"...Powerful enough to harm you, confuse you, destroy you, or to reshape, build, and elevate and enlighten. See yourself as being in the process and wait for the results. You have so much time ahead that you don't want to rush it, like trying to understand the ending of a book before you read the beginning and middle." -P.A.
. . .
August 2008
Some things are hard to remember. Two years ago she was just another foreign country: Asian, exotic and promising. What she promised exactly, what was so luminous, lingers still in the dark. Sitting at the dining table in my mother’s living room in Campbell, my hometown—as a visitor, vacationing—I feel I can write about Gwangju in the way that I could write about Campbell living in the ROK. Gwangju: A home, a living breathing presence in my life. Campbell: A shelter, a box where old books, clothes, and fragmented memories squat, hunkering, hungry.
The house is old and white guarded by Mediterranean Cypresses. The front yard has a small patch of grass in the shape of Virginia and motor oil stains on the driveway. Minor amenities that mean so much! We live in a tree-lined neighborhood across from the Winchester Mystery House, which is given over to suburban style single-family detached homes built in the 1950s and 1960s. Leaves over puddles, and buttonballs from California Sycamores. My girlfriend Mogyoh and I are summer guests and South Korea is 5,193 Nautical Miles away (9,618 Kilometers).
It was an arbitrary choice to move to Gwangju among several quiet, hidden cities in the peninsula. I have a handful of relatives in Seoul, but I didn't factor that in when making my decision to live abroad. I can't recall how I made the decision. What I wanted was to be far away from the latest cultural trends that resemble America, from Urban Outfitters people, to radio music, from Out-dated HBO references to corporate food chains. I wanted a little town, a really I'm-in-Asia-town. And I found her, shy and reclusive Gwangju.
[Gwang (광, hanja 光) = light and Ju (주, hanja 州) = province.]
^^
In the Camary through cool streets where shopping plazas are aplenty, I spot a drive- thru. I am in control, behind the wheel, like a nightrider. It has been a while—both driving and Del Taco. Not that Del is really that good, or authentic, but it has its moments, especially after sundown. The parking lot is the color of hard taco shells and Mike is dragging on a Camel…the California air mixes nicely with the smoke. Then there's Mogyoh, her eyes starlit by the American splendor of midnight fast food with, unfortunately, NPR droning on about Obama's American values in the background—that muted talk of important world news. I pay with a twenty—the smell of money and atomized grease—and we anticipate the whole ride home.^^
Imagining my studio apartment in 광주 makes me miss it, especially that familiar smell of old wood and laundry o
n the clotheshorse. The washing machine in my complex is communal and looks like a vestige from The Forgotten War. It does a number of my clothes, eroding them, turning my once thick Haines into gossamer sock puppets. And where my socks hang, there are a million and a half South Koreans, and thousands of alleys, like this one here, which have defined my walks to and from work.I made mental maps of the city’s geography by visiting restaurants and teahouses, hofs (Korean bars) and Family Marts. Ten minutes from my house was Mt. Moodeung, and in the good weather, there were always families wearing hiking gear and straw hats roaming the mountain trails and public gardens. And just over the mountains were flats of countryside, three-dimensional facsimiles of Bob Ross paintings.
Here are a few pieces of scenery from my neighborhood:
(a) My residence
(b) The alley in front of my building
(c) My favorite restaurant Hwang-Tok-Il
(d) The vestibule of Hwang-Tok-Il
(e) Gimbap Nara / Family Mart
^^
-“Do you guys have Mexican food in Gwangju?” Mike asks.
-"Not in Gwangju. Yeah. Seoul,” Mogyoh says opening a packet of hot sauce.
-“How is it?”
-“Seoul?," she asks with her mouth full.
-“No. Your—the food.”
-“It’s really good."
-“Yeah. We can do much better than this, though. This is American Mexican, not Mexican Mexican.”
Mogyoh laughs because they are communicating; we're becoming a family.
After Mog-yoh heads to bed, Mike and play Wii Golf late into the night, invoking a 1990s video-game argot developed and maintained by adolescent brothers of the privileged American classes at that time. I watch my younger brother. And there. At the peak of his youth, I see a grown person. Mike is 22 and tired for his age, but this postprandial Wii brings out the kid in him, in the both of us. In this Bay Area locale, he does not fit in with his skinny jeans and Red House Painters sag in posture (most Campbell men his age possess an I-Listen-to-Kayne-West-swagger). I watch him swing. He’s growing into his body, his mind.
^^
When I ate at my first Gimbap Nara I included a 20 percent tip. The cashier, a medium stout man sporting Zōris made a scene out of me by announcing to the crowd of lunchtime customers that he had just received a tip. A TIP! I didn't know that tipping in Korea was not the cultural norm, something I should have looked up, and perhaps did, but did not remember at the time, and was made a fool.But the learning curve came, and before I knew it, I figured out that crying Emo! (maternal aunt) or Yuh-gee-yoh! (Over here!), for example, is how you grab the attention of the servers, servile, always in a motherly way. Also, if you’re a regular, or if you’ve ordered a good deal to eat, if your party is big, or if there's something in your food that’s alive but not supposed to be, then there will be service, something on the house. Sometimes it’s extra beef, a platter of scrambled eggs with garlic shavings sprinkled on top, or a hodgepodge of fruits, cut up fancy. Other times, it’s a couple of bottles of Coca-Cola.
^^
The backyard is a swimming pool at night, the cypress trees underwater obelisks. Mike and I are taking a break and this is going to be a memory, I think, the seemingly insignificant kind that lasts a lifetime, the kind that follows you into empty bathrooms in bars and restaurants, after you’ve had a few in you, where introspection and mirror vanity happen. -"I suppose she told you that I was getting back into old habits, or something to make me look small," Mike says, the accusation in his voice rising.
I don't reply to this; instead, I look at the oval lawn, the pencil pines that look black lined up against the fence, and at my toes. A trifle dizzy, I ash. I tell him that that's not what she said, that she is just concerned is all and that she doesn't have the education or the diction to make it sound thoughtful in the way he expects or desires.
-"She can’t and doesn't want to understand. She's selfish. That's it," he says. He grows younger with each word.
-“Do you have a plan?” I ask softly. “You know, so that people don’t worry so much, so you have a goal, direction...”
-“A plan? There's a plan. It’s just a matter of following through with it, I guess.”
-“Do you want to stop?”
-“I do.”
There's a tranquilizing balance to watching Mike smoke—which is like like watching a sleeping child, makes me feel secure, the moment precious—and the cool of the night. I explain that he needs to finish his cigarette so we can head inside, finish the 18th hole and go to bed.
^^
My contract with BCM stipulates that I come in twice a month to conduct interviews and assign prospective students appropriate English proficiency levels: get them registered into the right classe(s). “Come in. Have a seat,” I say. It’s Friday afternoon in the middle of July, the heat is smoke, the humidity unbearable. Before me is a girl in her early twenties, covering her face with a Hello Kitty binder, save for her eyes, which hide behind purple-framed glasses. A cherub for a face, pimples her stars.-“What’s your name?”
-“Allow to introduce me. Eun-Kyung Kim, English nickname Sunshine,” she begins.
^^
California’s genius loci is bright and languid. A pair of scrawny black squirrels sit outside my window. It’s almost ten and I’m still in bed. Mogyoh has written a note and placed it on her pillow. My eyes follow the Hangul characters, and as I phonetically sound out the words in my head, the translations start again: “Went for a run. I borrowed your socks. The green ones. I love you.” I fold the note back into its hexagonal knot and lay back down, looking up at the almost homogenous whiteness of the ceiling.I can hear the sounds of my mom leading her own life: closing drawers, washing the dishes, pushing in chairs, watching a Korean TV show. When I was a child, I would overhear my parents doing adult things and always wondered what that world was like. Aquatic-themed decorations, secret candies, wild games involving silverware in uncanny shapes and sizes, and blue soda pop. I follow the sounds to the living room and greet her in Korean. She laughs at my country dialect (Satoori), and I am obliged to laugh with her.
During my first year in Gwangju I learned Satoori from the neighborhood kids who loafed for hours every Saturday morning at the local Family Mart, and from the folks at the senior citizens center I used to visit Sundays. The Family Mart boys were no more than ten years old, sported a variety of mushroom cuts, and some had mullets. They taught me about the price of milk, popsicles, and water, Ramen, Q-tips, and mosquito repellent. I picked up elementary and middle school slang, which often included adult profanity. Yes, we drank milk-flavored soda, and savored our honey-dew ice cream bars over the politics of bb-guns and the smell of armpits. I was an unusual specimen for them with my fluent American speak and Korean face. At the old folks home, the elders taught me how to play Go-Stop, and I learned from them during loud, at times, drunken games, the dialects of the South.
Mom offers me a Dr. Pepper—oh how I’ve missed you—but as I accept the drink, and hear myself in a clear Korean voice saying thanks, and how I am sitting down in an over-sized San Francisco 49ers beanbag, I realize that the first requirement of stability in a human being is the desire to share a refreshing can of soda with his mother on a Sunday morning, girlfriend out jogging, younger brother in the shower. I am a farmer in his fifties, untidy and sleepy, but cheerful.
^^
Sunshine continues to hide behind Hello Kitty after her introduction is complete.-“Oh I’m so embarrassed, so shy, what do I do?” she says in Korean, brightening.
I ask Sunshine why she wants to study English.
-“Ah. Actually….” She lowers Kitty. “Actually, I want to good at English.”
But why, I ask, searching for reasons.
-“Actually” she begins, drawing out the long Y. “In Korean, we have to good at English.” She reveals a nose. “For job.”
I ask what she wants to be.
-“Actually. I want to English teacher.” She takes a few moments to assemble a sentence. She resumes: “Yes, I want to English to kids because I love them. Berry cute!”
When she smiles her eyes are black half circles and she reminds me of my mom because they both share the name Eun-Kyung, and, despite the 30 years between them, they both make the same grammar errors, and use similar tones of voice.
My mom’s name didn’t carry any real meaning for me until Korean names became part of my daily vocabulary, part of my way of identifying people, giving them significance, a place, a reality. But in getting to know my students, establishing friendships, and defining new loves, I’ve adopted new perspectives on my mom’s personality, her psychology. What I had labeled loony as a kid is now beginning peel; it was her Korean-ness and not lunacy that I perceived as rude and strange, many years ago:
I am ten, Christmas shopping with Mike and Mom. The smell of Macy’s and divorce. But Mike and I are ignorant and happy. We’re eating Hotdog on a Stick as we traipse through the men’s cologne section, and I remember the mix of Hugo Boss and muzak, musk and memes. Mom buys a bottle of that after-shave that comes in a small, white milk bottle with a red sailboat logotype. And a wallet dad will never use and complain about. We’re waiting in line when she cuts to the front, and naturally, people are confused, livid. And her children are helpless accomplices. A suit points my mom to the back of the line and yells something at her but calls her miss, which is nice of him.
The idea (and practice) of standing in line, or taking turns to make purchases is not a convention Koreans follow, especially if you’re considered old (30, 40...). This also goes for the rules of the road, for door manners (It's not a custom to hold the door for the caned, crutched, the bleeding). I’ve asked my students about this, and the consensus is that Koreans can’t stand waiting patiently for anything. It’s part of the Korean personality. We’re on the move…Quickly quickly! is the national motto, they say.
^^
After a day of riding roller coasters at Great America, the four of us are tired. Mom gazes out the window, moving her lips moving but only discernibly, as if she is subconsciously mouthing her thoughts. Mike and Mogyoh are in the back talking about the time Mike saw Sufjan Stevens for his 21st birthday. As a Stevens enthusiast, she is enthralled by the very idea that Americans can see Sufjan Stevens. Live.-“And…and…is he charming, just like in his songs on the Youtube?” She asks.
-"He’s pretty cool,” Mike answers coolly.
Mogyoh and I wake up after a long dream of traveling to a foreign country, step outside, and decide to go for a walk. It’s that time of day when the sprinklers come on spraying reclaimed water onto Campbell’s front (and sometimes side) lawns. A couple in their 40s speaks Chinese to their Greyhound and their baby. The husband has on a maroon Stanford windbreaker, Bermuda shorts and a pair of white Nike’s with his gray socks pulled up mid-shin. His wife is in a gray jogging suit and pushes the stroller. Cushioned knuckles stick out of the sleeves of a baggy hoody on which is an emblem of the American flag. I’ve been thinking about fatherhood and how I would like to raise a child (…children) some day with or without marriage. Mogyoh and I walk behind them.
-"Those are untimely Christmas decorations and that's a mailbox," I curate.
-"That? That's a mailbox?"
-"Yes."
It’s a guided tour of a neighborhood I do not know, and yet I can't help but feel a sorrowful weight, watching these storage spaces for different sets of children, for dolls, furniture, unused gift-wrap. Mom and Mike have moved twice since I moved to Gwangju. I'm as much of a stranger to these parts as Mogyoh is.
-“I like this neighborhood.” she says. "What do you think?"
-“It’s quiet. It's suburban.”
-“You don’t like it?”
-“I like it fine. I like 광주.”
-“Having a house here would be comfortable” she says.
-“You mean live here?"
She blinks in threes, remaining reticent.
-“Do you think you could live here?” I refine.
-“No. It’s just very nice and if I could find work, it would be fine.”
It’s funny. At one point, these houses, these people, these two-car garages, which were once devitalized and vapid are wonderful, and I am glad to see them again because there is glee at the mundane. We run through several sprinklers, dotted t-shirts, then, with dovetailed hands, run home.
^^
Downtown Gwangju is lovely, like American strip malls, and at night, it is packed with young, over-dressed hipsters, mostly college students. Coffee chains and bars serve overpriced coffee and weak Long Island Iced Teas respectively, and the independently-run haberdasheries—yes haberdasheries—glow and resound with the latest trends in fashion and music. The signboards are lit up in different neon and primary colors that make you think of romantic movies about lonely Americans in Japan. Horny young men beam at the sight of short miniskirts, which give way to shiny black stockings and high heels. Layered black mops fall into their eyes, and I feel old on many occasions. Living among urbane Korean men, I age.Equally young, girls put on weekend shows downtown, with puckered lips and extraordinary eyes—all shades of brown—and their youthful wallpapers of acne are painted over with foundation two shades lighter than their actual complexion. They lock arms, parading, and in the corners of their mouths, ridiculous grins. Night life is exciting, for possibility hangs in the air, yet there is almost always a certain disquiet about it all.
^^
-“Your grandmother asked when I plan to move to California,” she says. -“I didn’t know she did,” I reply, trying to sound uninformed.
-“She did.”
-“Are you bothered by it?”
-“Why is it that people here constantly ask me when I will move here?” her voice extends.
-“I don’t know.”
-“What is this trip about?”
-“What is this trip about?”
It is a warm and bright evening and Peter and I are sitting in a small fluorescent-lit Mexican restaurant in Fullerton, playing out new conversations over glass bottles of Coke, waiting for our order to be called in Spanish. Peter's hair is longer and his face calcified, accentuating his cheekbones. A new pair of glasses and a new car. A girlfriend and a Masters program in philosophy. He is an old friend, a good man, and I am lucky to be enjoying a meal with him.
-“It’s a vacation. A break from Korea,” she explains in a thick, almost didactic tone.
-“Yeah.”
-“It’s supposed to be fun.”
-“It is fun. We’re having fun."
-“And your friend, the one that’s so happy you’re visiting, the first thing she asked me, the first thing she asked was ‘Do you think you can live here?’”
-“And....”
-“And I wanted it so much,” she says. “I had this image of California. I’m not blaming you. I’m just tired.”
-“Okay.”
We share stories about girls and work, dating and money, but all the while, over tortas de carne asada and burritos al pastor, I can't free myself from my perceived ineptness in communication. I have a hard time understanding who I am in this visitor’s context. I seek conversations of depth, those that are expected with friends like this, those that make you examine yourself, that spawn a renewed sense of immediacy, but things seem forced. I am boring, a loaf. Compared to him, I feel static, without ambition, and so I try not to be a stranger and do a Daniel Plainview impression. It is a hiccup, shot before picking up velocity, falls, sinks into the poo from which it rose, and rots from the inside, like my Myspace account.
-“Will you sleep?”
-“No.”
-“Then what will you do?”
-“I’ll find a hotel.”
-“That’s ridiculous. That's...” I say standing, akimbo. “Let's talk about this?”
-“But it will go better if I go,” she says. “You have everything here.”
-“I want you to be here—with me.”
Her stomach rumbles, we are hungry again.
