INFUSION
Cover Photo
Infusion
Volume 17
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.
Hanok in Summer, Stuart Sones, Seoul
Magazine Staff
Francesca Duong (2nd Year ETA)
Anna Kate Daunt (1st Year ETA)
Claire Wyszynski (1st Year ETA)
Kate Refolo (2nd Year ETA)
Amrita Adak (1st Year ETA)
Andrew Ramirez (1st Year ETA)
Alyssa Burris (1st Year ETA)
Paige Roussell (2nd Year ETA)
Isa Koreniuk (2nd Year ETA)
Rebekah Park (1st Year ETA)
Grace Turley (2nd Year ETA)
Michaela-Katherine Taylor (1st Year ETA)
Editor-in-Chief
Literary Managing Editor
Lifestyle Managing Editor
Design Editor
Literary Staff Editors
Lifestyle Staff Editors
Monitors
Victoria Lee (3rd Year ETA)
Social Media Coordinator
Heidi Little (Fulbright Program Staff)
Web Editor
Publication Coordinator
1. Francesca Duong, Seoul
2. Victoria Lee, Seoul
3. Heidi Little, Seoul
4. Kate Refolo, Seoul
5. Alyssa Burris, Cheongju, Chungcheongbuk-do
6. Isa Koreniuk, Cheongju, Chungcheongbuk-do
7. Amrita Adak, Pohang, Gyeongsangbuk-do
8. Andrew Ramirez, Pohang, Gyeongsangbuk-do
9. Anna Kate Daunt, Jeongeup, Jeollabuk-do
10. Paige Roussell, Changwon, Gyeongsangnam-do
11. Rebekah Park, Changpyeong, Jeollanam-do
12. Grace Turley, Naju, Jeollanam-do
13. Michaela-Katherine Taylor, Mokpo, Jeollanam-do
14. Claire Wyszynski, Seogwipo, Jeju-do
Letter from the Director
It gives me great pleasure to congratulate this year’s Infusion staff on the publication of Volume 17 and to invite all of Infusion’s readers into further exploration of the Fulbright experience through the stories, artwork, and photos it contains. As represented through the diversity of Infusion’s pieces, and the creators they reflect, the Fulbright experience is unique and made colorful through everyday adventures and personal encounters.
Each year, we celebrate as new cohorts composed of academics, artists, researchers, students, and professionals create their own experiences in Korea and the United States. In the process of doing so, they learn and teach much about themselves, their communities, and the world, challenging preconceived notions and building better understanding on both a global and a local scale. With Fulbright Korea’s 75th anniversary approaching in 2025, we are proud of the many decades of discovery and exploration Fulbrighters have made possible, enriching lives through the formation of lasting connections in an often complex and changing world.
engineering, and mathematics (STEM). The first cohort of Fulbrighters receiving these grants, under the U.S.-Korea Presidential STEM Initiative, are currently conducting their projects in Korea and the U.S., embodying the Fulbright Program’s consistent efforts to expand the spread and acquisition of knowledge across communities.
We hope that, through Infusion, even more knowledge is shared, and we thank the Infusion staff for their dedication in giving voice to members of the Fulbright community. We also thank the authors and artists who have willingly added their voices to the conversation about what the Fulbright experience has meant for them. We hope you find new ideas and encouragement as you read Infusion Volume 17.
Within this changing world, the Fulbright Program has changed too, responding to personal and societal needs. Most recently, Fulbright Korea has expanded the opportunities it offers through grants focused on the bilateral development of advancements in science, technology,
Kind Regards,
Dr. Byungok Kwon Executive Director
Korean-American Educational Commission
Letter from the Embassy
Welcome to the 17th Volume of Infusion!
As we approach 2025, we look forward to celebrating the 75th anniversary of Fulbright Korea. We hope you will join with all of us in the broader Fulbright Korea community in honoring the tremendous achievements of the past seven decades and in exploring new horizons together. I have been privileged to have had an inside view of what makes Fulbright great as a member of many selection panels over the years and often as one of the first to hear excited alumni share their stories shortly after returning home from their Fulbright year. It is inspiring to spend time with such talented individuals, but it is their commitment to strengthening the bonds between Korea and the United States that makes Fulbright more than other exchange programs. By becoming Fulbrighters, they become part of a larger world of ideas and values that have driven the prosperity and security of our two nations. While we look back with pride, it is equally important to channel all that talent and dedication to envisioning the possibilities and responsibilities that lie ahead.
Korea is uniquely positioned to deepen this partnership. Our alumni, both in Korea and the U.S., represent an incredible network of talent, creativity, and commitment. Together, we can continue to build bridges that not only strengthen academic and cultural exchange but also align with Korea’s aspirations to be a key player on the global stage.
One of the key pillars of this future is innovation. Fulbright’s STEM programs have already driven collaboration and breakthroughs in areas like AI, green technology, and healthcare. In the coming years, we aim to expand these initiatives, integrating cutting-edge technology and innovation into all aspects of Fulbright programming. By doing so, we ensure that the Fulbright community remains at the forefront of the global challenges and opportunities of the 21st century, contributing to the shared prosperity of both nations.
Indeed, the future presents us with remarkable opportunities. With Korea’s emergence as a global leader, and its growing role on the international stage—demonstrated by hosting the 2024 Summit for Democracy, its non-permanent seat on the UN Security Council, its chairmanship of APEC, and the trilateral engagement with the U.S. and Japan launched at Camp David—Fulbright
As we celebrate 75 years of Fulbright Korea, let us remember that our greatest achievements are yet to come. With the continued support of our alumni and partners, we can build a future defined by collaboration, creativity, and shared progress. Thank you for being a part of this journey.
Robert Post
Minister-Counselor
for Public Diplomacy
Embassy of the United States of America Chair, Korean-American Educational Commission
Letter from the Editor
It seems as if only minutes have passed since the airplanes arrived at Incheon International Airport and Fulbrighters stepped into a new country. The future was unknowingly packed with excitement as each day opened new adventures to explore, new relationships to build and new challenges to learn from. These memories hauntingly linger as the realization dawns that the 2024 grant year is quickly coming to an end.
Welcome to the 17th Volume of Infusion, the Fulbright Korea magazine. This issue’s theme revolves around nostalgia, and takes us on a journey through the tender and complex memories that shape our lives, particularly those formed during our time in Korea. In this edition, we explore the ways in which nostalgia invites us to remember, reflect, and ultimately move forward.
Our contributors have captured this spirit beautifully in their essays, poetry, and personal reflections. Some take us back to their first days in Korea, filled with excitement, curiosity, and even a touch of homesickness. Others look back with the benefit of hindsight, reflecting on how their time in Korea continues to influence their present, reminding us of the power that lived experiences have in shaping who we are. These stories highlight the nuances of cross-cultural exchange, where nostalgia serves as a bridge between two worlds—the one we left behind and the one that still lingers in our hearts.
This edition opens with Stories I Wish I Could Tell my Grandfather, authored by Jen Choi. She invites the reader to thoroughly explore the complex emotions of being unable to express her new discoveries about reconnecting with her Korean heritage to her late grandfather. The mix of happiness, excitement and regret are all feelings that ebb and flow throughout the rest of the magazine.
Following Choi’s piece are two poems, “Good News” by Laura Evans and “a pocket full of ( )” by Amrita Adak. Evans beautifully encapsulates the essence of nostalgia by listing everything she misses, yet resolves this feeling with the empowering realization that she can rely on herself. Adak similarly reflects the sentiment of missing someone while slowly moving toward acceptance of a new life.
As we continue turning the pages of the magazine, a different dimension of nostalgia emerges. Sometimes, people struggle with living in the present as they are simultaneously being pulled back by the past. Ribka Tewelde’s A Sneaky Kind of Love captures this turning point by describing the transition from missing home to embracing a new love for one’s current life. Nimi Vachharajani’s “To Wander: A 시조 Poem” follows, reminding us that one push forward on an unknown past can allow us to find a new home. Andrew Ramirez’s Pizza Shop Iced Americano centers us more deeply in
the present, reflecting on the challenge of breaking old habits to fully experience the richness of life in a new place.
In the middle section, home starts to become a clearer idea. “Ode to Ochang Lake Park” by Maya Nylund conveys a moment of embracing a new home, while the city of angel numbers. by Kamea Macusi evokes a more somber, reflective tone as the author makes peace with her time in Korea. Reflections Through Water by Nimi Vachharajani marks a turning point in the magazine, offering reflections on learning and healing from difficulties while acknowledging the limited time spent in Korea—an insight that leads us into the resolution of the magazine.
The final set of works bring the magazine to a close with reflections on legacy. Christine Lee’s The Second Side of Anger offers a heartfelt reflection on a teacher’s legacy through the story of a student, leaving us with a sense of hope for the future. Subsequently, Tori Thiem’s Reflections Through a Viewfinder tells the story of a photographer’s journey, documenting her individual legacy through her work.
Closing out the magazine are the winners of this year’s student competition. These bright students created masterpieces centered around the idea of “community,” a cornerstone of the Fulbright Korea experience. Without community, we would not have wonderful memories to look back on.
As you read through the pages of this edition, we hope you are transported not just to Korea, but to your own personal moments of nostalgia—whether they come from your time in a foreign country, or simply from your life’s journey thus far. These reflections remind us that while our Fulbright experiences may be unique, the emotions tied to them are universal. In a world that moves so quickly, there is value in pausing, remembering, and cherishing the paths we have walked.
Thank you for being part of this journey with us, and we hope that through these pages, you find moments of reflection, comfort and a renewed connection to your own nostalgic memories.
Francesca Duong Editor-in-Chief 2nd Year ETA, Seoul
July on Jirisan , Stuart Sones, Jirisan
Stories I Wish I Could Tell My Grandfather
By Jen Choi
Every late November or early December for the past 17 years, my family and I drove down from New Jersey to Virginia to visit my grandfather. Always around the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, the annual trip would begin with a visit to 할머니’ s1 grave before sharing a meal with 할아버지2 and spending time together in his home. Korean traditions wrote much of our time with 할아버지, from the deep 인사3 we would give to greet him to the containers of home-cooked 밥4 and 반찬5 that my mother would bring to fill her father-in-law's fridge. This would be the one time each year I would see my grandfather. Yet every year, as we drove down along the East Coast to see him, I would feel a pang of nervousness because of the language barrier that had developed between our generations.
Korean school was forced upon me during my elementary and middle school years, after which I did what I could to resist my heritage. Most of my friends were not Korean American or even Asian American, and Korean felt unfamiliar and awkward on my tongue. A consequence of my rejection of my heritage was that visits to see my grandfather were often uncomfortable, out of fear that he would say something to me
1 Halmeoni, Grandmother.
2 Harabeoji, Grandfather.
3 Insa, Greeting in Korean culture that generally consists of bowing to show respect.
4 Bap, Cooked rice or a meal, but in this case referring to cooked rice.
5 Banchan, Side dishes, a staple of Korean meals.
that I wouldn’t be able to understand or that he would ask me something that my limited Korean language abilities would leave me ill-equipped to respond to. Most of the memories that I can recall of 할아버지, especially from when I was a lot younger, consist of 할아버지 giving—like the times he entrusted me and my siblings with prized possessions such as pocketbooks and old family pictures, or the times he gave us 붕어빵6 ice cream to munch on as a sweet dessert. Year after year, my siblings and I would perform 세배,7 as our annual visits were shortly before the New Year. And year after year, despite the fact that we had all grown well beyond the age of receiving 세뱃돈,8 할아버지 was always eager to give it to us. 할아버지 filled whatever gaps existed between us due to language with his generosity.
Last year, 할아버지 was 94 years old. Over the years, his condition had declined significantly due to many health concerns, especially with his hearing and speaking. The decline in his physical condition happened to be around the same time as when I started to truly connect with my Korean heritage for the first time. Part of this journey of connecting with my heritage involved relearning Korean as an adult, which
6 Bungeoppang, A popular fish-shaped pastry that can also be enjoyed in an ice cream form
7 Sebae, A Korean tradition on New Year’s Day in which one performs a deep bow to their elders
8 Sebaetdon, A money gift given by Korean elders on New Year’s Day to those who perform sebae, generally to children
saw much progress through self-study during the pandemic. But as I was making progress with my Korean language abilities, 할아버지 was losing his ability to communicate altogether. The last time I had seen him, in December 2023, he had long been unable to speak and had just been released from one of several recent hospitalizations. Because he could no longer hear or speak, i there was never an opportunity to tell him that I was going to live and teach in Korea for a year.
할아버지 ultimately passed away on December 15, less than a month before I moved to Korea for my Fulbright grant.
As I reflect on my time in Korea so far, I find myself feeling incredibly grateful for many things, I among which are the relationships I have built with people here. Before coming to Korea, I never had the courage to speak in Korean with Korean adults other than my parents. Now, more than halfway into my grant year, I can think back fondly on memorable experiences and meaningful conversations I’ve shared with coworkers at school and with relatives who I’ve come to visit often.
Yet, for as much joy and gratitude as I feel for these interactions, ones that I couldn’t have imagined just a few years ago, I realized recently that I also feel a deep sadness for the fact that I was never able to experience this with 할아버지 . I wish that I could communicate with him with the greater ease that I am now able to with my Korean coworkers and aunts and uncles. I wish that he had known that I would be in Korea before he passed. I wish that I could tell him about how my experience has been here and how I am reminded of him, especially when I spend time with my dad’s side of the family; 고모9 bears a striking resemblance to him and has brought him up in conversation. But it’s not just about the things I want to express to 할아버지 —I also want to hear from him directly about the life he lived here in Korea before he emigrated, especially now that I myself have set foot in the motherland. I want to hear him share about what it was like for him to leave his homeland in his late 50s to immigrate to the States. I want to ask him what joys and challenges this experience
9 Gomo, Paternal aunt
brought him, in search of a possibility that perhaps there are similarities to my own experience of moving across borders. I realized recently that I mourn not just the loss of 할아버지 but also the conversations we never got to have and the stories I wish I could tell him.
One of the last things that 할아버지 ever said to me was about five years ago, when he expressed how proud he was of me for being a teacher. At the time, I had just started teaching only a few months after graduating college. In the years since, moments of discouragement with teaching have often brought me back to these words, and it has never been without feeling deeply moved. For all the obvious sadness about what couldn’t be shared between us during 할아버지’s lifetime on earth, there is also a comforting hopefulness that he would be proud of me now for living and teaching in the motherland. And at the same time,
living in the land of my ancestors has taught me to appreciate my indebtedness to 할아버지 and to all of the other generations that have come before me. I’ve come to recognize that I get to be here because of their legacies and resilience, and I hope that I can continue their legacies and resilience meaningfully through my own journey, both here in Korea and back home in the States. I don’t know what my life will look like after this year—where I’ll be living, whether or not I’ll even still be teaching—but I know that I will look back at this season now, in Korea, with gratitude for how this time has formed me and for the experiences I have had that have become stories worth sharing. And while I may not be able to share these stories with my grandfather now, I look forward to sharing them with the generations to come. May they not be stories I wish I could tell but stories that will have been told, met with stories that I will be privileged to listen to.
Our 2024, Victoria Lee, Seoul
, Tori Thiem, Seoul
Good News
By Laura Evans
I miss groggy steam rising my coffee maker, growling over grounds begrudgingly distilling joy-scented promise
I miss tracing cracked leather lines my steering wheel, sliding through my hands relinquished for two tense grips: bus pole and handphone
I miss unripened shades of green my weekly cluster of bananas, awaiting consumption now I wait, resigned, for fruit in its season
Miss understanding conversations in passing solving crosswords with my mother each morning testing the bounds of my physicality
Craving such small comforts like knowing how green lights cycle at neighborhood intersections which chocolate milk tastes most like my childhood what unbothered street offers space to dance unobserved
But twice daily, commute between harbor and hills painted in sunlight, I am overwhelmed sitting witness, stenographer of this serendipity
Untitled, Jeffery Huang, Gyeongju
The good news is: These days I distill my own joy dance in the morning suppress a smile, work myself awake
The good news is: A bowl of soup needs no translation love, placed on the table before me its grammar, conjugations of compassion
The good news is: I can call home miles of distance, hours of time mere ellipsis when I hear “Hello?”
The good news is: I reinhabit my neglected body as I sweat and I breathe blue belt on black gi1
The good news is: I am content in this
Life: collection of iterations on old habits. I’m rebuilding Connection: the kindness of humanity, my anchor Gratitude: embodied, the sun rising over my skin and the sea.
1
The Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu uniform.
My Corner of the World Pink, Anne Penrod, Yongwon
View from Up Top, Michelle Wei, Daegu
Angel Mural Alley, Jen Choi, Yeosu
a pocketful of ( )
By Amrita Adak
backdoor, backyard, last year
brown skin littered with little flowers pockets so dauntingly heavy they press me into the pavement
a rap on the door then two then questions partner with questions but find no answer i let my phone ring out into the honey-dew summer air a pocketful of missed calls ones that feed a starved hope while humoring some uncertain regret and
Rekha mashi1 reaches out sometime in the fall two tickets sit on the table next to an empty fruit bowl a cabinet full of medicine the crisp sound of leaves under feet like stitches coming loose at the seams sometime between today and tomorrow, Change will come knocking at the door and a distant echo will rattle resolve, questioning ever so quietly whether i’m prepared a pocketful of yesterday’s earphones ones that you could still tangle and rip to pieces and
1 A Bengali word used to refer to someone who is an aunt or has close enough ties to be regarded as an aunt.
an email sits patiently wondering when it’ll be opened it’s already been a few weeks in a foreign land but the chill in the air feels like a factory reset words that had become easy now make doubt linger in all the liminal spaces a longing that would take a thirty three hour ferry to cross did you know?
i now say hello to the sun and moon before you a pocketful of lost time and polaroids ones with smudging little love letters scrawled across the back and
in the suffocating heat of summer a misguided nose weeps sweat forms a perfect silhouette of a body in bed, unmoving vulnerability picks at my nails just as it does my conscience reminiscing about a soft touch on the forehead, a cool cloth’s kiss a pocketful of yesterday’s missing puzzle pieces ones that somehow click into place with today’s unrest and
i miss you i miss you
i miss you, i think.
Summer Ending, Victoria Lee, Seoul
Wandering Path, Laura Evans, Geoje-do
Ueno , Jeffery Huang, Japan
Secret Garden , Michaela-Katherine Taylor, Mokpo
A Sneaky Kind of Love
By Ribka Tewelde
Dear reader,
You know that line from “Love Actually,” the one at the very beginning?
"If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around."
That quote has echoed in my mind ever since I settled in Namwon, Jeollabuk-do. They say love here is tucked away in the embrace of Jirisan, and the lanterns in the town square wink at you as if they know something you do not. The town is even called the “City of Love,” thanks to the iconic story of Yi Mong-ryong and Sung Chun-hyang. Their tale is everywhere, painted on the walls, a constant reminder that love once triumphed here.
But I have to be honest with you.
At first, I did not really give Namwon a fair shot. I was always looking for an escape—hopping on buses and trains to big cities every weekend. Chasing the allure of Itaewon’s buzz, Haeundae’s glittering beaches, or Mokpo’s cable cars, I barely spent any time here, only coming home to work,
eat and sleep. I couldn’t even tell you what my daily commute looked like because my mind was already focused on the next trip. Looking back, I regret not slowing down enough to really see the charm of the town right in front of me.
Now, I will be even more honest.
Transitioning from life in the U.S. to life in Korea felt like being dropped into a whirlwind. I was constantly fumbling my words, missing social cues, and feeling like a burden to my co-teacher. I could never tell if my students were actually engaged and enjoying my material or just enduring my classes because they had to. The strain of navigating a new culture wore on me, and back home, life carried on without me—graduations, weddings, even my baby cousin’s first steps all unfolded while I was an ocean away. The familiar sources of love and comfort were nowhere to be found.
Back in the U.S., one of the ways I often showed love was through organizing and mutual aid, but being so far from my friends, who were all still deeply engaged in social justice work, made me feel powerless and detached. It was as if life was passing
me by while I was stuck here. At the same time, I could not escape the hyper-visibility of being a foreigner in Korea, where I am always noticed but simultaneously isolated. My bed became my refuge after long, tiring days. I was exhausted—physically and emotionally. Namwon became the backdrop to my struggles, reminding me of everything I felt I had lost. I was so focused on the love I had left behind, I did not leave any space for Namwon.
And yet, reader, this city still tried its best to love me anyway.
As the days passed, cafe owners began to recognize me, offering personalized greetings that consistently brightened my days. One sunny morning, a kiddo shyly waved hello on his red, electric bike. I waved back, giddy, now pleased to have a positive start to my day. In another instance, an older woman exclaimed, “예뻐요,”1 as I walked through her decorative store and I just couldn’t help but smile after receiving such a lovely compliment. Earlier in the year, the math teacher handed me a bag of my favorite chocolates and a bottle of water as I walked into school—a subtle, grandfatherly gesture of care. Throughout the monsoon season, my usual cab driver consistently offered me an umbrella reminding me of my fussy aunt that would always ask if I had enough
1 "Pretty."
money and supplies to tackle the day when I was back home. I saw big smiles and heard choruses of, “안녕하세요 선생님,”2 in the convenience store from children in the neighborhood. I always responded with an even bigger smile and said hello back. One of my students wrote a thoughtful thank you letter that brought me to tears. (I know we are not supposed to have favorites, but hey, I’m only human). On my birthday, my co-teacher gave me my favorite sweet treat with a beautifully written note, and she has continued to be a wonderful mentor and work friend throughout my time here. And as my family and friends gradually visited Korea, they fell in love with Namwon, too— its hospitality and warmth captured their hearts just like it eventually did mine.
In the end, Namwon’s love was not in its mountains or legends—it was in the quiet gestures, the smiles and the unspoken warmth of the community that welcomed me long before I noticed. Love was here all along, gentle and steady, waiting for me to see it. So dear reader, don’t be like me— rushing past the moments and people right in front of you. Sometimes love is already there, nestled into the spaces you have been overlooking, patiently waiting for you to discover it.
With love, Ribka
2 "Hello teacher."
Let's Roam Together, Ribka Tewelde, Namwon
ToWander:A시조1
Poem
ByNimiVachharajani
In the cold I found myself in a land far from all I’d known. Budding leaves inspired hope, cherry blossoms evoked rebirth. Summer storms washed away the hurt. Is to wander to find home?
Spiraling, Victoria Lee, Seoul
1 Sijo, a traditional Korean poetry style originating from the Goryeo dynasty.
Pizza Shop Iced Americano
By Andrew Ramirez
I couldn’t tell what had woken me up. Had it been the damp heat that had made the blanket stick to my skin? Or was it the blinding sun that had managed to perfectly slip through the window and land directly in my eyes?
It was 8:47 a.m. Before living in Korea, I could have never imagined getting up so early on a Saturday morning without a commitment in place. Here, distant from so many things, I was also distant from my typical sleep habits. I was playing by different rules—rules I could try to read but would never fully understand. So I decided to quit fighting them and just start my day.
“It’s just part of the experience of being here, part of growing up,” I half-heartedly reminded myself once again.
Going through the motions of my morning routine, I now searched my cabinets for coffee only to find my usual can empty. Feeling at a loss, I rummaged around my kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding at least one stray packet of KANU instant coffee. I had developed a habit at work of grabbing an afternoon packet just to procrastinate a never-to-be-brewed second cup—only to remember my intentions upon finding it in my pocket at home. Today, however, my habits had failed me. Not one packet showed up.
In a bout of desperation, I suddenly found myself atop my kitchen counter, peering into my cabinets. From this vantage point, I could see something different in these cabinets I had been routinely opening and closing
at roughly the same times every day. Here were new parts, new angles of these familiar roommates I had learned to ignore. It may well have been the delirium of a caffeine-less morning, but there was something forming in my heart as I examined these cabinets from several unusual angles.
Since moving here, I had so quickly fallen into a routine that I had failed to peer outward into my neighborhood with the same scrutiny that I had for my cabinets. Just as I had always regarded my cabinets in the same way, I always went to the same convenience store, sat at the same cafe, took the same route to school, shopped at the same grocery store, waited for the bus at the same stop. If even these cabinets were filled with new sights, what was waiting for me just two stories below, in this industrial town just south of the river?
A Bike Ride in the Village, Jen Choi, Yuchon-ri
Warmth, Tori Thiem, Seoul
Stepping out from under the overhang of my apartment building, I was reminded that the heat inside was nothing; the swelter of the morning sun humidly clung to me as I walked in the suffocating air. It was a wet burning: a sensation that quickly had me sympathizing with the boiled fate of the rice I had made last night. But, I braved this heat to chase away the banality of my routine— and, of course, to find some coffee.
I made the conscious effort to take in all my surroundings—all the businesses and structures which constitute this place I’m calling home for now. I was looking for coffee, yes, but I was also searching for a fuller sense of understanding. I passed by raw fish restaurants, salons, a bicycle shop I had never seen open before, billiards clubs, PC rooms, study cafes and both dine-in and delivery-only chicken shops. So many places for people to work in, meet in, round out their existences in—and I had never
really bothered to take proper note of them until now.
After two hours of roaming about, I still had not found any coffee to drink. As I was taking in all the signs of the shops I had previously ignored on this path, my eyes landed on the storefront of a chain pizza shop. I had probably seen its name before on some (shamefully) overused delivery app, but its storefront stood unfamiliar. Just as I was about to look at the next shop, a small yellow and blue sign in the corner of the glass door stopped me: “Iced Americano: ₩1,500.”
Remarkably cheap, I thought. Might as well give it a shot.
The notion of drinking such an Americano, the sole coffee product of this pizza shop, was ridiculous. But, such ridiculousness perfectly fit my day’s goal of breaking my numbing habits.
I walked over to the store’s glass door. The pleasant chime of the bell hanging above the door alerted the owner to my presence. With an apologetic and confused look, he quickly told me that no pizzas were ready for pickup yet and that I should come back sometime later.
With some nervous laughter, I tried explaining to him that I hadn’t ordered anything and didn’t want a pizza. I gestured over to the sign on the corner of the door and asked for one cup of coffee.
“Iced Americano?” he repeated back to me with a perplexed look. He tried telling me that, if I would like a pizza later, he could put the order in for me and I could pick it up around lunchtime. It was a kind gesture that could have quickly recovered our interaction from the awkward, bitter pit I had pushed it into. I thanked him but insisted on just the coffee. He obliged my request with only
a higher degree of confusion and went to the back.
Quickly, he returned with a paper cup with ice and walked over to the water dispenser next to the cash register. The cup now full, he reached under the counter and pulled out a packet of KANU instant coffee. As he mixed it, we exchanged the usual conversation between a foreigner and business owner. I told him where I was from and what I was doing in this town where surely I was the only American. Both of us seemed more at ease having engaged in these pleasantries. I awkwardly tried asking about how business was in a broken sentence, but he was patient with me while I stumbled with the words.
He handed the cup to me and took my card in turn. Swirling the cup around and watching the ice spin in a circle along the rim of the cup, I did it. I took my first sip.
To my still-groggy mind, the flavor felt oddly comforting. Prior to living in Korea, I had never really been fond of black coffee, habitually needing it with some kind of milk. But, here, I’d come to be quite fond of this bitter—yet refreshing—taste.
I had forgotten that the owner was there until he suddenly asked me if the coffee was alright. I turned around and told him that it was better than I thought. Taking my final sip, the ice in the cup pushed against my lips, stinging. In its aftertaste, a dissatisfaction lingered. I had enjoyed this anything-but-habitual experience. I was even sure that the smiling store owner, too, must have enjoyed part of this. Yet, I had expected something more from this. There was no liberation awaiting me.
I crumpled up the cup and threw it away. Wanting to laugh at myself, I turned to leave.
Walking Naksan, Kelly Reid, Naksan Park Wall
The owner wished me well. I then wanted to ask him if he knew what he was doing was ridiculous—selling this instant coffee out of a chain pizza shop. But, if I did, I knew he’d stare at me blankly and ask the same of me.
Leaving the store, I turned around to see the owner removing the yellow-and-blue Iced Americano sign from the door.
The paper cup now long behind me in the trash can of the pizza shop, I searched for a satisfying ending. In the ever-relentless heat, I walked to the shadeless river just north of my neighborhood. Hyeongsangang was something of a friend to me at this point. I made a habit of coming to see her to clear my mind, to reorient myself. Here, there were no signs or storefronts to shamefully neglect. Here, I stood distant from my un-caffeinated anxieties.
Whenever I came to this river, I would only look toward the west, toward her source. Looking downstream, I would be met with the giant steel factory looming over the scene as an unanalyzed symbol of importance to this place I hadn’t been able to grasp yet. Walking west, I felt my heart come to an ease as I looked at the river’s unfolding. I saw a flock of ducks in the water diving for lunch, just where I had seen some the week before. Across on the other bank, I saw kids playing with their parents along the riverside trail, just where I had seen some the week before. Just beyond them, I saw some couples taking photos in the rose garden, just where I had seen some the week before.
Habit was all around me. These ducks and happy people across the bank were not failing themselves by embracing habit or routine. They were doing what they could
for themselves because this life can be hard. Discovering what makes it easier is important. Life here, as an inexperienced foreigner, is hard. Habit is not failure. It is a strategy for survival.
Breaking habit, though, can be lovely in itself. Seeing new things, feeling new ways about the familiar, challenging oneself— these are beautiful things that can spruce up a life that is survived by habit. I decided then that I should make a habit of breaking habit. To go out and try to reexamine what has faded into familiarity—all, too, without shunning that familiarity.
Shameless and content, I walked over to my usual coffee shop for a second coffee: an iced latte. At the cafe window, I sipped my coffee and looked out and onto the river below. In the water was a fish jumping upstream. In a uniform direction, with a haphazard rhythm, it chased the setting sun among verdant, overlapping hills, struggling against the steel-bound flow.
Gate of the Forgotten Temporary Capital, Kelly Reid, Busan
Crossroads, Michaela-Katherine Taylor, Japan
My Corner of the World Green, Anne Penrod, Changwon
Ode to Ochang Lake Park
By Maya Nylund
PSA traveling at the speed of pixels spelling balloons of trash, chemical spillage, I don’t look today. I know. It says: meters and meters of rain The runoff gushes into the ground, vortical— I walk here everyday. Old ladies flap walking sticks and fishermen’s hats, crinkle-faced as the apple dolls out of Amish country graceful sweeping in the Jinro-bottle green. A family of ducks lives behind that bush, there, dinosaur nostrils and yellow enamel breathing— remember when the world was liquid swamp?
This place was scooped from the dry earth, manicured marsh, an artificial lake; once there were lotuses, but now there are none. The benches are marked for lovers. They walk the LED moonlight while we talk at the pace of pixels, always orbiting, never nearing, and I remember—that everything is expanding and dissolving, the whole world tending towards entropy. The mold spores splattered across my gym’s ceiling, reeds mangling water, the home address I don’t know by heart—
Remember? That to prune is to give attention to, but to disentangle is to love. A man shelters under a pagoda, head shaking, rueful with delay, knowing that to expand is also to evolve. The lake swells, roiling, swallowing the flood. The horizon may unsettle you, the neat and numbered apartments, but this place reminds. We must unravel to grow. My cuticles constantly fraying, the dampness always in the bathroom, the laundry in the corner and the dust bunnies at the doctor’s, spinning toward the dark…
the city of angel numbers.
By Kamea Macusi
The first syllable of this city’s name still catches in my American born-and-raised throat, unable to determine just how much space should be made, how slack my jaw should be, the placement of my too-large tongue and grinded teeth. It’s as though every time its name slips past my lips, I’ve come across every iteration possible, except the true one.
A year ago, over the course of just six weeks, time spent in sudden close proximity with strangers led to even closer friendships, nights of drunken laughter, days of endless banter, moments of quiet understanding.
It’s amazing how the workings of the human heart can transcend the arbitrary rules of time and space—the rules of language and culture.
I found myself in an unfamiliar space soon
after, suddenly ejected into the corner of a car filled with overpacked luggage, school superiors, and a colleague-turned-friend. There, I learned how the city we were driving to was home to her. I only hoped that it would become the same for me.
If the city was anything like her, I knew only beauty awaited me.
I met a family that helped heal wounds of my own that I hadn’t realized were so deep. They showed me that a healthy dynamic could exist in spite of pain and trauma—that this was just something they would work through as best they could, time and time again. They saw my shortcomings and met me with a love that celebrated both our differences and our shared life experiences. They taught me that spoken language is secondary, for as long as you wish to understand the person before you, then understand you will—the building
Frame, Jeffery Huang, Busan
of bonds despite the brokenness of language.
I met peers who made my everyday life so vibrant, like the red spider lilies that grew in our school’s garden, like the wisteria that hung above us on our way up the hills. People brilliant like the blinding reflection of light from the ocean below, well-seen from the vantage of the cable cars warmed by the sun of a Saturday afternoon. Moments of warmth shared over cups of yuja tea, sweet compliments in the form of ripened watermelon, kind consideration in the opening of an umbrella over an already rain-soaked head.
I met students who gave me reason to keep going. Children who still hold such wonder for life, who are still trying to determine what it means to thrive in a system that barely hopes for them to get by. Children who still see the world in the full array of color before the beginnings of adulthood come and push them into the dreariness of black and white.
But perhaps the shades and hues found in this city’s street corners and shorelines could keep them searching beyond the extremes. This place could show the children that between the ebb and the flow, there will be moments where the waves settle. When they can take the time to savor some 딸기모찌1 as tourists filter in and out of the turtle ship nearby, to race down blocks illuminated only by the streetlights leading to 낭만포차거리,2 to ride the city buses labeled with angel
1 Strawberry Mochi, one of Yeosu’s trendy foods
2 Romantic Carriage Street, a street in Yeosu that many tourists visit for its night view of the ocean and streetlights that light the way towards different food vendors
numbers to guide their paths both home and away, to sit at any of the seaside cafes and watch the glistening water. I hope that when they see the waves catch the crystals of the sun, they realize that the beautiful sight before them can only occur when the sun and sea and moon work in tandem. Always together, never alone.
They are my sun and I am their moon, reflecting the light that they shine.
They are my sun and I am their moon, reflecting the light that they shine.
A mere push and pull is all I can offer, small movements to create rolling waves.
But they are life-giving, fiery and brilliant.
And even when they become an echo of a memory, when time has long since clouded the clarity of once was, I will try to carry this light they’ve allowed me to witness, never forgetting what it meant to bask in their warmth.
Farewell to this romantic city of mine.
Farewell to the sand-riddled socks discarded near beachside picnic spots.
Farewell to the art-filled walls of hidden gems.
Farewell to the delicious foods that draw envy from all corners of this country.
Farewell to the kindness of strangers, to the offering of snacks and of seats.
Farewell to my beloved friends, colleagues, and students.
Fare well.
Night Bus, Shastia Azulay, Gyeongju
A Night in Color, Michelle Wei, Busan
Haeundae, Isa Koreniuk, Busan
The Hand, Tori Thiem, Pohang
Reflections Through Water
By Nimi Vachharajani
One of the first Korean words I learned in my city was 물멍, mul meong. It’s a word that most novice Korean language learners are unlikely to have come across, and it roughly translates to the act of staring at water—any kind of water, whether it be in a fishbowl, a pond, or the ocean—and becoming fully immersed in its presence.
My Corner of the World Blue, Anne Penrod, Geoje-do
My school is a marine sciences high school, and so naturally, there are always about three fish tanks in the teacher’s room where I work. Coincidentally, my school is also on a hill that overlooks the ocean, so being surrounded by all kinds of water all the time, I often find myself 물멍-ing without even realizing that I am doing something that is such a distinct part of the culture here, in the eastern coastal city of Pohang.
Being made aware of the existence of such a term was like discovering the external manifestation of a concept that had existed within the realm of my mind forever. The more I thought about 물멍, the more memories 물멍 unlocked. Memories all somehow connected by water, resurfacing simultaneously.
***
The waters of the Arabian Sea that line the city of Mumbai were warm yet turbulent, painted with hues of brown and gray. Reminiscent of complicated times— memories of eating corn on the cob with the sound of waves crashing in the background, the chatter of visiting crowds, the playful laughter of children and kites flying through the hazy polluted air. Moments of childhood. And later, memories of returning when I could no longer see the world the same way.
The gray hues in the water evoked dread. The waves crashed onto the shore with a painful loudness that drowned out the spirited sounds that were mere echoes of
what had once been. Sights, sounds, and smells that had once been so dearly familiar now operated with a profound lifelessness.
What truly stood before me and what I saw in the visual of my mind’s eye were oceans apart. Things had changed and they would never be the same again.
But, time heals. Water heals.
***
Halfway around the world, the waters of the Pacific Ocean—waters that color the coast of Santa Cruz a bright turquoise blue— were waters of hope. From a time when the currents no longer retained invincibility, walking through tumultuous waters felt like more of a welcome challenge than fighting against the force of a thousand oceans. Allowing the cool, calm waters to tantalize my toes, I focused all my senses, inhaling the ocean's salty notes and permitting the sound of crashing waves to soothe me again as it once had.
Now, I find myself on the other side of that very sea.
Since moving to Pohang, I have passed by the ocean on the bus every single day on my way to work. With every passing day, it only grows more mesmerizing. On sunny days
with blue skies, the East Sea is a bright yet rich blue. Overcast skies transform the same sea into a beautiful blueish gray. With every prolonged gaze, I discover the water’s ability to evoke emotions intertwined with memories I had packed away secretly like a message in a bottle thrown out to sea, the memories that I had attempted to banish to depths I had desperately hoped were out of reach. ***
I find myself facing the waters of the East Sea in a different timeline, as if my entanglement with the other, now faraway seas was an eternity ago, in another lifetime even. Pondering by the waters on the coastline of Pohang makes all my timelines, all my worlds, all my lifetimes collide in my mind. Yet when I look at it, all I see is a mirror. A mirror of growth. The touch of the seas of the past now shines in a nostalgic light that carries every memory and paints it a calm, collected blue.
As I continue to 물멍 on a regular basis, my mind floods with an increasingly intensifying awareness of the impermanence of my stay here. And as turbulent as the waters of my mind may get—with the high tides and the lows, the soaring crests and sunken troughs—I wonder with the excitement of a pitter pattering raindrop which of the seven seas will give rise to a metamorphosis again.
Aquarium, Michaela-Katherine Taylor, Japan
Sunset Stragglers, Laura Evans, Geoje-do
The Second Side of Anger
By Christine Lee
When I applied for the Fulbright grant, I mentioned in my application that I wished to become more fluent. At that time, I meant in the Korean language. Two years later, unwittingly, I have become more versed in another language—one that I have yearned for years to understand.
As a child, I hated how my mother seemed to breathe anger. A poor school grade? Anger. Letting a slight against me go? Anger. Picking at my chapped lips? Anger. Even when I got lost at Joshua Tree National Park for two hours, my mother did not run at me crying with open arms when she found me. Instead, she yelled. Angry. Always angry. Theoretically, I understood. Anger was how she showed care. She grew up in a war-ravaged country in which children regularly starved to death during the winter. She survived dictatorships, poverty and the loss of parts of her identity, dignity and humanity as an immigrant in America. She learned how to make herself hard like her own mother because like her, she lived to survive. Her daughter, however, who had the emotional fortitude of a hamster, demanded a softness that she, herself, rarely received. So, we fought endlessly.
Despite having mostly grown out of these battles for quite some time now, working as a native English teacher at a middle school in the motherland returned me to the front lines. At school, I operate under the guise of barely knowing any Korean in front of the students. Thus, involuntarily, I have become privy to certain vulnerable conversations and weathered the friendly fire of a considerable number of scoldings in
my corner of the teacher’s office, especially those from a teacher (“Teacher”)1 who disciplined in a way that I can best describe as “compassionately angry.”
Initially, the way they2 raised their voice caught me off guard. Not shy of cursing or shouting, their scoldings gave me war flashbacks to my own childhood. Yet the very students who came in yesterday to face Teacher with their heads bowed would come in today and lean their heads on Teacher’s
1 “Teacher” will be used in lieu of the teacher’s name to protect and respect privacy
2 The gender neutral “they” will be used to maintain Teacher’s anonymity
Untitled , Maya Nylund, Jeju-do
shoulders, whining until they finally got their fill of Teacher’s attention. Initially, the juxtaposition jarred me as I wondered how the students were not repelled. But then I realized that these students came to Teacher not despite, but rather because of their admonitions.
For as long as I live, I don’t think I’ll ever forget one particular student (“Student”)3 and the scolding they4 received. It was early in the morning when Teacher dragged Student into the office and plopped them down onto a wooden stool, demanding an explanation for Student’s repeated tardiness. Through my peripheral vision, I recognized their lanky, hunched frame. Student was a quiet kid who didn’t know phonics but masterfully doodled on every page of their English textbook. Other teachers had also noted their inability to focus and had shared with me reports from Student’s elementary school behavioral record.
At first, Student said nothing, sitting with their shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. A moment passed before Teacher repeated themself in a carefully measured tone. In response, Student mumbled a generic apology, shoulders rounded, eyes lowered, hands clasped. Even without looking up, I could feel Teacher’s growing frustration.
What followed was a lecture not out of the ordinary. Had Student thought about how their repeated tardiness meant their 벌점, or “punishment points,” were stacking up to the extent that even with volunteer service, it would be difficult to get rid of them all? And
did they realize what it meant for their high school prospects if they were to graduate with 벌점 on their record? Also, what about the fact that their late start throws them out of sync with the rest of their class? It was only the beginning of the year!
Then, Teacher asked a question—a mundane one about family life.
Student did not answer.
Teacher tried again, rephrasing their original inquiry in case it was misunderstood.
Again, radio silence. Then, a slight shift in posture. I glanced up. Was it my imagination or did Student’s shoulders fold more inward?
Something must have clicked for Teacher then. Something I had missed completely. Teacher’s voice dropped octaves to something between a whisper and a murmur.
They asked their third question, loaded and heavy.
At the weight of it, the arch of Student’s back rose sharply as they caved into themself. From within the fortress of their body, something passed between their lips, but the words dissolved the minute they touched the air, too quick for Teacher to catch despite now hovering over the child. One more time, Teacher pressed for an answer.
And in the air that stood patiently still, we heard a reply that shattered our hearts.
3 “Student” will be used in lieu of the student’s name to protect and respect privacy
4 The gender neutral “they” will be used to maintain Student’s anonymity
I looked at Student who had become a ball balanced on the stool. They had their head cradled between their hands and knees as if enduring an earthquake. I could see their world shake.
Delicately, as if unraveling a spider web, Teacher coaxed out details from Student. Then, Teacher sighed a prolonged sigh— one that conveyed the understanding of an adult who knew too much. That parents can prioritize their wants over their children’s needs. That siblings can share a bond as nonexistent as that between strangers. That a student can hide a world of hurt and loneliness behind antics that secretly call for help.
Thud. Thud. Thud. No words. Just thuds as Teacher half-slapped, half-stroked the back of the ball balanced on the hard, wooden stool. Thud. Thud. Thud. Student resembled a threatened pill bug that had collapsed into itself. Yet with each blow, their grip on themself loosened and slowly from the mound emerged a child—tired, wary and impossibly young.
Finally, Teacher spoke, “아침은? 밥은 먹었어?”5
Student shook their head. Teacher immediately began rummaging through their drawers where they located a packet of fruit snacks. “At least eat this, then go back to class.”
With two hands, Student gingerly accepted the paltry rations. Teacher then stroked Student’s head roughly, the pressure making their head bob. Teacher sighed, “Eat well because you’re going to have to grow up quickly.” Then, Teacher huffed, their breath heated with resigned frustration. “Grow up quickly so that you can live yours freely… you must grow up quickly.”
And despite the hefty pats to their head, under Teacher’s hands, Student grew. Working against gravity, their spine unfurled and locked into place one by one. The lanky child whose vulnerability now laid bare on the hard, wooden stool finally stood up with fruit snacks in hand. And when they did, the air around them shifted. Like the thinnest layer of dust, peace shrouded them. It was the strangest phenomenon, like noticing that
5 “How about breakfast? Did you eat?”
Volcanic Sweep, Shastia Azulay, Jeju-do
a person’s hair grew a millimeter longer or a piece of lint was missing from a sweater, but somehow, I saw it. I saw a person transform that day.
From then on, Student became a regular at our office. After completing their cleaning duty, they would trot over to Teacher, sometimes resting their chin on Teacher’s shoulder to request a prize, which Teacher would dole out in the form of Tootsie Rolls, swats or curses. During the occasional scolding, Student would stand at attention with their head bowed, but gone was the child whose eyes were empty. Though they still preferred doodling over learning the English phrase of the day, Student tried in their own ways. After all, never again were they late to school.
The interactions between Student and Teacher taught me the full meaning of the statement: “the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy.” Yes, Teacher yelled, but almost instinctively, their students understood the essence of their language. Perhaps, for the first time in their lives, an adult was showing them care; perhaps, for the first time in their lives, an adult was angry at their behavior because it sabotaged the very few prospects the students had for a better future. While a person who has lived all her life submerged in loving care may analyze, intellectualize and then demand care to be given to her in a specific way, for a handful of students whose parents have seemingly worked hard to build a life away from them, care, even in its crudest form, was all they wanted.
Reflecting on my relationship with my mother, I find myself revisiting certain memories with more compassion. Her anger at my poor academic performance was because she cared; she believed so much more in my potential than I did, so she
fought for it. Her anger at my willingness to be pushed around was because she worried for her only child, who will sometimes have to fight for things that are rightfully hers to begin with. Her anger at my picking was because she intended to prevent harmful habits before they became routine. Finally, at Joshua Tree, her yelling was the eruption of all the emotions that engulfed her during the two hours I was gone: fear, despair, grief, frustration and stubborn hope. If she did not care, she would not have reacted so explosively in the first place. Although I still wish to redo certain moments with my mother so that our emotions do not punctuate each breath of our back-and-forth, I also look forward to hugging her as tightly as possible when I return home at the end of the grant year, for in all the languages she spoke and in all the ways that she could, she loved and cared for me.
That, I now understand.
Just the Two of Us, Tori Thiem, Busan
Symmetrical, Michelle Wei, Gyeongju
In Perfect Alignment, Michelle Wei, Busan
Lanterns That Silence, Michelle Wei, Seoul
Reflections Through a Viewfinder
By Tori Thiem
There is a saying within the photography community that goes, “The best camera is the one you have with you.” In other words, what you capture is more important than how you capture it. Although good gear can help, technical perfection or superiority mean little without thoughtful content. Anyone can take meaningful images of their lives with what they have—phone, film, digicam, DSLR and so on—given practice and opportunity. In whatever state, such tangible memories are priceless.
It took me more than ten years to fully understand the weight of that sentiment, and it is now the impetus feeding my passion for photography. I am most often inspired by the idea of momentary existence as it relates to my experiences. Thus, wherever I am, I am persistently drawn to capturing instances of people interacting with their environment in addition to impressions of life as implied by structures and objects. The world through a lens is limited—focused and faithful in freezing a split-second reflection of the past, however minute. There is something intimately compelling in the way that moment is infinitely viewable.
To take a picture is to observe, contemplate and capture time. It is a meditative, ever-changing practice that is unique in memorializing two lived experiences: my own and that which I perceive.
With every press of the shutter, I get a little thrill of excitement. It is breathtaking when the photo comes out exactly as I envisioned it; but, when something unexpected appears and creates a composition that is beyond my imagination, it is even more exhilarating. Although it might take a few tries or re - compositions from a different angle, the pursuit of a photograph is so enduringly captivating. This process of preserving a brief moment within the constraints of a viewfinder has, over the years, taught me how to observe and exist among people in a world that can move a bit too fast at times.
I was not always this intentional about photography. Pictures, for my family, were a means of remembering people during special events. My maternal grandparents were refugees in the late twentieth century who fled from the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia with their five children. Ma and Kong, my
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grandma and grandpa respectively, were pillars who held our extended family together in their large, multigenerational home. Ma especially was a dedicated and strong-willed matriarch who regularly organized open-invite meals for all and provided extensive childcare for my sisters and my cousins and me in our early years. Their house was a place of wonder and comfort, where memories of their lives throughout the years were preserved and prominently displayed on the walls in photographs.
Those images of important events and portraits, where everyone stood, nicely-dressed, smiling at the camera, largely influenced my idea of what made a picture “good.” After I got a camera, I willingly became the de facto family photographer during our frequent gatherings hoping to reach that ideal. These events—hosted at Ma and Kong’s house where most everyone in the family came early to prepare and stayed late to clean up—had chaotic but familiar, well-practiced routines. I was not yet confident in handling a camera, so in between setting up and playing with my cousins to avoid the boring adult parts, I snuck blurry photos without much thought: Ma and my aunts skewering meat sticks on
the kitchen floor and Kong and my uncles rearranging the furniture and decorations.
Sometime after the event properly began and all the guests had arrived and eaten, I would be called to arrange the group photos and direct my relatives to move here or look this way—a responsibility I accepted with teenage faux-confidence accompanied by an exciting rush of unfamiliar authority. As time went on, though, I found less and less enjoyment in taking pictures of the same people in the same places at similar events. My family and hometown were tired subjects that seemed to rarely change and, as a result, I only occasionally took photos on the days I remembered to carry my camera in those early years.
07/21/2018
However, after studying abroad for my junior year of university in Seoul, the way I engaged with photography dramatically evolved in response to the variety of perspectives and experiences I encountered. For the first time in my life, I consistently met and socialized with a diverse range of people hailing from all over the world who expanded my way of thinking. I also had to navigate new social rules, language and cultural barriers that forced me to reflect on my long-held beliefs.
Photography at this critical juncture of my life helped me comfortably engage with my new reality and explore the world around me in focused detail. Behind the viewfinder, all the unfamiliar sights and customs felt less intimidating and more interesting. I could save moments of curiosity and awe in a picture and return to them at will, which allowed me to recognize and appreciate big and small instances of life in South Korea. Carefully searching for scenes and moments to capture in my daily surroundings became a habit that developed my eye for compositions and improved my ability to
hone in and pick up on the fine nuances of Seoul’s unique heartbeat and mores. In the course of this singular year, I gained a firmer grasp of Korea conveyed through image as well as a stronger sense of my visual philosophy.
Returning to the US in 2019 with these insights made home refreshingly novel. I found myself newly committed to photographing my family, especially as all the adults who were such timeless, defining figures in memory were visibly aging in the years after Ma’s passing.
When I began to fully participate in family affairs and events as an adult with a desire to visually preserve those memories, I was made soberingly cognizant and all the more appreciative of the concerted effort and labor necessary to maintain our family’s close ties and heritage thus far. Love and devotion were clearly visible in the small, boring moments I once overlooked as a child, and I am grateful that I was able to capture those times of health and happiness sooner rather than later. Furthermore, in the same way that I could better understand Korean society and culture through my camera’s viewfinder, when documenting our frequent interactions I could better recognize subtle expressions of my family’s Cambodian customs. I even found parallels between the cultures, 09/19/2018 11/03/2018
11/17/2019
notably: the emphasis on loyalty to family (and those considered as close as blood), respect to elders for their past sacrifice and specific titles for members depending on familial relation. Although these concepts are common across Asian cultures, it felt more significant after experiencing how ingrained they were to Korean society and how they translated into my culture. It was quietly stunning to uncover these details and other stories behind the traditions and customs I had grown up with and never questioned.
I cherished my time at home, but gradually felt a growing desire to witness more of the world before completely settling into adulthood. To that end, nearly two and a half years after I left Korea as an exchange student, I returned as a Fulbright ETA in Gyeongsangnam-do hoping to make the most of my time. I was armed with improved language and photography skills that allowed
me to integrate into my local community and uncovered facets of living in Korea that were newly available to me as a working professional. While recording my daily life in photographs, I had the newfound confidence to step out from behind my camera and engage directly with others through intimate conversations utilizing both English and somewhat conversational Korean that added incredible depth to my existing understanding of Korean society and culture. With every moment in the past three years rife with opportunities, I soon began to prioritize a more intimate question about photographing my experiences: what, specifically, did I want to safeguard in visual memory? The endless possible answers have become a driving force in my resolve to meaningfully document my life as I grow older.
Photography has been a near-constant
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companion from when I was a teenager and now as an adult, it has taught me invaluable life lessons in how to perceive the world and appreciate its varied cadence regardless of where I am—in the U.S., South Korea or beyond. Searching for and recognizing interesting visual compositions has become second nature to me now, and this subtle practice has had a great impact on who I am and how I have matured. My attention to detail, steadfast sense of identity and patience in the face of sudden changes are just a few of the skills I was able to cultivate in my journey to capture moments and people in my life with my camera.
Each photograph, including those from my early years when I had an untrained eye and lacked the conviction that currently motivates me, is an important record of the past and a reflection of the countless lived experiences that I managed to preserve through a viewfinder.
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05/06/2022
In the same way photography has allowed me to better contemplate life, I fervently hope that my photos can inspire others to take a closer look at their own reality and find deeper significance in recording instances of theirs.
Monuments of Time, Tori Thiem, Gyeongju
Student Competition
This year’s Infusion magazine competition invited students of ETAs to consider the significance of community in their lives. Through poetry and art, participants were tasked with exploring the following: what does community mean to you? This year’s winning entries displayed a remarkable depth of insight and emotion, presenting diverse experiences and reflections on love and connection to others. From the personal memories evoked by our favorite things to the broader societal challenges faced by communities after conflict, these skilled students illuminated the many dimensions of community in our world and the strength we can find in each other.
In the elementary art competition, first-place winner Sora Lee’s Puzzle sharply uses color to depict a sense of completeness in finding others. Seoyeon Kim’s Click! My Favorite Community, POHANG is awarded second place for highlighting the student’s special memories in their town. Lastly, third-place winner Sodam Han’s Yuchon Village depicts an idyllic town, with each member of the community contributing in a unique way, demonstrating how community is comprised of individuals working for the greater good.
The middle school competition highlights three talented writers, whose powerful imagery and sharp rhetoric illustrate the
To The Pagoda, Isa Tablan, Thailand
power of community. First-place winner Gunhee Lee’s “Leaning on the People” compares the serene symbiosis of nature to the speaker’s personal search for support and community. Second-place winner Jisu Han explores familial relationships in her poem, “In the Very Beginning,” presenting family as the foundation for community. In “One,” third-place winner Taehee Yoon invokes images of “dancing” and “struggling,” conveying the solace and solidarity found in the shared human experience.
In the high school category, the talented winners delved into the powerful connections that shaped their lives and constructed their memories. In “The Marks We Leave on Each Other,” first-place awardee Sojin Lee meticulously explores how various objects and experiences can evoke memories of love, fellowship, and comfort. Second-place winner Younghu Lee similarly considers love in “Transformation,” focusing on the
Anna Kate Daunt
Literary Managing Editor 1st Year ETA
Jeongeup, Jeollabuk-do
community he has found in family and how they evolve to help each other and grow. Soeun Kim, our third-place writer, examines the concept of community on a larger scale. In “Flowers of Korea,” Kim thoughtfully employs nature imagery to capture the hardships communities experienced during the Korean War and express hope for a more peaceful future.
The students’ reflections on family, friends, nature and country reveal a community’s vital role in shaping memory and experience. In this magazine, we have the space to look back on the people and communities that have shaped our growth and perspective during our grant year. In this section, we hear our students’ perspective on such formative memories. Through joy and suffering, tedium and excitement, busyness and the small quiet moments of life, what forms these students, as what forms all of us, are the special moments with those we love.
Claire Wyszynski
Lifestyle Managing Editor 1st Year ETA
Seogwipo, Jeju-do
Rainbow on a Lucky Day, Ribka Tewelde, Namwon
Elementary School
1st Place
Puzzle
Sora Lee
Yuchon Elementary School
2nd Place
Click! My Favorite Community, POHANG Seoyeon Kim Edong Elementary School
3rd Place
Yuchon Village
Sodam Han
Yuchon Elementary School
Middle School
1st Place
Leaning on the People
Gunhee
Lee Daum School
Even the tree by the roadside leans against the wind Even the birds in the sky rest against the clouds Even the shark in the sea leaps with the current
Maybe I, too, Should try leaning on people for once
Whether it’s fast or a bit slow, I don’t know yet, But when I dive into that realm "Me" will become "we," growing larger and sturdier
So this time let’s try matching our steps to the shadows of people, And rest a bit, Without squinting at the sunlight
Pebble Beach
, Laura Evans, Geoje-do
2nd Place
In the Very Beginning Jisu Han Youngil Middle School
Family is where it all begins. Family can be a bandage to your scar, Or can be like putting salt in a wound. Either way, family is where we all first learn. Our parents were our first teacher, first school, first everything. It is inherited in our roots. Family is where it all begins.
3rd Place
One
Taehee Yoon Hwacheon Middle School
one country one community one aggregate one group one friend
one
people who are alone are one, and people who are together are one too struggling makes us one, and dancing makes us one too
we, all of us, live as one
Mountain
, Shastia Azulay, Mungyeong Saejae
High School
A Temple's Figurine, Chris Jang, Cheongpyeonsa Temple
Abandoned Train Station Mural, Chris Jang, Pocheon
1st Place
The Marks We Leave on Each Other Sojin Lee Cheongju Girls High School
I find myself in others.
In the stories on the shelves of a secondhand bookstore, In the echoes of memories whispered by old instruments, In my parents’ worn and warm hands, I feel the passage of time, In familiar scents, I remember innocent days long forgotten, In dishes filled with memories, I taste moments once dear.
Books from a bookstore speak in quiet voices
One person’s story, the memories of those who have read it, Years of life bound in its faded pages, passed on to another.
Songs from a secondhand guitar give memories to those who listen Moments of youth, romance from another time, Caught in a simple tune, moving the hearts of strangers.
My parents’ warm, aged hands teach me about life Gentle touches meant just for me, A loving embrace that melts all my worries away.
Scents bring back memories
Of joy, and sometimes of sorrow, Dancing on the tip of the nose, bringing them to life again.
Dishes filled with memories make us yearn For the people we shared them with, For the atmosphere they held…
We see ourselves in the eyes of others, We find ourselves in their stories.
I, too, can be a memory for someone else, We share happiness, We share pain, Facing each other, we laugh, we cry.
I share memories, learn their dreams, feel the passage of time, Feel love in every moment shared. I find myself in others.
My family has special abilities They change themselves for me
2nd Place
Transformation
Younghu Lee Honam High School
Into fellows I can follow Into seawalls and shield me from breakers Into havens and give me peace Into lights and turns my life bright
In every form, their love remains, I can feel their love completely, even when they appear in different forms
I have received an abundance of help and love from them, Now it’s my turn to transform.
Lotus, Shastia Azulay, Jeju-do
Bees and butterflies
3rd Place
Flowers of Korea
Soeun Kim Changpyeong High School
To take over the honey of a flower fight a fiery war
In one country we've had a confrontation too
After overcoming the harsh winter If bees and butterflies work together
From the cold ground
The buds sprout and the warm sunshine finally emerges. Like a pretty flower blooming
Let's do it together
Touch where it hurts and hug each other
When we're having a hard time, we comfort each other and grieve
When we're happy, you and I rejoice more than anyone else, either you or me
Become one
Let's bloom beautiful Korean flowers
Sunset, Jeffery Huang, Jeju-do
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