here the worry and stress of adapting to a new country, a new culture and new people is assuaged by an eclectic, but cozy, ensemble of cream-and-baby-blue wood furnishings; a purple and blue, zebrastriped rug; tall, fringed floor lamp; Union Jack bedspread; and rainbow, pony print valance. My hiding place has been disrupted before though. “This isn’t your room; it’s my sister’s. This isn’t your house, it’s mine,” she said in Korean, her young words stinging more than she possibly could have known or intended, as I contemplated how I didn’t belong. But now, the words don’t sting, tempered by the hug she gave me after coming back from a long trip, the card she wrote me in misspelled Hangeul2 and scrawled English: “Saranghaeyo. I love you. Welcome to Korea.” I find her. She is tucked under my bed, waiting to come out. As she emerges from her hiding place, she looks up at me again, coaxingly. “Han beonman, just one more time.” These words, now so natural to my ear, echo in my mind, and I too want just one more time; just one more year in Korea.

Korean writing system

Heidi Little is a 2016-2017 ETA at Seogwipo Girls’ High School in Seogwipo, Jeju-do.

Traveling

Heidi Little, Seoul.

Eastern Medicine at a Gangnam CafÉ by Eugene Lee

I glance at the time on my phone’s lock screen—6:52 p.m.—and sigh. My plate is bare, freckled with crumbs from the pineapple tart I devoured an hour ago to stave off my hunger. I glance around and see a tall, pretty girl smiling, her grin half-nestled into her palm as she watches what could be a variety show on her phone. Gold headphones complement her sky blue coat and black stockings, and the scene feels almost like a phone commercial, a sight you just don’t see in the countryside. Sitting in the corner of the café, I can see everything. I notice that it isn’t just this girl but several people sitting alone, reading or browsing on their phones. I wonder if this is common in the city, in that odd, hanging space between shopping and waiting for a dinner rendezvous. After all, it was tiring just walking through Gangnam, as not only the buildings but the people themselves conducted a sort of electricity that pulsated through you, a rush of intimate chatters, honking horns and wafts of street foods like fishcake, all funneled into streets only about three people wide. I lazily flick through a New Yorker article on my phone, trying to force myself to make use of my newfound free time.

I planned to meet a college friend at around 6:30 p.m., but he was never punctual. I glance out the window down at the street below. Everyone seems to be in a rush, a happy one at that: it’s finally time to unwind and meet friends, celebrate the weekend. A trio of girls walk by in laughter, covering their mouths with the pastel-colored sleeves of their sweaters. A man who was standing restlessly at the corner is pleasantly surprised by a woman who tackles his back. By the look of her polished business outfit, she must have come straight from work. The street has a reddish glow about it, one of the many passages in the maze of restaurants, bars and cafés that sprawl beyond the posh, blue lights of the main road. I readjust myself in my chair, envious of life in the city. Among other things, living in the city would mean living in a realm of possibility. “실례지만, 면접 시간이 있나요?”1 It takes me a second to register that he is talking to me. I look up to see a young man around my age leaning over my table, presumably to look less assuming. He has slightly messy curly hair, circular wire frames and a jumper that hangs loose around his thin frame—all in all, a typical young Korean man. “아, 사실 전 미국에서 왔어요.”2

Crowd

“Oh, well my English is not so good, but we can switch between English and Korean,” he says with a near-perfect American accent. “Do you have time?” I glance at my phone again: 7:01 p.m. When I last checked my messages, my friend was just leaving his home for the subway. “Sure, have a seat. So what’s the question?” “I’m currently a college student and I research at a Mind Institute nearby. In my spare time I like to survey people and see what they think about their religion and their opinion of…” he pauses to find the right words in English, “meditation and looking for calmness of mind.” “Sounds interesting and I’ve got some time— the person I’m waiting for is running really late.” The words jump out more enthusiastically than I expect. I had spent the past couple of weeks holed up in my countryside town.

Eugene Lee Harujuku, Tokyo, Japan.

Sillyejiman, myeonjeop shigani itnayo? Excuse me, do you have time for an interview? 2 Ah, sashil jeon migukeseo wasseoyo, Ah, actually, I’m from America. 1

I consider myself sociable, but I had grown rusty in simple everyday conversation. I place my phone facedown on the table. “Oh, but first, you said you were from America? Why are you here in Seoul?” “Actually, I’m not from Seoul, I teach down in Jeollabuk-do, near Jeonju. Have you heard of Jeongeup?” He pauses for a moment, mouthing the words to himself. Jeongeup, Jeongeup, Jeongeup. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of it… but Jeollabuk-do! That’s very far!” He smiles to assure me he is not trying to be condescending. “Yeah, I actually took a bus this morning. I’m only here for tonight so I can meet my friend before he goes back to America.” “Only one night?” he asks, eyes wide in surprise. “Yeah, but sometimes I come up to Seoul for longer periods of time. I just need to go back to teach.” “Ah, that makes sense.” He drinks some of his tea and picks up a black pocket notebook I didn’t notice before. “So what is your religion?” he asks, wasting no time. “Hmmm…Christian, but I would say I’m in a weird place right now.” I hate that question these days because words seal abstract thoughts into declarations. It doesn’t help that words sometimes prematurely leap forth, eager to fit snugly into social context. “Why would you say that?” He takes out a pen in anticipation. “Well… when I first came to Korea I was a pretty strong Christian, but it’s been hard living down in the countryside and well, you know, a lot of the churches in Korea are a little suspicious.” I hope the last part won’t offend him. He laughs. “Definitely. No, I understand.” He scribbles a few messy notes in Korean and reads them over. Satisfied, he looks up again. “And how are you doing?” The question catches me completely off-guard. “What do you mean ‘how am I doing?’ Like, in general? Or in my religion?” “In general. Like, life in general.” “I would say these past few weeks have been hard, teaching and whatnot. Actually, I haven’t seen many friends these past couple of weeks so it’s been a little lonely, but I’ve also gotten to really focus on myself…” I wonder why I am pouring out so many details—normally I would be a little more cautious.

“…I would say in general I’m doing all right.” But even as the words come out I begin to reassess them. Am I really doing fine? He nods and takes a few more notes. I notice that a line marked off my section, the two pages split into quarters, each with its own tangle of Korean characters, lines and circles. “Well, you look good,” he says, looking up. “Good?” “Yeah, I mean, you look happy.” A smile spreads across my face like a sigh of relief. “So you would say you’re happy, overall. Just out of curiosity, have you ever practiced meditation or anything like that?” I pause for a moment, reconsidering how much I want to share. “Formally, I did maybe two times with a counselor when I was really stressed out in college. But these days I’ve been looking for more pockets of time to leave free for a kind of meditation. I’ve been trying to look at my phone less these days.” “What did you think when you tried it in college?” “It was nice. I think people should try it and not look at it as a strange Buddhist thing.” As he jots down more notes I add, “I think there’s an unnecessary stigma around Eastern medicine… and that kind of relates to why I’ve been a little shaky with my Christian background.”

Smoke

Eugene Lee, Tin Hau Temple, Hong Kong. 31

“Hmm, could you talk a little more about that?” “So I just traveled to Japan a couple weeks ago, and there I was impressed by Shintoism. It was never something I had taken seriously before, but when I was actually there and surrounded by all of the beautiful scenery and quietness I couldn’t help but kind of understand why Shintoism exists.” Again, I’m surprised at how much I feel I need to unload—perhaps these experiences yearn to turn into words that declare their existence. “One of the best memories I have is going to a hot spring up in the mountains of Kyoto. It was outdoors and the snow came down in flurries; until that point I didn’t know snow could fall like that. It was completely silent—so silent I could hear my heartbeat. My friend broke the silence for a moment and said quietly, ‘They write poetry about this stuff.’” “Wow, so going to Japan really made you question your Christian background?” “Kind of. But I think it was more that it made me realize that these Eastern religions aren’t some voodoo but that there really is something to them.” He has a lot to jot down. As he writes, I give him a question: “So where do you study?” “Korea University,” he replies without looking up. When he does, his wears a nervous expression.

It’s likely that the prestige of his school has impacted previous interviews. But I shared quite a bit, and now it’s his turn. “And you just go around asking random people about meditation? Is it for a class?” “No, I just do it in my free time.” “In cafés? Don’t you think it’s a little weird to go up to random people?” He takes a beat to think back on previous interactions. “I do. At first it was really uncomfortable and lots of people rejected me, but you would be surprised. Once you get past the initial barrier, people do open up.” It isn’t hard to imagine him coming up to an older woman reading a magazine alone in the middle of a café, asking that question: How are you doing? “And what do they usually say?” “Obviously, there are a lot of Christians in Korea, so some of them don’t want to go further in depth about meditation, but I’m also just interested in how people live their lives. Are they happy? If not, why? What do they try to do to make themselves happy?” I can’t help but feel a little envious. Here is someone who is entering those spaces, ones that we let close because we lose ourselves in the beauty of romanticized interactions that, if acted upon, would shatter into rocky, awkward introductions. In many ways he starts to seem more mature than I am. “Well actually, I’ve got to go now, but would you ever be interested in coming to the institute? I promise it’s not a cult or anything like that.”

“I’m not in Seoul that often, but if I find time I think I’d be interested to see what you do there. What’s your phone number?” He types it into my phone and after exchanging names, I add (Mind) next to his contact information. “Thanks so much, maybe I’ll see you again sometime.” “Thanks, you too.” We shake hands and he departs downstairs, back into the electric crowd of atoms that, despite all of their potential, may collide once and never meet again. I look around. The woman watching her phone has long since left, and most of the seats have been replaced by new people. The overall chatter is a bit louder than before—I glance at my phone: 7:21 p.m. Though he has only been gone for a few minutes, it feels almost like it never happened. “Hey man, long time no see!” A familiar face greets me and he pats my back. “How’s it going? You want to grab dinner? I bet you’re hungry. Sorry I made you wait.” “No problem. It’s good to see you! But yeah, I’m pretty hungry, let’s go.” I gather my belongings, give him a hug, and we head downstairs. The air is a little colder than it was before, and there are more people to maneuver around.

A group of five boys slap each other on the backs as they smoke, laughing at some joke, and I hold my breath as we pass by. A couple slowly strolls along, in an entirely different tempo from the allegro propelling everyone to their evening arrangements. They hold hands and look at the lights above: the flickering white and blue karaoke signs, the dense, musky yellow that sets the backdrop for a bar and the constant, underlying red that permeates the streets. It’s amazing how all of these people, crammed in these narrow alleys, manage to keep moving without running into each other. I feel myself move between people without even thinking—only when I notice it does it become a little laborious, like when you catch yourself breathing. Suddenly I am no longer at one with the crowd, the sea that continues to push and pull underneath those city lights. For the briefest of moments, I feel an urge to pull someone onto the little cement island I find myself washed upon. It is as though my interviewer has dissolved into nothing but a single question, one that begs to be released. What if I pulled someone aside, out of the constant lull of the crowds, and asked: How are you doing? Are you happy?

Eugene Lee is a 2016-2017 ETA at Baeyoung High School in Jeongeup, Jeollabuk-do.

Coffee Shop

Tessa Sydnor, Cheongju.

34 34

Arashiyama, Kyoto

Eugene Lee, Japan. 35

Misty Playground, Bridget Harding, Seogwipo, Jeju-do

Damyang In the back seat of a car with three strangers driving three hours south to Damyang, traditional lute music on the radio. I think the man in the passenger’s seat is the vice principal, but the role of the man driving is undetermined. There are very few facts in the car. The first real gift I receive is the immediate kindness of a woman, Yoejin, sitting to my left, interpreting back and forth for the two austere middle-aged men and me. She looks to be about 20 so she’s probably about 32. Maternal energy, Christian, ponytail and front bangs, sleeveless dress with a short-sleeved T-shirt underneath, petite and assertive.

by Rachel Fauth

She’s diligently engaged in the act of translating and doing everything possible to break the invisible partition between front and back seats. Seatbelt-less, Yoejin leans forward to volley eye contact between us and the vice principal, creating this sort of triangular field between the front seats and the back. None of it is painful, just strange. She’s careful not to smush the two bouquets of baby’s breath and blue roses lying on the center console. Miles of green under an unsurprisingly gray sky whiz past outside Yoejin’s window and mine. When I speak, the vice principal doesn’t turn his head, so Yoejin sort of takes my eye contact and packages it

neatly, then delivers it to him. He looks back and responds something brief and syllabic. Yoejin catches it and passes it back to me, definitely taking creative liberty with her translation. “피곤하고 말라 보이는구나,”1 churned through her circuits becomes, “The vice principal wants to know if you are sleepy. He says you are free to take a rest when we get to Changpyeong.” In the initial hour, it’s this quality of hers that holds everything together like gravity. The phrase Yoejin, thank you for lying, streams quietly through my mind on loop. We pull into the gravel parking lot of a rest stop. I get out. It’s a long brown building standing alone in the Korean countryside. A wooden deck with a myriad of pop-up stands sells corndogs and other miscellaneous meat sticks; hot things in flat crinkly greaseresistant bags. I see some round, fried things covered in sauce and poked with toothpicks, grouped together in a little cardboard boat, and a Korean person holding it. Then, at staggered and surreal intervals, I momentarily pass Evan, Jared and Sun. I feel a total rush of either love or recognition. We instinctively smile and wave and make fleeting appearances in each other’s vision. Three familiar aliens similarly strapped into business professional and the heat, they’re each flanked by strangers en route to some destination far from Goesan, where we 1

spent the last six weeks with 73 other Americans preparing for this day. Shamelessly, I romanticize this aerialview image of all 73 of us trickling around the map of Korea. I picture them in the back seats of similarly compact Kia cars on the highway, ignorant of having hurtled in the same cardinal direction up until this point. I wonder at what moment on the road we’ll splinter off into different trajectories. We spread out and away in waves from a fixed center, like ink dropped in a glass of water. All the while Yoejin, vice principal, ambiguous man and I sit sweating at a folding table in a convenience store drinking canned coffee, trying to assemble mostly-silent triangular conversation. One hour to go. Big swaths of farmland and greenhouses, long foilcovered plastic cyndrillical structures. Rice fields and squatting women in visors preface the main street of Changpyeong. There’s a sudden slue of one-story concrete buildings, each labeled with peeling red or black or blue algebraic writing. They’re almost postapocalyptic. At the edge of town we pass only one pristinely-kept building. Beside a barred entrance gate, white hibiscus bushes grow into vines draped on the sidewalk. The hedges are pruned in the shape of stacked bulbs, swirls and other arbitrary designs. Yoejin: “That’s the school.” It passes by in a blur and immediately changes size.

Pigonhago malla boineunguna, (She) looks tired and thin.

Later that afternoon I arrive at my homestay, but the host family is out of town at a funeral. The day I arrive they are at a funeral. Perhaps these two facts have a complicated relationship. I have no idea. They could have no relationship at all. To my surprise, instead of moving into a room in their apartment, I’m told that I have my own apartment and the host family lives downstairs in a separate abode altogether, but I’m to have every meal with them for the next year. How to digest this? My apartment is well lit, big and empty, fit with a teal door. While I’m unzipping luggage a woman pops her head through the open doorway, hands me a key, smiles and disappears anonymously. When she leaves, it’s just me and my suitcase in this apartment. I time 30 minutes of unpacking my life before Yoejin shows up at the door. She and another ambiguous man come and shuffle me away to the grocery store. Walking down the snack aisle, the ambiguous man—another teacher, I learn—pulls a crinkled slip of paper from his back pocket. Reading, he asks: “Do you like Skinny peanut butter?” and I laugh when he picks up a jar of Skippy, buying me bread, fruit, water and peanut butter to put in the fridge just in case the family doesn’t come back until tomorrow night. The bread is sweet like cake. At dinner, the entire English department meets for samgyeopsal at a local restaurant—thick strips of baconlike pork barbecued at the table and served with a thousand side dishes in little white ceramic bird-belly-shaped bowls. We sit comfortably on floor pillows, pretzel-style and barefoot in nice clothes. Beside me, Yoejin takes a seat. 2

Korean rice liquor

There are 10 other English teachers who speak in mainly Korean; all jovial, mostly male and slightly drunk. They clink green bottles of soju2 above my head in my honor or perhaps in my excuse. Yoejin closes her warm brown eyes and prays. The dinner is for me, new foreigner, person who cannot and does not have to speak. New foreigner. Person who speaks when spoken to. Recipient of simple and direct compliments, free of obligatory dinner conversation, enjoyer of meal in peace. Sizzling on the grill, the meat turns from raw to edible. Silverware chimes around me in different tones, different tinny notes. An unintelligible language goes through a series of sweet translations I take with a grain of salt. My bowl fills and empties, fills and empties. Outside turns from day to dusk. I meet the principal who hands me a third bouquet and speaks one direct word for the night: Welcome.

Rachel Fauth is a 2016-2017 ETA at Changpyeong High School in Damyang, Jeollanam-do.

Tuang Tha Man Lake, Rachel Fauth, Myanmar.

Sunset, Sazzy Gourley, Bagan, Myanmar.

Through Rose-Colored Windows, Katherine Moncure, Jaipur, India.

Open Window is a creative publication showcasing the English and artistic work of Korean students. We are currently accepting submissions for publication on our webpage. For more information, please see Open Window’s Facebook page or contact the team through fulbright.openwindow@gmail.com.

Open Window Team, from left to right: Alex Ford, Hattie Blair, Seo Yu Jeong, Baek Ji Eun, Seo Ji Ye, Kim Tae Hyeun, Yun Byeol, Chris Hoffman, Shannon Coombs 41

Because I’m a Good Girl by Lee Myung Hee Moksang High School, Mokpo, Jeollanam-do Submitted by Shannon Coombs, ETA 2016-17 Because I’m a good girl If you tease me and hit my arms, I will smile at you. Because I am a good girl. If you take my things without my permission, I will nod at you to express that it does not hurt my feelings. Because I’m a good girl. Even if you shout at me “You are ugly!” Because of my kindness, I will say to you “Thank you” Because I’m a good girl. However, if you tease and treat my friends badly, I will hit you and make you embarrassed. Because I am a good girl and I want to be a good girl to my friends.

Winter Photos by Jang So Young

High School Breeding Farm by Lee Ju Hee Moksang High School, Mokpo, Jeollanam-do Submitted by Shannon Coombs, ETA 2016-17 High school breeding farm Students are like Korean beef because we are graded, like meat. Teachers are like farmers because they raise students to become better quality. That we attend school is a lie Actually we attend breeding farms. We are being raised for the slaughter. Society suppresses students and makes them become perfect. Students are restricted.

Changpyeong High School, Changpyeong Damyang, Jeollanam-do Submitted by Rachel Fauth, ETA 2016-17

Silence by Kim Jun Su Moksang High School, Mokpo, Jeollanam-do Submitted by Shannon Coombs, ETA 2016-17 People say being silent is actually answering “Yes” But my silence about you does not mean “Yes” That silence is just my way to enjoy that moment When you find me just smiling and studying in front of you Don’t rush. Please be happy in that silent moment together for me.

Can teenagers vote in the presidential election? by Kim Cho Ye Masan Girls’ High School, Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do Submitted by Paige Morris, ETA 2016-17 It is a big issue to teenagers who have interest in politics. I asked my parents and friends about this problem. So, I got many opinions with lots of reasons. I listened to pros and cons. First, pros said: When the teenagers are young, and if they have interest and participate in politics, they will have a good chance to express their opinions. When teenagers become adults, they will have much more interest in politics. Second, young people may have more proper political awareness, and they may suggest a right alternative. They can vote more objectively without local feeling than adults. Cons said: Teenagers are too young to elect the president.

There is a situation that the candidates state unnecessary public promises. So it is hard for teenagers to choose the proper president. For example, in Korea, the high school students must study hard to enter the good university. So, they don’t have enough time to agonize to choose a great president. They also are really too busy to vote. Considering this situation, I think it is a good opportunity for teenagers. It’s like if you save money. When kids are young and you teach about how to save money, they use money carefully. Teenagers are the future. They make their society. Giving the right to vote will have good effects. Therefore, in my opinion, it is necessary for us to vote.

Jeonju Hanok Village: My Family Trip poem and illustration by Im Ji Min Uiseong Elementary School, Uiseong, Gyeongsangbuk-do Submitted by Rebecca Brower, ETA 2015-17

I traveled with my family for a long time. The place we went to was “Jeonju Hanok Village.” Before starting the trip, I was excited to find the best restaurant and tourist attraction. I have always wanted to go there. After arrival, we started the trip wearing a Hanbok. I felt like I was a princess. There are many foreign tourists. It is a famous tourist place. It’s like heaven because there are nice places to take pictures and a lot of things that I can eat. This trip is one of the best that I have ever been on. I was happy with my family.

Snapshots

Photo Credits Page 46, Row 1: Rachel Fauth Page 46, Row 2: Rachel Fauth, Jason Addy, Heidi Little Page 46, Row 3: Lisa Chang, Bridget Harding Page 46, Row 4: Katherine Moncure Page 47, Row 1: Sean Blanco, Heidi Little Page 47, Row 2: Eugene Lee, Lisa Chang, Katherine Moncure Page 47, Row 3: Erin Nishijima

Lighted Path

Heidi Little, Jungmun, Jeju-do.

Cover photo: Jeju Fire Festival, Bridget Harding, Jeju-do. Open Window logo design: Kim Jun Seo, Moksang High School, Mokpo, Jeollanam-do. The Fulbright Korea Infusion EMAIL: fulbright.infusion@gmail.com WEBSITE: infusion.fulbright.or.kr FACEBOOK: facebook.com/fulbrightkoreainfusion INSTAGRAM: fulbrightkoreainfusion TWITTER: @infusion_litmag If you wish to contact Fulbright Korea, please email executive.assistant@fulbright.or.kr or call 82-2-3275-4000. The Korean-American Educational Commission in Seoul, widely known as the Korea Fulbright Commission, is governed by a board consisting of equal numbers of Koreans and Americans representing governmental, educational and private sectors. The board makes decisions on overall policies of the Fulbright Program in Korea. The Fulbright Commission is not responsible for opinions expressed in The Fulbright Korea Infusion by individual contributors nor do these in any way reflect official Fulbright Commission policy. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission from the contributor and from the Korea Fulbright Commission. Published by Asia Korea Printing, Inc.