"Waygooken"
Suni sits across the small table from me. She is preparing green tea for me in the traditional Korean fashion. Her English is quite good, quite conversational, really, but there is still a significant language barrier blocking free communication between us. With Suni, though, it doesn't seem to matter. Her spirit is buoyant and sweet. It is easy to spend time with her.
We are chatting. It's quite a different process than chatting back home, of course. I must choose the simplest words possible, speak slowly and exaggerate my enunciation, without accidentally condescending to her. I just want her to understand easily.
I compliment her English. Lord knows it's miles (or kilometers, in this case) beyond what pitiful scraps of Korean I've picked up. "English is such a hard language," I joke. "There are so many rules, and we break them all."
She smiles. "It doesn't matter," she says. "I think…people communicate more by feeling than words. So it doesn't really matter."
Her words strike me as terribly important. We grin at each other across the table, sitting cross-legged on the floor and sipping green tea. We say nothing for a moment, but the communication continues. A warm ribbon of vibration, a glow of mutual respect and fascination and friendship, passes between us through the air.
Just me, a 27-year old English teacher from Salt Lake City, and Suni, a 47-year old yoga teacher from Suwon, sitting and grinning and speaking only with our souls.
Panic!
The clock reads 9:27--thirteen minutes before classtime--and we're still at the bank.
The bank's an important place. It's where all yer money is, after all. So when information about such a place is scrambled and masked behind the smoke screen of a foreign language, one can get…anxious. Especially when it doesn't open until 9 AM, and one works at 9:30. Especially when one is stuck there, late to work, and one's little students are expecting a teacher to walk through the classroom doors in a mere ten minutes. They have our passports, our alien registration cards, our money; we can't simply walk out.
The man behind the counter is very friendly. He smiles and says, "나에게 주소와 전화 번호를 알려 주시기 바랍니다."
Nope, didn't get any of that…
The goal: international remittence. In other words, transfer a sum of money from our Korean bank account to our American bank account. The problem: we need to fill out a FORM. The friendly teller is kind enough to circle the necessary blank spots on the form that (we assume) require, in some order, our names, addresses, bank address, account numbers, and so on. What order? We're not sure. What is that box there? Couldn't tell ya. Ah, this box is where I write my "계좌 번호". Gotcha. The friendly teller apologizes for being unable to speak English. We apologize for being unable to speak Korean. We then play charades.
We dash out the bank doors and onto the street. The clock reads 9:42. Class started two minutes ago.
The banking issue works out fine. We were eventually able to make all the necessary transfers, thanks mostly to our friendly teller's grasp of a few key words of English.
We jog around corners and through no-walk signals (looking both ways first, of course) until we arrive at our building and gallop, panting, into the school.
"I'm so sorry, Michelle," I say to my Korean boss. "We got stuck at the bank and they had all our documents, I promise it will never happen again."
"It's okay!" she says cheerfully. "I told your students you were stuck in the bathroom, and couldn't stop going poo-poo."
"….you…you told them I couldn't stop going poo-poo?"
"Yes. So no problem!" She is truly not upset.
I walk into the classroom, a full twenty minutes late. A tiny Korean boy wastes no time in standing up, pointing at me and shouting, "Teacher! You were doing poo-poo???"
An unusual quiet moment in the classroom as the children eagerly await my response. I sigh.
"Yes, Jason," I say, as diplomatically as possible. "Yes I was. Let's start the lesson."
Well, I think to myself, I guess that makes more sense than trying to explain to them that I was having communication delays with the bank teller facilitating my international remittence.
Those sorts of things tend to get lost in translation.
It happens a dozen times a day. The simplest exchange. I give you money, you give me food. A smile, and a light shines in our eyes; what a miracle we can even manage THAT. The simplest exchange. That place where the language completely fails, and all you can do is send out "I mean no harm, only respect. Hello and thank you and I wish you well" in all the subtle silent ways you instinctively know how.
It feels somehow purer, more genuine than all the hours of small-talk back home ever did. There is no wall between us, because we can't really get close enough. All we can do is reach and reach and celebrate when we connect. We bow to each other and we smile and we go on our way and we will probably never see each other again.
My students must occasionally wonder, "Why is that strange-looking man making all of those HONKING and BARKING noises?"
Except they would wonder it like this: "이유 이상한 모양의 사람이 그 빵을하고 소리를 짖는입니까?"*
We walk through the subways or through the streets and we're submerged in a vast ocean of conversations, a shimmering city-sized circuit board of relationships and communication and connections, boyfriends and girlfriends, mothers and daughters, families, grandparents, bosses and underlings, college buddies, all talking and chatting and going on.
I tune most of it out.
Of course I do. I can't understand it. It becomes a background noise, like the buzz of your fluorescents, or the hum of your furnace. Just a sea of honking and barking noises, with the occasional decipherable "no," "it's okay," "really?" or "where is it?" thrown in there.
Humans are strange animals. We have this mysterious ability to make honking and barking noises with our mouths and throats, and shape and use those noises to illuminate a entire universe and craft an entire reality.
It's all layers.
There's a surface layer of labels: I'm an English teacher, I'm from Utah, I'm 27, I studied this and this at such n' such University. Small talk. This is what strangers talk about when they feel obligated to speak to one another. Here, in Korea, I cannot share most of this. I do not know how to say most of these words.
There's another layer underneath: things we all share. I love delicious food, this place is beautiful, I need to use the bathroom, I like this, this makes me happy. Childlike communication. This works for a pleasant exchange, but without much vocabulary, the conversation ends pretty quick.
There's another layer underneath: cultural identity. Most of this you probably haven't directly thought about, haven't questioned. It's in your DNA, and it's in your conditioning. Your country has a history, a style, and it's a huge part of who you are. Some things you can share. A lot, you just don't know or understand. You can read a Korean history book, but you can't know what it is to BE a Korean. I barely know what it means to BE an American.
There's another layer underneath: personal psychology. Philosophy, belief systems, attitudes and opinions. Deeply held ideas about why the world is the way it is. Lots of people can't even get to this layer in their OWN language.
Then, somewhere way down in there, there's another layer. It's silent, and it's love, and it needs no words and makes no distinction between people.
There's one Korean sound that everyone can understand: the hock.
The hock is the sound of a human loudly freeing his or her throat from an irritating accretion of post-nasal mucous. In other words, hocking up a loogie.
In Utah, where I come from, it's fairly indelicate to loudly hock up a loogie in public. One might even be so bold as to label it rude or offensive. In Korea, however, not only is it acceptable, it seems to be encouraged. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there is some sort of subtle social competition going on to see who can hock the loudest, most phlegmatically productive loogie of all. Perhaps it's a display of male dominance. But what about all the she-hockers? It's a mystery to us Americans.
The street is a gooey minefield. Loogies lurk around every corner, beside every curb.
It logically follows, then, that it is culturally expected of you to take off your shoes before entering most buildings.
Why haven't I learned their language?
A lot of my answer will sound like whining excuses. Maybe that's exactly what it is. Maybe not. I dunno, I've tried my best at life here.
I work full-time at a "hagwon"--a private English-immersion school. "Immersion" means that the children and the teachers are NOT SUPPOSED to speak Korean at school. Of course, they do when necessary, but the whole idea is that the children will only truly command the language if they need to USE it. It's a really good idea, and it works really well to teach these kids a second language at the perfect time in their development.
So, even when I KNOW how to say something to these kids (and I do know a handful of things), I consciously choose NOT to. Being as small as these kids are, hearing the English teacher suddenly speak some broken Korean--and thus break a RULE--launches them into an uncontrollable fit of giggles, running around, Korean-speaking, and shouting "Scott Teacher said KOREEEAN!!!" It just ain't worth it, folks. (Although there's no greater disadvantage a teacher can have than a classroom of mischievous children with their own language that he can't understand).
Learning Korean has to be on my time. Quite frankly, after a long, draining day of teaching these kids, hitting the books isn't first on my wish list when I get home. Lazy? Perhaps. Or maybe I've just chosen to play music, and write, and draw, and explore instead. But probably lazy.
Another huge factor: it has so far been unnecessary. Helpful? Admirable? Empowering? Definitely. But necessary? Not quite. I can fulfill all my needs, I can get whatever I want, and to wherever I want, without being fluent. I can even send money home at the bank. Necessity is a fine motivator, and in its absence results are questionable.
And lastly: I'm coming home in 4 months. If this were my new home, if I were looking forward to the next decade as a resident of Korea, then you bet your bottom dollar I'd be studying and practicing and doing my best. But as it stands…
I know it's lazy, and I know I could do much better. In my defense, I've learned a fair amount more than many others in my situation. And I do try to use it when I can. I think it's culturally inconsiderate to come to a country and not even TRY to learn a few phrases. I've tried my best to lead a life that makes me happy, and that is considerate to those around me. So far, though, commanding the Korean language hasn't been a part of that.
One last thing I'll say is this: I know I'm not fluent, but I haven't QUIT. I will still learn new words and phrases until I leave. And I'll try to use them as much as possible.
We are Waygooken. "Foreigners." We try to cross the communication barriers, but most of the time, we are outsiders. It is a humbling perspective.
My Facebook post from July 13, 2012:
I had a fairly disturbing experience this morning:
At 5:50 AM, I was awakened by the hysterical shrieking of a woman. The sound was very close--just upstairs in my small apartment building--and it sounded like this woman was being severely beaten or threatened by violence. I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt and ran out into the hall. From upstairs, the voices of two women and a man were viciously SCREAMING at each other--the kinds of screams that could easily turn into punches and kicks at any second. I tried to think fast. How could I help? Then I remembered:
Damn. I don't speak Korean.
At least, not anywhere NEAR well enough for this. My next-door neighbor came out into the hall. I turned to her and said, in Korean, "I don't speak Korean," and made a hand gesture of a phone call to her. She backed into her apartment and started dialing on her cell phone, hopefully the police. I paced back and forth at the bottom of the stairs for a few minutes, and listened to the fight escalate.
After a few minutes, the woman was still shrieking, and I realized that, with no language to understand the situation, or to communicate with those involved, I was completely powerless to help. I went back to my room, the screams still filling the building.
After about 20 minutes, the fight migrated downstairs and into the street, and disappeared. I'll never know what happened, or what the whole thing was about.
I walk through the streets, and smile as I look at this wonderful place I find myself in. The Korean people are beautiful, and kind, and helpful. We are safe walking the streets. The people are trusting, and trustworthy.
I think, not for the first time, about how similar we humans are to each other. I also think about how wildly different we are.
I think about our planet as a sphere falling through a vast space, and I laugh at the silly creatures that swarm on its surface.
Most of the strangers I pass on the street avert their eyes. We never meet.
Occasionally, however, someone looks at me and I look at them and we smile before we pass, and a little glimmer of something beautiful flashes behind their eyes.
What else needs to be said?
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*A bit of trivia: I used Google Translator to produce the Hangul for the "honking and barking noises" question. But then I translated the Hangul back into English, and apparently it says: "Barking sound of the bread and the reason for the appearance of a strange people?" Just thought you'd like to know.
