GingerKimchi

I’m leaving home again.

No, not that one. I left that place a long time ago. But I see the same faces.

And I don’t know exactly when this place came to replace the other.

Maybe it was when I saw the children, that very first day, when they touched my face and asked me where I came from. I can still see their frantic eyes looking into mine, or rather, the eyes of another me, as he told them stories of places they will never see, that aren’t so true anymore.

But the faces haven’t changed. They still smile and cry and say all of the same things that those other people said.

“I’ll miss you.” with a grin and a nod.

“Don’t go.” with a hand wrapped tightly around my wrist.

And the pangs of desertion ringing in my heart are a tolling bell, beckoning me to another land and people that will not know these tones. As the end crept closer, the pangs howled louder, steadily building into the cacophony that curses me now. How I wish to be deaf. Yet the memories of that soft and somber melody that it once was will carry me to the end, like a child’s finger descending piano keys. 

I hear that Saturday morning, when the girl’s dodgeball team pulled me into the huddle before the last game of the season. 

I can just catch the soft hum of the KTX train taking me home Sunday night from the best date of life, and the whirring of the cicadas lulling me to sleep in the summer.

And if I tilt my head I can pull out the xylophonic sound of soju glasses clinking over the hiss of pork belly bits dripping onto charcoal.

But there’s also the dull murmur of racist ramblings from a drunk old man, or the sharp clap of a woman being slapped for talking to outsiders. And I can still sense that heavy silence in the air when that boy in my office told me he didn’t want to live anymore.

The rolling mountains of Gyeongsang province slunk beyond my window, taking with them the last sunbeams of day clinging to their golden-ocre canopies of alder, camphor, and pine.

Like a break-up with a six month prelude, the heart pangs and wistful thoughts have begun to infect my quiet moments. I’m leaving home. Again. Some people never leave them once, yet I’ve left mine thrice.

I wonder what they’ll say, those unwitting extras in the backdrop of my life.

“He’s gone, I guess.”

Or those students of mine. Will they give my absence a thought? Perhaps I’ll carry on as a blurry apparition in their memory wells, rambling in that foreign patois that painfully eluded them.

“James. You are good.” She said, looking past my pupils and into the infinite. As if a nine-year-old could understand the implications of such utterances.

Or maybe they’ll wish to forget me, a symbol of the childhoods they’d been stripped of. I am culpable, and I am sorry.

But these, my countrymen, my students, lovers and kin, are not my only remnants. I once forgot myself with an old man in Busan city as we helped a caterpillar cross the sidewalk. Then there was the women’s shelter in Gangwon province that found two guys a room to rent for the night. And there were those nights amongst the drunken rabble, when rice liquor and kindness filled the gaps between our tongues.

November 29th was as taut and crisp as the seaweed of my pollock roe onigiri. I had just arrived in Kyoto, and my first temple was Lawson’s convenience store. My tea ceremony was a Suntory Whiskey highball out of the can and, for safe measure, a second one tucked into my jacket pocket. I stepped into the night.

In the streets near my ryokan, the company of strangers was few and far between as Thursday bled into Friday. I found the Kamo river under a bridge, and I proceeded to walk the path that traced its banks. The water trickled pathetically over the stone obstacles in its way, and the trees on the ridge above shed ochre leaves to brave the tepid rapids below. In the branches I could see white cranes, weary from their daylight escapades, tucked into themselves for warmth. I sat down at the foot of a staircase and opened another highball as the heat from my legs seeped into the concrete.

A young Japanese couple walked past me and stopped to admire the river. I quietly munched on rice crackers between sips as I watched them interact with one another. They seemed to be debating something as there was a lot of back and forth with long pauses between answers. Their bodies drew closer and then apart from each other like waves upon a shore, and I felt the tension of a climax unreached. He muttered something playful and she laughed, staring at her feet as she gently kicked the front of his shoes. They slowly approached me and lingered awhile, giggling about some endeavor, before passing by and into the shadows behind me.

I shook the can a bit and took comfort in what remained. The anticipation of arriving had subsided as the anxiety of “What now?” nestled in. Would I find peace, enlightenment, or a new profile picture? Perhaps the greatest thing to gain in this solitude is the rekindling of an amicable relationship with the self. As the light in my life dims, I may be the last friend that I’ll ever have, and so these memories of the Kamo river will trickle back to me like medicine for an idle mind.

I stood up to leave, and with a nod bid the city goodnight. As I turned to walk home, I glanced under the bridge where the walking path ends. The young couple, after fighting the magnetic push and pull of hesitation and desire, had given into the latter. Her hiked up skirt fluttered with his thrusting, and their faces melted together in the faint moonlight cast upon them from the water. Their dalliance, masked by the echoes of a world preoccupied, carried on as I wandered away.

The school remained uncomfortably quiet long after the power miraculously returned. Even the raucous of the boy student’s romping was nowhere to be found. No reimagining of the fierce battles in Avengers Infinity war, nor the emulated sounds of gunfire, could be heard during this increasingly aberrant day on the third floor.

While the morning crept from period to period, my coffee slithered its way into the terminus of my bladder. It was time to pee.

As I approached the bathroom, I started to hear the sound of muffled disorder beyond the glass door. A gaggle of 4th and 5th grade boys had convened near the entrance, and from the outside I watched their shadows dance to and fro as the conversation grew more excited. I opened the door abruptly, and all of them flinched at the sudden intrusion.

They did not greet me.

“Good morning,” I muttered as I approached the urinal.

The boys continued their conversation, and from what I could make out, they were talking about male teachers on the third floor. And poop.

(In Korean) “4th grade teacher. No.”

“5th grade teacher?” They stopped to think, glancing back at the stall door and one another. One boy even peeked inside as if to reexamine evidence for traces of their suspect. They got quiet.

“James Teacher?” One whispered. They all cackled uncontrollably.

As I approached the sink, the taint of suppressed memories seeped into my consciousness. How did I forget?

It was Saturday, two days before this very moment, and I was in school for English camp. The students had just left, and right as their youthful chirps drifted from the building, my bowels lurched ominously. Needless to say, I left some unholy fragment of my being in that bathroom, something so vile that, in releasing it upon the world, I even pitied the plumbing for its task at hand. As I attempted to banish my creation to parts unknown, I learned of some troubling news: the school’s water had been turned off. And so, with a heavy heart (and light stomach), I abandoned my miserable offspring, ignorant to the curse it would conjure for me now.

As I left the bathroom and the young detectives, I relished in the fact that I had effectively stupefied all of the boys from six classes with a mystery that will gnaw at their minds for days and weeks to come. Looking back on their youth many years from now, they will debate between pints of beer and shots of soju, who the real culprit was. Long after I am gone, my story will still haunt the halls (and stalls) of those that were there and all who came after.

나는 전설이다.

Let’s love the World            Its every denizen                Its bones and veins            For no other motive            Than this:                           

We will all succumb              To the void that lies             In the echoes of infinity       No matter our will                Or power                            

It was hot, and almost immediately the humidity started to gnaw at my skin as we left the plane and walked across the tarmac. Siem Reap felt like something you would stumble across after hiking some overgrown path through an old wilderness, only to find this hidden vale behind thorny vines and a stone door. The airport was quaint yet modern, and immigration only took half an hour. Five or six men sat side by side like some bureaucratic panel, stamping and stapling our passports in symphonic unison. At the end was a silent man who held up each passport for us to see and collect, and all the passengers huddled together in the same vulnerable state watching our most cherished possession being treated like a bingo number. I grabbed mine and hurried out.

My tuk-tuk driver was waiting for me, and though I was late he didn’t seem too vexed.

“Hello, I am Keo.”

Keo and I made small talk as we made our way to his bike, and though he seemed genuine enough, the subject quickly changed to business as he offered to drive me around the temples the next day. He seemed nice enough, so I accepted.

The people here are kind and strange. They live in the shell of their ancestors’ greatest masterpieces, like hermit crabs nestled in jade wares. Driving through the city and countryside to Angkor Wat, the trash heaps and sewage streams are the relics of modernity. The narrow, sand-laden streets feed into main avenues like some ancient drainage basin, and each is lined with food carts and tuk-tuks both bustling and abandoned. Children on bicycles scream to one another as motorbikes and Lexuses weave between them. Chickens pick through garbage along the road while stray dogs stare vacantly at the world passing by. I clumsily greeted and thanked street vendors with hands together and a slight bow, though they seemed to appreciate my attempt at Sampeah.  

Angkor Wat’s redented towers peered over the exterior walls as I crossed its moat, and I felt the world slowly dissolve around me as I approached the perimeter wall. The hordes of tourists faded into shadows as I traced the low relief carvings that cover almost every wall in the temple. Even the malaise of living in Korea for another year peeled away as I took in all the images around me. Depictions of mythical battles are juxtaposed with bullet holes from firefights between Khmer Rouge and Vietnamese soldiers, while images of demon armies are mirrored by ignorant visitors trampling hallowed ground. Resting on a block of sandstone, I watched as Cambodians fluent in Korean, Chinese, French, English, German, and Japanese lead tours through the passageways of the temple. I made my way to Bayon.

Bayon lies within the borders of Angkor Thom, the last capital of the Khmer empire. The entrance gate is only big enough to fit one tuk-tuk at a time, and as we waited for vehicles leaving the complex to pass by, I wondered if it was cosmic retribution from the ancients to inconvenience future tourists. It was much quieter here, and as I walked through the entrance an air of serenity embraced me. The sculpted faces that adorn this temple seem to rise from below the rock in the same way that water briefly envelopes your hand as you pull it up through the surface.  The halls here are more in tune with the shadows than the sun, and the little light that seeped in only added to its riddles. As I climbed to the top, a Chinese tourist threw her trash on the ground, though her Cambodian tour guide collected it for her,

“There is a bin just outside.”

Humans don’t deserve each other.

In the courtyard I watched some monks help an elderly woman down the stairs, though they are usually forbidden from touching the opposite sex. After they disappeared, I left for Ta Keo and Ta Prohm.

Ta Keo is more or less a pyramid compared to the other temples, and its greatest offering was the view from its peak. I climbed the stairs as passing tourists made small talk,

“How’s the view from the top?”

“Same as everywhere. Just Jungle”

Just jungle.

I found a quiet ledge and rested in the shade of the roof. Although the jungle seemed to offer little insight into the history and significance of the structure I sat on, I imagined some confused 26-year-old Khmer man sitting in the same place a thousand years before, pondering the same things. The sun sank a bit more, and Ta Prohm beckoned me.

Ta Prohm is surrounded by a lush forest that doesn’t end at the perimeter wall. The trees are slowly consuming the temple, and the thick roots easily ravage the stone structures that may have one time kept nature at bay. I sat on one of the roots jutting from the wall and watched as hundreds of invaders conquered Ta Prohm with selfie sticks and tenacious mediocrity. If a picture steals part of your soul, what do millions of them steal from a place? How many apparitions of Pol Pot’s slaughter linger translucently in the background?

As I made my final rounds at Ta Prohm, I surmised what husks of our civilization will still stand a thousand years from now, and I wondered if the intrigue of monuments built by a mysterious people who lived without electricity, or modern technology, could be matched by those built by a society obsessed with documenting even the most mundane aspects of life.

She said it’s all been done before, or too many times, in words, rhymes and rhythm. But she never saw you like I did.

Has anyone but me seen the muted reflection of the lights in Akihabara on the crests of your cheeks?

Has a soul besides my own ever stared into the placid water of Lake Kawaguchi with your hair tucked beneath their nose?

I know I alone have tasted the medley of sweet strawberry mochi and the bitterness of your skin, as one may only know being fed by your hand in the waning hours of night.

No. No one else has ever kissed you between mouthfuls of sushi and sips of a Suntory highball.

It cannot be that someone also heard your trembling breath as I led you through the narrow crevices of Golden Gai. Nor could they have waded through the cloistered, smoke filled bar where we had a dalliance with warmth.

But even if they had, there’s more between us than the earth and the sun, and no one, not one, knows a word of our unsung hymns.

I was riding on the KTX (express train) on my way to Seoul Christmas Eve with two other English teachers. We sat separately because we purchased the tickets last minute, though they both would have opted for their headphones anyway. For a while I just stared out the window watching the Korean landscape scrawl on by. At any given moment, massive apartment buildings would spring up in some forgotten vale, followed by hovels scattered about crop-less fields. Yet somehow it all had a rhythm to it, but as a passerby I just didn’t know the tune. It was then that I decided to learn to read Hangul (Korean), and so my journey began.

Seoul, then, became a sort of revelation for me. No longer did the signs to my flanks and in the sky appear as an alien arrangement of lines and shapes. I now had the cipher, and with it, an unparalleled sense of autonomy. Yet my language was still extremely limited. And so I possessed the map to the great treasures of this land without knowledge of the necessary incantations. But I sought to change that. Eventually. Until then, I longed for a mending of the rift between myself and nearly everyone who inhabits this place. I wanted to participate in the festival of life with those around me, and I didn’t want to wait any longer. So I began to speak through something I had not yet come to understand. It’s called 정 (Jeong), and its meaning transcends any definition it is given through spoken language. Yes, even Korean.

It began Christmas evening. The interwoven shopping streets in Hongdae fanned out like hot capillaries, throbbing while the masses oozed within the boundaries of each shop as others trickled through alleyways and narrow building gaps between the avenues. I was wandering back to a grimy dive called Bar 다 (Da) with my accomplices when I saw her. A 20-something girl knotted up in herself outside of a club. What stole my attention was this look of disdain she bore whilst shivering on the wet stairs beneath the front door. Lacking the words to ever know what was truly ailing her, I did the only thing within my means to try and convey my empathy. I gave her my hand warmer.

As I knelt down to her level to hand her the hot pack, she flinched in disgust, almost as if it were a daily occurrence that strange men would approach her in such a way. Slowly, as if the task was a bomb diffusion, she reached out and took the pack. I smiled as I stood up, leaving her with a gentle nod before continuing on my way, and that’s when I saw it. Her face. It began as the countenance of someone who had spoiled a ruse, as if she had been cheated but immediately recognized it. I felt compelled to look back once I’d made a bit of distance, and I will never forget it. It was the face of wholesome serenity.

And so I learned quite quickly how to overcome the barrier of language that had thus far hindered my interactions with others. Kindness for the sake of kindness. Shortly thereafter, I discovered Jeong.

It was a typical Wednesday evening as far as Wednesday evenings go in Masan, my new hometown. A horde of teachers, myself included, converged on the gymnasium around 3:00 PM to play volleyball, drink beer, and eat fried chicken. As the women scuttled out after swift bows and chirpy farewells, I helped the men put away the volleyball equipment.

“James. We will have dinner. You will come?”

It was Song Young Heon. He had alluded to such clandestine gatherings among the male teachers, but this was my first formal invitation. I pounced on it.

“Of course.”

And that’s how I found myself sitting alone in a tiny Japanese restaurant tucked away in some derelict nook of the city. After a while they slipped in one by one, offering nothing more than a nod and a smile before pacing around without another sound. But as the principal walked in, the atmosphere shifted. Deep bows and histrionic greetings were followed by synchronized seating and distribution of glasses. What began as a slow, casual transaction of words and vittles became an epoch of drunken cultural exchange. It’s then that I learned what wasn’t in the 50 page contract I initialed and signed when I accepted this job. There was no section or article discussing how you may find yourself feeding your coworkers, or being fed by them, with the intimacy of lifelong friends. Or holding hands with the principal, because he wants to convey his approval but he lacks the language to express it. And there is definitely no clause to be found that explains that, if you mention alcohol, your bosses and coworkers can and will test your drinking prowess. But above all, there is no reference to the humbling experience of participating in human connectedness that goes beyond what Western society affords us. There is no allusion to Jeong.

Three months ago I’d never left the Americas. Like the first settlers, after the recession of Beringia, I was stranded. Perhaps sealed. I kept what little I’d seen of the world in my pocket like loose change; Boston, Denver, Anchorage, among others, and they chimed away as I walked about. A pathetic little symphony.

And now I’m sitting in a dark nook of gate P8, waiting to return home. Back to my small, homogeneous peninsula with colorful new stamps in my passport. Back to Masan, my little nest on the 35th parallel.

But it isn’t I who came that is returning, rather a man that shares my face and name, my blood and bones. But his spirit is much greater than his counterpart, and he carries with him much more than his lonely, encumbered backpack.

He’s breathed the serpentine smoke of incense in the haunting caverns of Batu Caves. He’s watched roaches and rats alike scurry about as free as men. He’s passed vagrants, inundated by want of food, and given them nothing. He’s smiled at the ruffians perched on ledges in parks, looking over their vast kingdom, because he was one of them once, a long while ago in a faraway place. He’s been melded into a crowd of strangers on an overfilled metro. He’s smelled the lust of men trickling out of brothels and the hot mustiness of the rainforest. He’s watched the disabled get paraded around like circus animals to fill rusty cans with ringgets and the most entrancing Singaporean women in clothes most would need a loan to buy. He’s watched tourists opt for Subway sandwiches over spice laden bowls of mee goreng and the warm welcome of roti canai and curry. But most of all, he’s seen himself in the mirror for what he is and always has been; an ape, revolting and rotten, better than no one and less than most. You can meet him if you’d like.

The old women have stopped tormenting me.

Perhaps I should elaborate.

You see, every day I take the bus to work, and every day I pass the Masan Fish Market. The market lies alongside the main road, though it harbors its own streets and nooks woven within its bosom. On the surface you’ll see shopkeepers from every walk of life. Some stands are exceptionally built and maintained, complete with fish tanks and display cases, while others resort to the curbs with nothing more than a blanket to keep their goods off the street and a bucket to sit on. These faces on the curb will forever roam the crooks of my memory. Their faces marked by tremendous gulches and vales, swirling about two eyes that have seen all that was and all that ever will be. The fruits of their youth rotted a millennia ago.

But I will tell tales of these immortals another time. The old women I speak of are their customers.

They come in droves every morning. Armed with carts and bags teeming with miscellaneous produce and harvests from the sea, they double in the bus erratically with an unparalleled fierceness about them. My first encounter with these ancient denizens of the market coincided with my first day at school. If I’d only known how frequent our encounters would become.

I stood near the transfer terminal, eagerly awaiting the announcement of my stop. As my eyes shot in all directions in search of a familiar building or sign, I felt a sharp rapping on my hand.

I looked over my shoulder to find that it was a tiny old woman attacking my hand. Her scowl was deeply embroidered on her weathered face, and her attacks became more intense upon noticing my perplexed countenance.

After a swat or two more, I retracted my hand to the safety of my sport coat pocket, though in doing I left myself to the whims of the bus. At that moment, the bus listed harshly, hurling me into the exit door and then the floor. The old woman retained her stoic observation of me. I think even a chuckle from her would’ve made me feel better.

As I stewed in my moment of insurmountable humiliation, I realized that I was wrong. What do I know of this woman’s life? Perhaps this little space between the bars, that place I chose among a plethora of opportunities, was her spot. Year after year, bus ride after bus ride, this little gap was her sanctuary, her scabbard. And then one day, as if by some contusion in the cosmic balance of everything, she ventures to her spot, only to find it annexed by some foreigner. And so from that moment on, I pledged to relinquish my place on the bus to these women.

The formalities are coming to an end. Whether it’s because I’ve been here almost two months, or that the semester is ending, the conversations have gotten shorter and the smiles have shrunk below their former horizons. I’m rather glad that this period is coming to an end. I prefer reality to fantasy every day of the week.

The bits of Korean I know are pleasant little trickles that gently slip into my ears, while the rest is white noise that murmers on in the backdrop of my consciousness. Sometimes I’ll get pulled too far into an article or conversation online and I forget where I am. But the occasional 제임스 (Jameseu) brings me back, though sometimes its pull is abrupt like a noose around my ankle. I guess waking up isn’t always easy or enjoyable.

I stepped off the bus with the help of several passengers lunging towards door, though I latched onto the bus stop pole and regained my composure before heading to school. As I reached the top of the stairs to the sky bridge, a whimsical voice beckoned me,

“Annyeong! Annyeong! Jameseu Jameseu!”

It was the school lunch lady. Maybe it was my volleyball skills, or perhaps my politeness at lunch, that won her heart. Either way, I could say with great confidence that she loved being around me. I say that because her English is limited to “hi”, “bye”, and “dirty” (the last one she learned from me, of course), so we walked in silence. She took a longer path to school than I did, so our journey consisted of her pulling my arm this way and that. I’d be annoyed if I didn’t crave the attention.

She left me at the front doors with a grin and a nod. Before heading to my office, I opted to feed the rabbits as I did almost every morning. The cage was surrounded by manic students who, upon noticing my approach, swarmed me.

“Teacher teacher! Rabbit escape!” Sure enough, I saw the little miscreant crouched within a leap of the cage. How strange it must have been for him, after years of being a denizen within the confines of this cage, to look upon his old world while in the midst of a new and strange universe. The walls of his reality have been flipped inside out, and so he must tread this dangerous and alien world whilst his family looks on indifferently.

I was rather lost when they came. Sitting in my usual chair, the women of the “Nurse’s Club” huddled around a bed across the room, sputtering away about the latest gossip in school. They had bought my silence with snacks and fresh coffee, a remedy they found quite effective against the ailment that was our language barrier. Though I’d hear my name from time to time, I knew it’d never be translated. We have a deal; I’ll eat and they’ll talk. But for the moment I could hardly be sated by their bribes. I craved conversation. And then the fourth graders came.

“James Teacher, clean now.” Naeon chirped from the doorway.

“Okay, hagsaeng, I’m coming.”

They rollicked down the hall to my room, turning back only to practice some informal English I taught them.

“What'seu op, dude?” They’d shout back to me, giggling and screeching till I answered them.

I unlocked the door for them and, though they were armed to the teeth with brooms and dust pans, they proceeded to clean nothing. My ukulele and the Green Bay Packers game took precedence over their cleaning tasks.

“James Teacher, team okay?” They’d ask as I stared wildly at the computer screen. I taught them some basic aspects of football, as well as the Packer chant. When the clock read 16 seconds, they began offering their condolences. Each one of them hugged my arm and gently muttered into my shoulder,

“Sorry, James Teacher. Team lost.”

And one by one, almost imperceptibly, they scurried out of the room. Although I assured them that I was okay, they left me to mourn in solitude. As I heard the last pitter patter of their slippers drifting down the hall, the Packers scored. I leapt out of my chair and sounded my primordial war cry. Caught in my hysteria, the children tore down the hallway and back into the room, chanting with the utmost enthusiasm,

“Go Pack go! Go Pack go!”

The days are melding together. They are little ice cubes in a glass, pooling indiscriminately at the bottom in a soup of the past and present.

This is a curious period in my life; a month of goodbyes entombed by a month of hellos. The old faces have slowed their nightly hauntings, and the new faces have yet to replace them. Even my own, reflected within the sills of each storefront I pass, is in transition. The years are upon me now, and soon I will be old.

A gelid gust from the north greeted me as I ducked out of my apartment building. My wool sport coat barely staved off the onslaught as I found sanctuary in a convenience store. The same old man worked there every morning and, as long as I didn’t interrupt his 7:20 AM cigarette, I was warmly welcomed.

“Annyeonghaseyo! Good morning!”

 Ah. I’ve done well.

 “Annyeonghaseyo!”

 The old man knew what I’d buy, just like the girls at Jaws Food and the bartenders at All That Jazz. They are little seeds that I’ve planted, and I water them with every visit and familiar order. Still, the man confirmed my total in English and offered me a bag and receipt, knowing I wanted neither. Korean customer service is parsecs ahead of their American counterparts. I left him with a nod and wave before chasing down the bus to school.

 The school days are getting swifter, and I feel a rhythm that grows with every class. But today I was markedly off. I have my first school volleyball game and, due to some botched translations, the principals have high expectations for my performance. 

***

 The P.E. teacher whispered behind me, 

 “Come. We will change now. P.E. office.” I hurried behind him as the other men warmed up. Here we go.

 I emerged from the office teeming with adrenaline, and a group of women from my school cheered me on as I positioned myself on the court. I called them the Nurse’s club as they always had coffee, tea and gossip in the nurse’s office after lunch. Worst case scenario, I look like an idiot.

 We lost all three games, but I’d gained the respect of the men in the process. Nothing got passed me, and my battered knees and elbows reflected the handful of successful saves I had. The vice principal, as he congratulated the last member of the opposing team, turned to me.

 “James, volleyball very good. You will be setter.” 

 “Gomabseubnida, gomabseubnida. No-no, very lucky.” (Thank you)

 “No. James setter.”

 And that was it. The levee built from my newness, the doubt seeded by my less friendly predecessors, and the language barrier, was toppled. Like an archaic baptism, they drowned me with respect and admiration, and I was reborn in their eyes. The men locked arms with me and talked excitedly about the next game. The women bombarded me with compliments and high fives. And then they took me out to dinner, serving me the first drink after the principals, an honor that I still find difficult to swallow.

After getting on the wrong bus this morning, I’ve recognized the fact that I’ve gotten comfortable living here in just 3 weeks. Not a month ago, I traversed roads that were merely extended contours of my being. Each bump and turn. All the textures and divots. I read the nuances of each road as ingredients in a recipe; every stop sign was a page flip, every traffic light, a taste. But now I travel by bus numbers, landmarks and sounds. It’s as if the lights are off and, by feeling the walls thoroughly, I know I will find the switch eventually. But not today.

“Mmmm. Changwon?” The taxi driver asked after I showed her the school name written in Korean.

 “Aniyo (No). Bongam-Dong.” I replied nervously.

 “Neh, neh.” (Yes, yes.) And we began. Several near-accidents later, I made it to school. The campus was restless when I arrived, and I felt slightly anxious as I took in the energy clinging to the air. The morning chill slipped away from me as I stopped outside the front doors to watch a boy feed the school rabbits some clovers. Not every lesson here is found in a classroom. I walked into the auditorium where our school festival was taking place. Upon finding some familiar faces, they entrusted me with the performance schedules. I gently handed out programs to perturbed parents and grandparents who walked in late as the masses sought seating and watered down coffee. The hurried antecedents halted at once as an unfamiliar sound took hold of the room. With a second of delay, I placed my right hand over my breast to mimic the crowd. As the Korean pledge concluded and hands fell to pockets or cameras, the national anthem began. I tried to shed the moment and carry on, but my instinctual act weighed heavy on my mind. Had I betrayed myself? Is the fleshy cloak of skin I wear a true appendage of mine, or a facade? To whom did I pledge? But as I troubled myself with these thoughts, my third grade students, one by one, embraced me. “James teacher, you like festibal?” Amy asked with a wide, crooked smile.