Infusion 2011

INFUSIONTHE KOREA FULBRIGHT

A PUBLICATION OF THE KOREAN-AMERICAN EDUCATIONAL COMMISSION VOLUME 4.2011

THE KOREA FULBRIGHT INFUSION 2

PUBLISHING ADVISOR JAI OK SHIM, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF JAMES MCFADDENMANAGING EDITOR AMY LARSEN

COPY EDITORS MISA KABASHIMA, KATHERINE LINMAN, ELIZABETH LYONS, JILLIAN MOGA, JENNA RIDGWAY, EILEEN RYAN, BRIAN WERMCRANTZ, RACHEL WHITFIELD

SUPERVISING EDITORS ALEXANDRA ANDERSON, NIKOLAS NADEAU

PHOTO CONSULTANT JING SONGCOVER PHOTO “한강 (HAN GANG)” BY KEERAN MURPHY

TELEPHONE (82-2) 3275-4000FAX (82-2) 3275-4028E-MAIL [email protected] WWW.FULBRIGHT.OR.KR

THE KOREA FULBRIGHT INFUSION IS PUBLISHED BY THE KOREAN-AMERICAN EDUCATIONAL COMMISSION


Dear Readers,

It has been an extraordinary year for us here in Seoul, celebrating the Fulbright program in Korea’s 60th anniversary and releasing a number of commemorative publications. The fourth edition of Infusion magazine, while touching on these important milestones, is really devoted to the celebration of adaptation. I strongly believe in the power of attunement- that is, our ability to respond to internal and external stimuli in a unique way over time. Those who attended our main gala event on October 9, 2010 at the Shilla Hotel may recall Fulbright Korea’s “We Share the Dream,” a piece written and composed by members of the Fulbright family.

Worlds apart/We share a vision/We share a common dream/Dare to dream/And we discover/The cleansing light of peace…

In many ways, these words remind me of the strengthening of Korea’s social and economic fabric via 60 years of international education and exchange. The lyrics might well serve as a theme, too, for this year’s magazine. Fulbright has long prided itself on the vitality and number of quality grantees that pass through its doors each year. This is especially true of our alumni that go on to fl ourish post-grant, attaining notable academic or professional accolades. But working for the Korean-American Educational Commission for over three decades has taught me that adaptation within the scope of international exchange and scholarship is not the same thing as achievement. True adaptation requires creative thinking, deep connections, and a willingness to alter our behavior in a way that promotes the sustained prosperity of a shared environment. There is no telling what the future may hold, and while some of our grantees have encountered profound struggles, many have reframed those challenges to fi nd great success.

In the following pages, you will read about Fulbright grantees who have internalized the fundamentals of creative adaptation in a way that pays full tribute to Senator Fulbright and his continuing goals. Their contributions remind me that if we remain faithful to the program’s comprehensive vision of peace, we will not fail in discovering and prospering through our shared humanity.

Sincerely,

Jai Ok ShimExecutive DirectorKorean-American Educational Commission

Letter from the Executive Director Jai Ok Shim, KAEC Executive Director


korea. adapting.

These momentswill keep us

going and give us something to look forward

to- the moments left today and those sure to

come tomorrow.-Aaron Pooley

I suspect that the same spirit that pulled

South Korea from the depths of war’s destruction plays a

part in how she stares down aggression

today. Koreans are always striving, never

satisfi ed. -Cornelius Cornelssen

I had to adapt my teaching style quickly, because one thing did not change- I was still in charge of instructing

students. Perhaps it is “stellar destiny” that on a daily basis affection

is exchanged in the classroom, hallways, and on

the streets of Daegu.-Olenka Lenets

“How fortunate Korea has been,” he concluded, with a bright grin. I pressed further, asking if he was still surprised at the prosperity

and modernization that has spread across the country over

the last four decades. “Of course. I feel like I have one leg in the past and one in the present.”

-David Libardoni

In 2011, Infusion presents Korea through the lens of adaptation.what does it mean to adapt?

Literally, adaptation relates a change undergone in the face of new or unfamiliar circumstances. It seems simple

to visualize: a new situation arises, and a modifi ed course of action is taken to meet its demands.

But adaptation is also so much more- it is precise and ambiguous at the same time. From every new

perspective, adapting takes a different shape. It can be implicit or explicit; active or passive; resisted or

embraced.

We adapt out of necessity, in order to maintain harmony with the world around us. All parties involved have a vested interest in maintaining this balance; the process is not one-sided. As much as an individual must adapt to a new environment, that environment equally

faces a hurdle in adapting to the presence of the newcomer. Adaptation is mutual.

It is through this metaphor that we have organized a collection of thoughts penned by Fulbright Korea

grantees both past and present. Through these stories to examine the Fulbright experience and its place

within Korea’s larger history.


n Fulbright Korea’s 60th Anniversary Gala....................................................6n 2010-2011 Program Year Activities............................................................8n Fulbright Forum and FKAF Projects.............................................................12n Tunnel of Endless WishesJing Song, ETA 10-11............................................................................................13n Seoul as an Invisible City David Keffer, Senior Scholar 10........................................................................14n Welcome to the Monkey HouseJoshua Brown, ETA10-11......................................................................................16n Refl ections on “Growing Up” in the Winter 2010Eileen Ryan, ETA 10-11........................................................................................19n On Cultural AmbassadorshipKatherine Linman, ETA 10-11..............................................................................20n Jeju TriathleteAlicia Allen, ETA 09-11.........................................................................................22n The Art of Protest: Political CartoonsGregory Pence, Junior Researcher 10...............................................................24n Life, Death, and a Side of KimchiLeigh Hellman, ETA 08-11...................................................................................26n Riding in Cars with AjusshisAshley Kim, ETA 09-11.........................................................................................30n How I Learned to Stop Caviling and Love the Lotte GiantsKeeran Murphy, ETA 09-11.................................................................................32n The Same Sam-SaemSamantha Morrow, ETA 10-11............................................................................36n Naju Bus TerminalTaylor Kennedy, ETA 10-11.................................................................................38n Priceless Experience: A Student PerspectiveHyeong Jun Kim, Camp Fulbright Junior Staff Member 10...........................39n JutaekSonja Swanson, ETA 10-11..................................................................................40n Vibrant KoreaJocelyn Ma, ETA 09-10........................................................................................42n A Yonsei MomentBenjamin Kester, ETA 10-11..................................................................................43n In TandemLeah Sicat, ETA 09-11..........................................................................................44n Brought to LightYoon-Chan Kim, ETA 10-11..................................................................................46n Of a FeatherAshley Craft, ETA 06-07......................................................................................49n Blend, Don’t BreakJesse Mahautmr, ETA 10-11................................................................................51

what does it mean to adapt?

in this issue...infusion / volume 4 / 2011


a night to rememberfulbright korea’s 60th anniversary gala banquet

Professor Park Onyu of Seoul National University performs a powerful ballad for nearly 600 attendees at the 60th Anniversary Gala Banquet.

Former ETA and KAEC Executive Assistant Emily Kim Goldsmith conducts ETAs during their choral performance of “We Share the Dream.”

October 9th was an evening filled with performances in a variety of media, from the written word to vocal expression, to instrumental art, as pictured here.

A table of ETAs eats one of three courses served at the anniversary gala banquet.

108 ETAs performed Fulbright Korea’s, “We

Share the Dream,” a commemorative song

written and produced by Fulbrighters.


Fulbright Korea celebrated its 60th birthday in style on Saturday, October 9th, 2010

at the Shilla Hotel in Seoul. The event, which was themed “Toward Peace in Korea and the World,” was attended by over 550 guests, including Korean and American Fulbright alumni, Korean and American government officials, and several foreign diplomats. Honorable guests and speakers included H.E. Kathleen Stephens, U.S. Ambassador to the Republic of Korea, Mrs. Harriet Mayor Fulbright, wife of the late Senator J. William Fulbright, and Christopher R. Hill, Dean of the Josef Korbel School of International Studies at the

University of Denver. Former KAEC Executive Directors Frederick Carriere and Dr. Horace H. Underwood were also in attendance, as was

Mrs. Jai Ok Shim, who dressed in formal hanbok (traditional Korean dress) for the special event. Special performances included vocal solos by Prof. Park Onyu (Seoul National University) and Ms. Lee Hye Jung (Soongsil Conservatory), a dance performance by Prof. Kim Sam-jin (Korean National University of Arts), and a special vocal and instrumental performance of the “We Share the Dream” by the 2010 ETA grantees.

a night to rememberfulbright korea’s 60th anniversary gala banquet

Scenes from the banquet which featured speeches, performances, awards, and recognition of the signing of the 2010 Seoul Statement.


Campers and counselors at Camp Fulbright 2010. The camp is not only a meaningful experience for student campers, but also a centerpiece of ETA training prior to their year-long teaching assignments.

20102010July August September

The 2010 ETA Orientation, which was held for the fi rst time at Jungwon University in Chungcheongbuk-do province,

immersed 73 incoming ETAs in teaching, language and cultural training. In addition, the ETAs taught their fi rst English lessons at Camp Fulbright, and engaged in various extracurriculars such as taekwondo, and hanji (traditional paper making). Many ETAs also participated in GLEE (Global Language Education Enrichment) club and enjoyed use of the university’s Olympic-sized swimming pool, fi tness center, and sauna. Unique to this year’s Orientation was the “First Annual Renewing ETA Meet and Greet,” which acquainted new and returning ETAs through a friendly “Korea Provincial Olympics” competition and other group activities.

U.S. Ambassador to Korea Kathleen Stephens addresses ETAs during Orientation at the annual Ambassador’s Pool Party.

ETA OrientationJuly-August 2010

Camp Fulbright July 2010

Like Orientation, Camp Fulbright also took place at Jungwon University for the fi rst time. Administered by

KAEC and led by Director Vincent Flores, the camp has a two-fold objective: to provide a fun English immersion experience for Korean students (5th-10th grade), and to give new ETA grantees the opportunity to teach and interact with Korean students prior to being sent to their placement schools. A total of 126 campers attended the session and were taught by 12 instructors, all of them past or renewing ETA grantees. The camp remains the only one of its kind to be administered by a Fulbright Commission.

program year activities


20102010October November December

Gyeongju Fall ConferenceOctober 2010

Held October 1-4th at the Commodore Hotel in Gyeongju, this conference gave

new ETAs the chance to review their fi rst six weeks of teaching, and veteran ETAs the opportunity to provide mentoring and support. The 2010 Conference was also highlighted by several hours of rehearsal for the “Fulbright Song,” to be performed the following week at KAEC’s 60th Anniversary Gala event.

Fulbright Test of EnglishDecember 2010

KAEC administered its fi rst-ever Fulbright Test of English to 126 students at Seondeok Middle and High School in Gyeongju on

December 11th and 18th. The test consisted of three parts: a short cloze test, a writing test, and an interview. Several ETAs from across Korea volunteered to help administer the test’s pilot run. As the demand for English skills and English testing grew over the years, it became clear that tests like the TOEFL and TOEIC, while increasingly popular, were not only expensive, but also targeted to a very different audience, specifi cally non-Korean adult learners, or were neither culturally appropriate nor useful for Korean students. It was obvious that a test made for young Korean students was necessary, and Fulbright’s test remedied this need.

All ETAs gathered together at the Commodore Hotel in Gyeongju for Fulbright Korea’s annual fall conference.

program year activities 2010-2011


ETAs enjoy the spring weather and gather among palm trees to share their experiences gained throughout their grant year.

20112011January February March

This year marked the fi rst time in KAEC’s history that ETA grantees were able to take sponsored Korean language

classes. A total of 42 ETAs participated in the month-long intensive course, held at Jungwon University and taught by instructors from GANADA Korean Language Institute. The program featured 126 hours of formal classroom learning, consultation with instructors, and the presence of Korean university students who participated in the “GLEE” language exchange club. The program was a great success, and highlighted the achievements ETAs’ achievements during their winter break. CLEA grantees listen attentively to the instructors from

GANADA Korean Language Institute.

CLEA ProgramFebruary 2011

Jeju Spring ConferenceApril 2011

In their second teaching workshop of the 2010-11 program year, the ETAs gathered at the Korean Airlines (KAL) Hotel

in Seogwipo, on the southern side of Jeju Island. The ETAs participated in teaching workshops and led discussions about living in Korea. ETAs also had a chance to participate in a surprise Easter egg hunt, and to take in the island’s natural beauty, visiting the Manjanggul cave and Sunrise Peak mountain.


Spring Grantee DinnerMarch 2011

20112011April May June

Held on March 18th at Balyoo Gongyang restaurant in Seoul, the dinner was hosted

by Executive Director Jai Ok Shim and attended by 19 grantees and their families. The food served was completely vegetarian, organic, and locally grown at the Buddhist temple.

ETA Farewell Gathering June 2011

Held June 26th at the Dragon Hill Lodge (U.S. Army Base, Seoul), the

Farewell Gathering gave ETA grantees the opportunity to say their fi nal goodbyes before ending their grant year. Alexandra Anderson (Executive Assistant) and Nikolas Nadeau (ETA Program Coordinator) offi cially passed the torch to their successors, James McFadden and Stephen Kim, respectively.

ETAs gather as for the last time

at Fulbright’s annual farewell dinner, held at

Dragon Hill Lodge on the

Yongsan Army Base in Seoul.

Youth Diplomacy ProgramMay 2011

The Youth Diplomacy Program (YDP) is a diplomatic enrichment experience for Korean middle school

students that is organized by ETA grantees in conjunction with the the U.S. Embassy. This year, a total of 24 students from six schools attended the program, which ran from May 23-25th. The students had the opportunity to meet U.S. Ambassador Kathleen Stephens, as well as other high-ranking U.S. and Korean diplomats. As the highlight, the students participated in a “Diplomacy Simulation,” attempting to address the global issue of the mass migration of refugees from Bangladesh as a result of climate change.

Twenty-four Korean students gather after a successful diplomacy simulation featuring a humanitarian crisis and the evolving threat of global climate change.


Every year, the outgoing class of ETAs collects money to help fund future ETA school or community projects. This unique grant is funded by donations from departing ETA grantees, and stands as an example of how the Korean ETA program contributes to Korea’s overall societal progress. This year, a total of six ETAs received grants totaling nearly $1,000. Examples of project include “English Through Music,” a musical exchange program between ETAs and North Korean refugees; “Diplomacy in Action,” a field trip which introduced Korean high school students to U.S.-South Korea

bilateral relations, and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” a field trip and research project about baseball and its historical origins in the U.S.

Fulbright Forum Lecture SeriesThe bimonthly Fulbright Forum lecture series is held on the sixth floor of the Fulbright building or at the U.S. Embassy’s International Resource Center and allows current junior researchers and senior scholars to present their research to the Fulbright community. This year, presentations were given by:

2009 Grantees• Inga Diederich, Junior Researcher, Moving Towards Stillness - Modern Korean

Buddhism through the Eyes of a Twentieth-Century Monk• Evan Hall, Junior Researcher, Discerning Principles of Architecture in Seoul

2010 Grantees• Michael Alison Chandler, Senior Scholar, Reforming one of the World’s Best-

Performing School Systems• Hyung Il Pai, Senior Scholar, Re-Visiting the Korean Wave - Romance, Drama, and

Marketing Heritage DestinationsFulbright Alumni

• Wayne Patterson, Senior Scholar, Maritime Customs and Chinese Imperialism in the 1880s: A New Look at Korea’s “Chinese Decade”

Scenes from one of this year’s highly successful “Diplomacy in Action” project developed by 10-11 ETA Amy Larsen.

2011 Fulbright Korea Alumni Fund Projects


Tunnel of Endless WishesJing Song, ETA 10-11


“Arriving at each new city, the traveler finds again a past of his that he did not know he had: the foreignness of what you no longer are or no longer possess lies in wait for you in foreign, unpossessed places.” -Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities, 1972,

translated by William Weaver.

When Calvino has Marco Polo describe the cities he has visited to Kublai Khan, the

theme repeatedly emerges that each city he visits teaches him not so much about the city at hand but rather about all the other cities he has previously visited. Moreover, Calvino remarks that the discovery of each new city brings with it a more poignant discovery of new traits within the traveler himself. When I was a student and I read this book for the first time (about 1990), I delighted in the creativity of the city descriptions and the finesse

of the language, but I did not fully appreciate the more subtle themes. I brought a beaten copy of this book with me to Seoul, since I judged it to be ideal reading for bus and subway traveling due to the short, distinct chapters, which could be easily digested even when broken into one fragment on the 171 bus and another after transferring to Line 6. Little did I know that I was holding in my hands, a book, which by describing this process of self-discovery through travel, provided a tutorial for me to experience it myself. Other travelers might find such a guide superfluous, but I am trained as an engineer, good at following a well-designed plan, and I benefitted greatly from this example. I brought my family from Knoxville, Tennessee to Seoul for a year not only to teach and study sustainable energy strategies at Yonsei University,

Seoul as an Invisible CityDavid Keffer, Senior Scholar 10-11

“Rainbow Seoul.” A multitude of colors lights up the horizon on a busy Seoul night. Photo: Benjamin Kester


but also to experience life in Korea. The differences are almost too many to be named. There is not just the obvious difference in language and culture between Seoul and Knoxville, but also the difference between dense urban living (Seoul pop. 10.5 million) and small town living (Knoxville, pop. 170,000). There are also institutional differences between a private university like Yonsei and a public, land-grant institution like the University of Tennessee. Taken together, these changes have provoked a variety of revelations, large and small.

We attach importance to features in our lives, like living in a house with a yard or having two cars in the garage, not so much because they are necessary but rather because we simply have grown accustomed to them. In moving to Seoul- living in an apartment complex, relying exclusively on a public transportation network- we found that family life goes on much the same as before. Instead of traveling by car to a forest and hiking through the mountains, we used the subway to reach a palace, museum, gallery or arboretum. The important activities, including a broad education of our children, continued or were even accelerated. The exposure to other well-traveled children prompted my daughter to remark one day after school that she wanted to visit all the countries in the world- a thought that had never occurred to her in Knoxville and in truth would have previously seemed out of character for her. We quickly discovered that many things we had felt were essential were clearly not so. In Seoul, we were much better able to meet our goals of living sustainably; we had a greatly reduced carbon footprint, having eliminated all energy usage due to driving a personal vehicle (or two) and the inefficient heating of a single-family dwelling.

In Invisible Cities, Marco Polo describes each city

without casting judgment on the activities that define it. Certainly, he makes no attempt to alter the city to better suit his preferences. This idea resonates within me. Adrift in an enormous city in which one speaks very little of the language (my talent for languages is limited to computer programming) I have learned to relax and cede some measure of control over my life. After accepting that it was my own short-comings (e.g. poor command of the language) that were responsible for many of the obstacles that arose, I was able to more easily embrace the fact that in a restaurant or a shop or even a taxi, the end result frequently did not coincide exactly with the original intention. I just had to smile, chalk it up as a learning experience and move on. It’s a lesson that may have been impossible or at least very difficult for me to have learned any other way.

I know that my visit to Seoul (and the treks outside it) have redefined my perception of Knoxville. I think then of our children, Ruth, eight, and Joseph, five, who are already better traveled at their young ages than I was when Ruth was born. In the future when they travel, each new city will not only redefine Knoxville for them, but also redefine Seoul and Beijing and the other cities we visited while here. It seems clear that the children do not have the same conscious realization of the impact of a year in Seoul that I do, but I feel certain that the seed has been planted. As our return to Knoxville approaches, I picture us taking our usual after-dinner walk along our street under a canopy of oak and dogwood leaves. I can already hear the chorus of assorted song birds prepping for their performance at dusk. I can hear the sough of the wind in the trees. There is a whisper in the air remarking on the striking resemblance that these strangers bear to the family who left a year before. n


Surprises, unpredictable plot twists, partial nudity, and debauchery are all accurate

indicators that I have arrived at work. And no, I’m not working on the latest National Lampoon movie. I’m a conversational English teacher at Geumseong high school, the most dynamic educational institution I have ever encountered.

As one of the most important parts of my grant year, teaching takes up the majority of my time. I spend approximately 12 hours a week teaching conversational English to high school boys, while simultaneously serving as an “English cheerleader.” My role is simple: To get the kids excited to speak English. While the mere act of teaching places one in a position of great power and responsibility, being a foreign English teacher only complicates the issue. I am the ultimate authority on not only the English language, but Western culture in general, whether I like it or not. I am constantly approached with obscure grammar questions such as split infinitives (“to go boldly” as opposed to “to boldly go”) as well as more, well, subjective questions like “Teacher. In Korea, women blah blah blah a lot. In America, women blah blah blah a lot or shhhhhhh?”Needless to say, my work day is filled with lots of testosterone. With 800 teenage boys bouncing off the walls, I have my hands full. Rough housing, teasing, and sports in the hallways are all common sights around school. And I love it. But there are a few things that make this high school a little different from those back home.

When it comes to classroom management, my philosophy is simple: The best lesson plan will ultimately fail without classroom management. A discipline plan is absolutely essential, and it is pertinent to establish the tone of the class early on. Not too long ago, I was an unprepared, ADD-riddled high-school boy who was struggling with

the ebbs and flows of adolescence. I hid my cell phone in the elastic waistbands of my shorts and became a master at the art of passing notes in class. I know the tricks of the trade. Creating a classroom management plan should be easy, right?So at the beginning of the semester, I laid down a few simple rules for my students to follow. I call them the 5 P’s:

Be prepared: bring a writing utensil, paper, and your book to class everydayBe polite: keep your hands to yourself and respect your fellow studentsBe productive: work hardBe prompt: show up to class on timeBe positive: smile :)

By setting some strict rules early, I hoped to prevent some of the most predictable problems, such as unprepared students and rough housing. I told them that any infraction of the rules would result in a swift punishment. My weapon of choice, wall sits, initially proved effective. For the first few weeks, I handed them out liberally. I also invented George, my pet soccer ball. I explained to the kids that they always need to watch George, because I will toss it at them and they need to catch it. When they have George, they can talk and answer the question. If they are sleeping in class, I will hit them with it. If they are talking, I will hit them with it. The kids love it when I stare down a talking kid then bop him on the head with George. Yet a few days ago, I was thrown a curveball. A few minutes after one of my classes started, two students barged into class chasing each other. This is a normal enough occurrence, yet there was something very distinct about these two tardy teenagers. Neither one of them were wearing pants. And one of them wasn’t wearing a shirt either.So, just as I was about to launch into my lesson, I

Welcome to the Monkey HouseJoshua Brown, ETA 10-11


was interrupted by two lanky, exposed adolescents scrambling to their seats. Usually, my policy for late students is clear-cut. If you are 2 minutes late, you will do a wall sit for 2 minutes. If you are 3 minutes late, you will do a wall sit for 3 minutes. Yet I could not bring myself to make these two unclad kids do wall sits in the buff. It was just too voyeuristic, and well, cruel. After they re-clothed themselves and the punishments were issued, I continued with my lesson. I tossed George to one student and instructed him to come to the board for an activity. He got out of his chair, and his Scooby Doo boxers caught my eye. It was not because he was sagging his pants, it was because he wasn’t wearing any. “Woah there, buckaroo!!” I said. “This is a no shirts, no shoes, no service establishment! Please put your pa....Better yet, can the whole class please stand up? We are doing a pencil, notebook, English book AND pants check. Yes kiddies, I understand the freedom of running around in your knickers, but we need to be FULLY ROBED for my class! No exceptions!”

Turned out he wasn’t the only scantily-clad student. In total, I had at least five kids that week come to class in their partial birthday suits. Thus, I have added a new rule to my class: Bring pants.

* * *

After a long, hard day at the office, nothing is more relaxing than returning home to my wonderful host family. My host dad is young, energetic, and speaks great English. While my host mom’s English is lacking, she makes up for it through her genuine

sweetness and care for me. And then there’s my host sister, Heo.

I usually get an hour to decompress and switch gears before the rest of the family gets home, which is really nice. I consciously need to shift out of my school persona. At school, I am “Josh Teacher,” a young, and enthusiastic cultural and linguistic diplomat. Josh Teacher is fazed by nothing: toilet humor, rowdy students and partial nudity are all within a days work. Yet after hours, I morph into “Uncle Joshie,” a shell of his former self. This personality code-switching has proven to be an unforseen challenge in my daily life.

Once my 3-year-old little sister gets home, the rules of the game change. She commandeers the

Reading to the youngest member of his host family is just another part of adapting to a Korean Household. Photo: Joshua Brown


TV, and “Vroom Riders” is fixed for the duration of the evening. Any attempt to change the channel will result in a terrible temper tantrum. Toys are strewn across the floor, and Uncle Joshie becomes her personal play-thing.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I have no first-hand experiences with siblings, since I am an only child. One moment she’s driving me crazy (like that one time she made me late for my ESPN fantasy football draft and the auto-pick drafted a kicker in the second round) and the next moment she just melts my heart.

On a given evening, mere hours earlier, Josh Teacher was laying down the law- his class was gang shouting English sentences back at him while other students were doing wall sits in an elaborate play of masculine one-upmanship. The testosterone

was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Yet within 90 minutes, no vestige of Josh Teacher remained. Instead, this once proud man found himself crawling on the floor while 3-year-old children used him as their personal jungle gym. Instead of dissecting the nuances between prepositional phrases, Uncle Joshie was teaching the words to “Hush Little Baby.”

One day, I might just snap. The next time my class acts up, I won’t make them do wall sits. Oh no, I’ve devised a much more conniving plan. We will listen to “John Jacob Jingle Hemmer Schmidt” on repeat. For 50 minutes straight. n

“Pride.” High school students, who live for soccer, cheer at a soccer game that was broadcasted at the World Cup Stadium in Seogwipo on Jeju Island. Photo: Erin Williams


On a path next to the reservoir behind my host family’s apartment complex, I walked

past two magpies scavenging in a chopped field. Hopping and tilting their heads, their beady black eyes searched for forgotten grains hidden under scattered, dry stalks. Another hop, a dip of the head, long black and white tail thrust up in the air, and one magpie raised her head again, gripping a pearl of barley in her jet black beak. A field that appeared so barren to me- lifeless compared to the shining gold affair that glittered on my last walk there a month before, when autumn was still lingering- had yielded what was perhaps a feast in magpie standards. I imagined the magpie would return nestward with her treasure and excitedly regurgitate the meal into her chicks’ mouths. Perhaps I just needed the image of a nurturing home after three months living as a guest– provided for but still not a part of my host family– and five months away from my own home. I missed my family.

I walked by the reservoir often after I returned to the apartment from my first real job as an English teacher at Wolbong High School. As a teenager, I used to fantasize about this part of my life, when I’d have a self-sustaining income and live in an exciting new place, far from the too-familiar city of my childhood and removed enough from my parents and teachers to live in the luxury of independence. But reality dimmed the idealistic glow of my high school daydreams a bit. In the early winter of 2010, I was a “grown-up” with my own job, money, responsibilities, and adventures, and I was achingly homesick.

That afternoon, on the other side of my path from the barley field, the naked, gaunt, brown trees danced in the distorted mirror of the rippling water, which also reflected the white-streaked, winter sky. The sky was blue like my mom’s eyes,

a pale shade that appears clear and chill, but to me holds a warmth like home. The sky and the water surrounded me and the lonely trees, and the color that reminded me of my mom made me feel warm and rooted despite the weather.

Farther down the path, the apple trees that had been heavy with fruit a month before were relieved of their burden. Their branches, which should have been springy again, seemed lightened in a sad way that made me think of empty wombs and nests, and my mother’s blue eyes the way they might have looked when she remarked on the phone that this was the first Christmas season she and my father would spend alone, buying and ornamenting a tree and baking cookies to prepare their own nest for my brothers and I to return to, only for a few days. I remember when the idea of leaving the nest was a thrill, when any suggestion or command ruffled me. I chose to fly far away to the other side of the world, where the birds– cranes and magpies now– sing songs I don’t know. Did I need to leave home, to get all the freedom and space I could ask for, to realize how connected to my home and family I am? n

Reflections on “Growing Up” in the Winter 2010Eileen Ryan, ETA 10-11

“Shadows Under the Bridge.” Tour of the Ha Long Bay floating villages in Vietnam. Many ETAs explored Southeast Asia during the winter vacation. Photo: Justin Barbaro


As a Fulbright grantee, I’ve heard a lot about the importance of my role as a cultural

ambassador. A year of teaching in another country offers a unique opportunity to share positive aspects of my culture with a captive audience of young learners, but halfway through my grant year, I wonder whether I deserve the title of cultural ambassador. My students may not remember my home state, let alone any of the American traditions I’ve tried to incorporate into lessons. If they remember one thing about me, it will be the fact that I have a Korean fiancé.

The story of my relationship with my fiancé is almost magical here. It acts as an explanation for my presence and generally dispels curiosity about any other aspect of my life. I have only to say the words “I have a Korean fiancé,” and I am met with nods and understanding looks– though exactly what is understood I have yet to discover. For the record, my fiancé was born in Korea but moved to the United States while still very young. We met in college and I’m crazy about him. But this isn’t the time or place for that story.

This is a story about a family even more courageous than the host families who welcome ETAs into their homes each year. A host family agrees to take in a foreigner for six months or a year, surely an act of faith in humankind. However, these families are secure in the knowledge that if the experiment fails, the foreigner will leave and need never be contacted again. Circumstances are different for my fiancé’s family. They accepted into their home an unknown foreigner with the potential to wreck havoc on their lives for a much longer period of time.

This family has extended to me an acceptance and understanding that I would be surprised to find

in my own country, let alone in a foreign country where I mangle the language terribly. My fiancé’s grandmother allowed me to stay in her home while I was between homestays during the winter months, and continues to provide hospitality any weekend I am able to come to Seoul. No matter how I inconvenience my fiancé’s grandparents, aunts and uncles, they are always welcoming.

I especially look forward to each opportunity to spend time with my fiancé’s energetic elementary school cousins. Everywhere we go together, heads turn and people stare after us. Most of the looks are simply curious. People wonder about the ring on my hand and the chattering girls running before and behind me. They have no qualms about asking questions, but they approach the girls as the ones more likely to understand Korean. Each of the girls fields numerous questions:

“Is that your English teacher? Your tutor? Is that your mother?” One cousin in particular, Eun-suh, seems to receive the most questions. On a single day, she will patiently explain to children on the playground, people in the street, shop venders, and strangers on the subway that none of these explanations fits our relationship. Eun-suh’s invariable response to the questions posed is beautifully simple, “No. She is my family.” Usually she is met with disbelief as people look suspiciously from my fair skin and blue eyes to her black hair and brown eyes.

I wait in silent observation of these conversations, except during the rare occasion when questions are directed to me. I’ve come to Korea and insinuated myself into a Korean family without polling to find out whether this choice is approved by the majority of Koreans. Asserting myself in these situations would bring me little credit in the eyes of those wary of the Western influence I represent. It can

On Cultural AmbassadorshipKatherine Linman, ETA 10-11


be easy for ETAs to forget that as much as we are adapting to a new country, the people around us are also adapting to our presence. When it comes down to it, a cultural ambassador is still an

outsider– still strange and a little intimidating. But Eun-suh is a Korean. Her face is Korean, her accent familiar, and her smile simply adorable.

It seems that my diplomatic role has been assumed by a much younger, and in some ways much more capable demographic. To Eun-suh, I’m not an outsider. She takes for granted my inclusion in her family and she sees nothing strange about

developing a close friendship with someone from the United States. My host sister is the same way. As ETAs work hard to promote cultural understanding, sometimes we fail to understand that our work

is taken up by those we interact with on a daily basis. Whether they are Korean relatives or host families, these people come to represent Korean culture to us while at the same time acting as global friendship ambassadors to their own communities. If we are cultural ambassadors, those who take us in are doubly so. n

“부산 갈매기.” A couple enjoys a moment on the beach in Haeundae, Busan. Photo: Keeran Murphy


Sports and exercise have always been an important part of my life, and after I reached

my end in competitive soccer, I transitioned into triathlons. The intention to become a triathlete far preceded my first triathlon; it was not until my university offered a triathlon training class that I was given the instruction and support I needed to start competing. Even months later when I arrived in Korea, I was still very much a novice.

Before I was placed on Jeju, I learned that Jeju plays host to Korea’s Ironman race. Once I was officially on my way to Jeju, I decided, without reservation, that I was going to compete. The fact that this feat seems daunting if not impossible to most- an Ironman consists of a 2.4-mile (3.86 km) swim, a 112-mile (180.25 km) bike, and a full marathon (26.2 miles or 42.195 km) run- inspires me. If I flatter myself, my initial decision to compete despite my lack of experience and training can be considered a testament of my determination. To be more realistic, this was actually an inflated fantasy; I was quite foolish and naïve to presume I would be capable of completing an Ironman, especially when I had never even run a half-marathon.

Being naïve and the procrastinator that I am, I really didn’t start full-on triathlon training until March of 2010, after winter break. Most beginner Ironman training plans are six months long, and the “beginner” label assumes that you have significant endurance experience. Practical couch-to-Ironman training can take years. I maintained a decent level of fitness in the fall doing occasional running and swimming and regular taekwondo, but lapsed into a relative coach potato during the cold winter months. I basically figured that if I swam, biked, and ran a lot, I’d be able get to the finish line. Due to my independent character, I never considered looking for Seogwipo’s triathlon club, Halla

Triathlon. The fact that I needed help, support, and instruction never crossed my mind.

I may have found them eventually, but I was lucky enough to be at the pool during one of Halla Triathlon’s group workouts. They immediately welcomed me and waived the membership fee simply because I was the club’s youngest, only foreign, and only female member. These ajusshis (the dentist who has ran over 40 marathons, the guy who smokes a cigarette at rest stops, the firefighter whose niece is one of my students, the guy who eats the fat I tear off samgyeopsal meat, the club president who’s day job is making Jeju orange boxes, the smoker, the “German”, skinny Jo, and funny Jwa) all became my triathlon uncles and oppas- my Jeju family.

They help me order triathlon gear. They make me swim stronger, bike farther, and run faster. They feed me after workouts, even accommodating my distaste for seafood and fatty samgyupsal. They inform me of races, register me thereafter, and transport me to the starting line. They race with me, they cheer for me, and they take me home. They marvel at my swimming ability and tease me about my bike position. They tell me to learn Korean faster and they teach me the Jeju dialect. They take care of me. They support me.

My first Korean triathlon was the Jeju Superman at Sunrise Peak. There I met the Jeju triathlon community and even the pro-triathlete who later won the 2010 Ironman Korea. This community is tightly knit- I see the same faces at every race- yet like the Halla Triathlon Club, they quickly accepted me.

The Jeju Superman has been my favorite race experience to date. Haenyeos, Jeju’s women

Jeju TriathleteAlicia Allen, ETA 09-11


sea divers, managed the swim course rope. The bike course was entirely on the coast, windy but gorgeous, and the finish line was at the base of Sunrise Peak. Throughout the race, people yelled, “Alicia FIGHTING!” so often that “fighting” started to seem like my last name. As for the race itself, I’m a great swimmer (first male or female out of the water), a good biker (first female to finish the biking portion), yet a weak runner. Unprepared for the 18 mile running course, I finished the women’s race in third.

My second race was the Jeju Olympic Triathlon, a shorter and much more manageable distance for me. The swim and bike were great, but the run was still a mental battle just to get to the finish line. My triathlon fitness then was significantly better than it was in college; I dropped my previous time of 3 hours 18 minutes to 2 hours 31 minutes.

Three weeks later was my big race: THE IRONMAN. The race day weather was on the verge of a storm and windy enough that the swim was canceled. Even so, this was my first time biking 112 miles and my first time running a marathon, not to mention consecutively. After the bike, I was running, slow and steady, but running, and was ahead of my

one age group competitor. When she passed me at mile 16, I crumbled. The stress, both physical and mental, crushed any confidence I had of finishing. My father, who had planned his trip to Korea to coincide with my race, gave me a pep talk that helped, but what truly got me to the finish line was 현기천, a.k.a the orange box man. He ran and coached me through the final eight miles, which was more support than I could have asked of anyone.

I originally extended my ETA grant for a consecutive year intending to re-attempt Ironman Korea. Now that I’ve graduated past novice status, I’m competing with goals and expectations, specifically with my sights set on my age group’s one Kona World Championships qualifying spot. I’m continually getting better by addressing my weakness in running by completing two marathons, and by maintaining my training regiment with Halla Triathlon Club. I’m extremely indebted to this club and group of ajusshis. Because of them, I can speak Korean while running, makgeoli has become my post-workout drink, Jeju has become my home, and I have become a better triathlete. n

Jeju Island’s “Sunrise Peak,” as viewed by a group of Jeju ETAs. Photo: Alanna Duong


1

The Art of ProtestGregory Pence, Junior Researcher 10-11

2

Gregory Pence is a Fulbright Junior Researcher affiliated with Yonsei University in the field of international relations. His research project, “Land of the Morning Calm?,” is a comparative study of protest art in the two Koreas. The original drawings featured on these pages are based on his research of Korean nationalism through the lens of protest art and propaganda.


1: “The Propagandist.”

2: “North Korean Magpie” pays homage to artist Song Byeok who performed the soulless work of drawing idyllic North Korean propaganda posters for seven years.

3: “Untitled” illustrates a military parade unexpectedly facing the ironic prospect of gridlock.

4: “Gwangju Redux” is based on an iconic photo taken during the Gwangju Democratization Movement.

4

3


“Teacher?” Middle of roll-call. No raised hand, just an impatient voice that presses

everything with the same urgency.

“What?” A pause for the language barrier. I give him a beat to assemble his sentence before I start ignoring him. I have a headache and secretly hope it falls apart in his head rather than tumbling across my classroom.

“전쟁.” No dice. YH is lazy but consistent, so I give him points for that. He offers me the same intentioned, if slightly shorter, pause. “미국 가?” (Are you going to America?)

“I don’t know.” I keep my answers clipped and honest.

I don’t look back down at my clipboard because I know he’s not finished.

“같이 가자.” (Let’s go to America together.) A leapfrog of giggles and I roll my eyes. YH would be the one to say that. With him I can’t differentiate between sincerity and mockery. YH doesn’t mean harm, but he doesn’t mean particularly well either.

I think, not for the first time, about what war would mean for my students. Imminent- as it has been for two and a half years now. I can’t form a clear picture of it in my mind. I see vignettes from the original- and still the only- Korean War or scenes I’ve probably filed away from overzealous Hollywood war epics. Bloodstained school uniforms, slow-motion bursts of wood from where the bullets slice into our old doors and walls. Noble charges, last stands, sand and dust and a deafening silence that really hooks the audience. But that’s not war. Not real war.

Even the loops of footage streaming in from 연평도 aren’t real war to us.

I have no idea what that is or what it would be.

YH smugly congratulates himself amid his cluster of friends, all seeds from the same rotting apple. My rotting apple, but I still taste the bitterness. I resume roll and wonder if I imagined the hint of uncertainty, of innocent fear in his interruption.

I wonder what YH sees when he thinks of war. What he sees when he thinks of danger in his life. Can he imagine finality like that?

I can’t imagine finality for any of these boys, ripe and sour alike.

Then one boy is twisting another’s arm and thoughts of war and ends trickle back to the edge of my mind.

* * *

KS died in the fall.

I am the last to know. I don’t know why it surprises me. I understand my school’s subconscious; I know its motivation to stifle as many opportunities for unfavorable judgment as possible. Maybe I’d just been forgotten in the sweep of things- as I often was, even now. Or maybe they hadn’t thought it relevant to tell me. After all, it was probably something I wouldn’t care about.

But I do care about it.

A teacher lets it slip during a car ride. “The school has to be careful these days to let the third graders leave early.”

Life, Death, and a Side of KimchiLeigh Hellman, ETA 08-11


“Why?” I ask it reflexively, not fully committed to the conversation.

“Because of that student who died.”

The sentence rolls out casually, wrapped in only half a thought. My ears buzz low and I swallow a laugh. I’m not so sure that this is one of his awkward jokes.

“What happened?” Maybe this isn’t something I’m allowed to know, but the teacher keeps talking.

“He fell in the water and died.” There is more to it, of course. He tells me what he heard from the administration. The tale flirts with a subtle implication of badness in that student, a faulty moral compass that led him from the guidance of his school to that cold river path.

I keep thinking: It must have been so cold that night.

“Who was it?” I flip through snapshots of third graders I’ve seen recently. I am suddenly, painfully aware of how little I see those boys now- boys whom I saw weekly for a year and a half- and how they really could be up to anything and I’d never know it.

The teacher isn’t listening; he’s racing to make a left-turn arrow. Once we’re safely through, I repeat my question. He shrugs.

“I don’t know.” A lump of rage rises out of the bottom of my stomach. How can he not know which one of our- my- students is dead?

“It happened a while ago. I can’t remember.”

Pieces start to fall into place. “When did it happen?”

“Two, three months ago. I’m not sure exactly.”

I nod mechanically and feel the strangeness of the movement. It amplifies the strangeness of everything else.

* * *

Another teacher answers my chat message later. She writes his name: KS.

KS, KS, KS. I run it through my memories, certain that it’s familiar but still missing some necessary clue to this unwanted mystery.

The lump pulses with guilt. Guilt for my impotency, guilt for not protecting my boys but mostly guilt for not being able to match a damn face to a name. Guilt that one of my babies is dead, and I can’t even remember who he was.

* * *

I remember it later, possibly in the shower while my mind is on defrag for the day.

I remember my first Teachers’ Day, and how I was the only teacher they forgot to prepare a corsage for. I remember his disbelief, his disgust, and how he raced off and reappeared five minutes later with some poor sucker’s pilfered flowers. I remember how he mugged for our picture. I remember how I indulged him.

He must have been so afraid.


I remember his class, one of the lowest level classes I taught. I remember how he knew maybe five words in English and employed two of them to keep the class in-line. ‘Shut up’ is a perennial favorite with my low boys.

I hope he wasn’t in pain.

I remember patting him on the shoulder one day and him wincing. When I asked what was wrong he pulled back his collar, exposing gashes across his shoulder and down his arm. He mimed an accident and boasted about his part-time job as a motorcycle delivery boy for his parents’ chicken restaurant. I remember I shook my head and made him promise to wear a helmet and be careful.

“I don’t want you to die.”

I hope he didn’t feel alone.

I remember his first day in class, a transfer student near the end of my first teaching semester. I remember our first Christmas party and how I offered students cards to make for me. Out of 800 or so students, he was the only one who did.

I remember him whispering to the co-teacher. When I asked him about it he turned away without saying anything. She told me later that he’d wanted to know if he could write, “I love you.”

When he gave me the card at the end of class, “I love you” was noticeably absent above his signature- KS.

I hope he knew- knows- that I will never forget him.

I stare at the card now, taken out of its plastic cover amongst the compulsively organized memories of

my Korean life. Then I put it away quickly, worried that my tears might smudge the ink.

* * *

YH is late again. Granted, he’s not alone. But it’s almost finals week and I’m not in the mood.

They stand in the back. Most of them sway idly, shifting from foot to foot. A few chat despite my warning looks. But YH props his book open on the edge of a desk and follows along. I know because I can hear his obnoxiously distinct voice repeating with the drone of the rest.

It’s more effort than he’s ever really made. I’m careful not to be impressed. There are seven minutes left and we’re pushing through. The dance of fifth period feels more like a slow gulag-trudge most days.

Then it’s there, like an exclamation point in the middle of endless ellipses. YH’s arm stretching, straining up, and I don’t know why but I acknowledge it.

“What?” I’m not as angry as I sound, but they can’t know that.

“Teacher, teacher!” I grit my teeth and consider that maybe he has nothing to say.

“What?” I press more, challenging him to surprise me.

And he does. “I want to learn.” It hits me like a sucker punch and I’m out. A boy one year older than YH was feisty like that too.

KS wanted to be an actor. He was studying; that’s why he’d been in that city with that river. I don’t


know what YH wants to be, but I know that in this moment I still have time to find out.I struggle for my balance between leeway and backtracking, strict and totalitarian.

“Alright,” I finally exhale with only one corner of a smile. “But you can’t sit down.” YH nods, bouncing his whole body. I pull back to the march- five minutes to go.

After class the others throw glares at YH, a mix of envy and resentment for his grandstanding. I watch them shuffle out of class and suddenly feel how short my time with my boys really is.

From within the ebb and flow of everything else, it’s so easy to forget how soon they’ll be gone. n

“View into North Korea.” A series of telescopes offer visitors to the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) a chance to peer into the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Photo: Keeran Murphy


Sliding into the backseat after the others while trying to minimize exposure to the afternoon

monsoon, I collapsed my umbrella and closed the door, failing to make a singular swift motion out of the two tasks. I fumbled for the laminated yellow card in my pocket, as the others hesitated.

“Jung-moon ga-ju-se-yo” (take me to main gate, please) I read the Hangeul aloud, just as clumsily as I’d entered the cab. The driver barely nodded in response, leaving me wondering whether he’d understood what I’d said. As he pulled out of the parking lot, though, I sat back uneasily and hoped

we’d get there. As the rain fell in sheets and our breath took its toll on the windows, we sat in near silence. I still felt a bit overwhelmed, having just undertaken my first trip to E-mart (also my first trip off the orientation site without a Korean speaker.) I hadn’t even been able to ask the cashier for a bag for my purchases, mincing the pronunciation of a word I thought I’d heard the Korean in front of me use, before resorting to pointing at the plastic bags below the register. Relieved that I’d made

it out of the store with my neon orange bags, I was nonetheless a bit disappointed. Before coming to Korea, I naively imagined living in the country would make my brain absorb the language as if by osmosis. Although I had been learning a lot in class, I realized how much more I needed to learn before I’d be able to navigate life comfortably.

As I gazed out the window, resisting the urge to wipe the condensation from the glass with my hand, the driver commented (to himself) about the weather. When I realized I understood what he had said, my spirits lifted and I replied neh,

bi-ga ma-ni o-ne-yo (yes, it sure is raining a lot), which, followed by a nod on his part, ended the exchange. Since that brief exchange with a Kangwon-do taxi driver, I’ve developed a fondness for making conversations with taxi drivers. The habit has organic roots– I’m from Kentucky, a state where small talk with strangers is not out of the ordinary but rather a common courtesy. In Korea this kind of interaction has been noticeably absent. A Korean

Riding in Cars with AjusshisAshley Kim, ETA 09-11

“Easy Rider Jeju.” 10-11 ETA David Ederer cruises the Jeju countryside on a scooter. Photo: Benjamin Kester


friend of mine explained that Koreans generally assume everyone is in a hurry, and thus wasting a customer’s time with chatter could be considered rude. I realized that taxis evade this rule after the first few times a taxi driver, immediately after I told him where to go started a conversation by asking, “chung-guk saram?” (are you Chinese?) or something similar, as his eyes studied my semi-Asian appearance in the rear-view mirror.

After that realization, I started to use my time in taxis as an opportunity to practice Korean. I would search for questions to ask, even if I already knew the answers. Once, on the way to buy Chuseok gifts, I asked the driver what sort of things he thought would be suitable for my principal, co-teachers, and host family. All the way there we talked back and forth, deciding that socks were the safest and most appropriate. Then, as we pulled up to Lotte Mart, he told me that he would help me find the socks. He walked ahead of me into the store, informed the first clerk he came to that I was a foreigner, and asked her to show me to the socks. I thanked him, bowing awkwardly, and then proceeded to buy socks for everyone.

Thus, I have come to value taxi conversations as more than just a way to practice language.Through conversations with kind taxi drivers, I’ve been introduced to local restaurants, learned how to properly give directions to my house, and even made a friend. More than that, they have also shared their lives with me. Most recently, a man told me about how his daughter, weary of the intensity of Korean high school, decided to study on her own via a distance education program. We ended up having an interesting conversation about the Korean education system; it was refreshing to meet a parent who supported such a decision, given the extreme educational competition. While

I speak English at school and with most of my Korean friends, talking with cab drivers gives me a chance not only to practice my Korean, but also to talk with a more diverse range of people who aren’t necessarily fluent in English.

After nearly two years in Korea, I am generally able to do daily tasks in Korean without much consequence. Recently, though, my Korean has hit a frustrating plateau, what a fellow ETA poignantly dubbed, “intermediate-level purgatory.” My inability to have detailed conversations about new topics in Korean with people I am already well acquainted with often leaves me frustrated and unconfident. But there’s something about the backseat of a cab, though, that makes it easier and more comfortable for me to speak Korean. Maybe it’s because the subject matter of taxi-cab chit-chat is generally quite basic, or because there’s no direct eye contact. Or maybe it’s because I know from the beginning that the conversation is destined to last only a fixed period of time. Whatever the reason, I get an instant boost in confidence when I enter a cab.

When I imagined how the role of “cultural ambassador” might manifest itself, I would never have predicted my chatting from the backseat of a cab. A friend once asked me if I ever get annoyed having to explain my situation so many times, but as a curious person myself, I understand the drivers’ curiosity and I don’t mind. I realize that I may be one of the few foreigners the drivers have been able to talk to. Though my friends joke about my chatting with drivers or warn me not to be too outgoing, I have come to relish the opportunity to engage with the people whose cabs I happen to find myself in. I will remember the people I have met and conversations I have had as some of the highlights of my time in Korea. n


In 2009, the Lotte Giants led the Korean Baseball Organization in attendance. Averaging 20,597

spectators per home game, ahead of the Doosan Bears at 15,731, they nearly doubled the KBO average of 11,138. Although dwarfed by a powerhouse Major League Baseball (MLB) team like the New York Yankees, who averag nearly 46,000 per game, the Lotte Giants came very close to the Cincinnati Reds, at 21,579 per game. In short, Busan is a baseball city with fan-support more fervent than anywhere else on the Korean peninsula.

I had heard that Busanites were crazy about baseball before moving here in August 2009, and I was eager to experience the “great American pastime” on foreign soil, not because of a love of the sport itself, but with such a reputation, attending a game seemed essential to familiarizing myself with the culture, customs, and mores of the city which was to be my new home.

My history with the sport of baseball is short and rather uninteresting. Growing up in the American Midwest, participating in Little League might as well have been a requisite extra-curricular activity. But I was smaller than my classmates in elementary school, and I preferred running around in the backyard, throwing stones, and playing with sticks to organized team sports. Little league baseball players tend to fall into two categories: those who buy batting gloves and those who spend most of their time picking grass in the outfield. I fell into the latter. After two seasons of batting last and hoping that no fly balls came my way, my baseball career ended, and it was with indifference if at all that I regarded the sport thereafter.

When I arrived in Busan, though, I quickly realized that baseball would be an inexorable part of my daily life. My homestay was located in Sajik-dong, on a hill overlooking Sajik Stadium, home of the infamous Lotte Giants. From my room on the fifteenth floor of my host family’s apartment building, I could just barely see over the crest of the illuminated bowl to the fans sitting in the center outfield seats. Lying in bed with the window open, I could hear the cheering and make accurate predictions concerning the action on the field. My homestay father was excited to hear about my interest in attending a game one evening, and he quickly secured tickets for a game the following week against the Woori Heroes.

The stadium was packed to full capacity and the crowd was wonderfully raucous. After finding seats, my host father flagged down a vendor and scored us two cans of beer and some butter-fried squid- essentially head and tentacles in a paper bag. One of the crowd’s favorite players was the Mexican, Karim Garcia. For any serious baseball fans, this is the same Karim Garcia who played for ten different MLB teams, from the Dodgers to the Orioles, from 1995 to 2004. And according to his Wikipedia page, in 2004, he and teammate Shane Spencer “were involved in a parking lot encounter with a pizza deliveryman, but no charges were filed.” He’s a stocky galoot with a significantly substandard batting average, but one of the league’s homerun leaders. When he makes contact the ball soars; he’s your run-of-the-mill slugger, a Gashouse Gorilla (see: Looney Tunes, “Baseball Bugs,” 1946). The crowd’s love for Garcia seems to stem from both his Mexican background and his ability to crush home runs.

The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism in the Korean Baseball Organization, or: How I Learned to Stop Caviling and Love the Lotte GiantsKeeran Murphy, ETA 09-11


When he steps up to the plate, the crowd chants, “Ga-reu-shi-uh” to the tune of the Hallelujah chorus of Handel’s Messiah.

There were some similarities between the Korean and American baseball stadium experience. The crowd did “the wave.” There was also a “Kiss Cam.” And between innings, a man proposed to his girlfriend- all shown on the big screen behind center field. But unlike American baseball teams, the Lotte Giants do not have batboys; they have batgirls. They wear white skirts, orange tank tops, pink baseball caps, and pigtails. And there is no seventh-inning stretch, but there is a sixth.

There are cheerleaders too. They are on a stage set up in the right field seats, and the majority of the time they do cutesy coordinated dance

numbers. They are dressed similarly to the batgirls: white skirts and orange tops, but for some reason in the eighth inning they change into super short jean shorts and tee shirts that say “DIVA.” The cheerleaders alternate on stage with a more literal “cheer-leader”- a man in a Giants uniform and white gloves (and some kind of white, flowy, cape-like outer garment, which is quickly jettisoned after the first inning). Capering and gamboling across the stage, gesticulating in sharp, precise motions, he looks like he’s trying to give semaphore code sans-flags, or trying to direct an airplane on a tarmac. He’s always either shouting cheers into a microphone or blowing sharply into a whistle. He’s darn good at his job, and really gets the crowd going. Through the entire game there’s not a quiet moment, and the riotous cheering almost never stops.

New buildings race skyward in “dynamic” Busan. Many Korean cities adopt an English language motto or catchphrase to help increase their visibility among visitors to the country. Photo: Keeran Murphy


This was, for me, the best part of the game. The whole crowd is electric, and they have a different chant for every single player, incanted when he steps up to bat. Also, the fans bring newspapers to the game and, through a system of tearing and

twisting, make their own pom-poms, which are not so much shaken as they are whipped in unison toward the field. In the eighth inning, I was puzzled as to why stadium personnel were walking around tossing bright orange plastic bags into the crowd. At first I thought it was a sort of “pick up your own trash” policy, but the crowd seemed too eager. The bags are tied so that they’re full of air, and the two loop handles are wrapped around the ears, with the bright orange plastic sac of air on top of the head. Gazing out upon the capacity crowd, it looks like a swarm of bright orange jellyfish has descended upon the stadium.

One of the most difficult aspects of Korean baseball for me, at first, was the team names. Note that the two mentioned above (and all teams in the KBO) bear no reference to their city or location. But instead of bearing the name of the city in which they are located, KBO teams are identified by the corporations that own them. Sure, the Cincinnati Reds play in Great American Ballpark, but they’re still the Cincinnati Reds. I loved the excitement of the fans, but for a while, I couldn’t stop thinking about these corporate team names. Lotte is a megalithic Asian conglomerate named after the elusive love interest in Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther that operates businesses in a wide array of industries, including candy manufacturing, beverages, tourism, hotels, theme parks, fast food, retail, financial services, heavy chemicals, electronics, IT, construction,

publishing, entertainment, and more. Anyone who has spent even a little time in Korea should be familiar with the ubiquitous name. And many of the Giants’ cheers consist of one word chanted repeatedly: “Lotte.” I don’t know if there is really

A young fan is decked out in Lotte pride apparel for a game during the start of the 2011 season. Photo: Keeran Murphy


a true equivalent to Lotte in America, but imagine a crowd at a baseball stadium cheering for their team by screaming “General Electric.” It would be something like that. Even more bizarre to imagine are the cheers that must have come at Woori Heroes home games, when you consider that Woori is the nationalized tobacco company (they are now the Nexen Heroes). But despite this unabashedly postmodern integration of corporate ownership and team, I’ve never seen a more energetic and supportive crowd.

Here, advertising, the engine that makes sport on such a massive spectatorial level possible, is not just posted on a jersey, as is the case in English Premier League soccer. An at-home viewer isn’t just reminded “this broadcast is brought to you by…” In the KBO, advertising is truly incorporated into the very fabric of the sport itself. And not only is the viewer or crowd beaten over the head with this advertising, but when the stadium crowd chants for its team, it is the crowd/consumer itself that wields the beating stick. For KBO and Lotte Giants fans, though, this seems not to matter. On one level, there is something scary about this—the unwitting manipulation of the individual and its subjugation to the corporate machine, and the assimilation of man-as-cog into that machine under the convenient ruse of “sport.” But for true Giants fans, it seems, that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and that which we call a business conglomerate might as well be a baseball team. At some point while watching the game, chewing on some squid and drinking Hite with my host father, both of us wearing plastic bags on our heads, I realized that such trivialities don’t matter in praxis

when weighed against the rapture and enthusiasm of the fans. I’d never seen anything like it in America—the entire crowd, every single person, seemed to be cheering in a regular season match of little consequence. It was about so much more than baseball; it was like an extension of and a celebration of the city itself. Though the city’s name is absent from that of the team, the spirit of the crowd is pure, one hundred percent Busan. In America, the loudest communal cheering I ever heard was at a Yankees game, and consisted of expletives about the Boston Red Sox; at the time, the Yankees were playing the Orioles. I guess there’s something to be said for a good old-fashioned rivalry, but it’s much more satisfying to hear the unflagging win-or-lose support of fans who love their team because they love their city, because their team and their city are inextricable, no matter what the name may be.

Since the first Korean baseball game I attended with my host father, I’ve been hooked; I’ve been back to see the Lotte Giants play with fellow teachers, ETAs, and Korean friends. I wear my Lee Dae Ho jersey with pride, I’ve learned the cheers and songs for all the players, and I’ve sang Hong Sung Heun’s so many times that I finally realized that it’s sung to the melody of the chorus of 4 Non Blondes’ 1993 hit “What’s Up?” I also know the exact timing of when to yell at the opposing team’s pitcher after he tries to throw a man out at first base.

Korea has changed me. Now, I love baseball and I love the Lotte Giants. n


On the eve of the new semester, I sat down with my co-teacher as she shared the results

of a survey about me she had administered to all my students. This was not surprising to me, nor was it unfamiliar. Two years of education courses and a year of student teaching in the U.S. had seen me on the listening end of countless feedback sessions. I have always thought that multiple perspectives on pedagogy are important and that considering them can help me become a better teacher, but nothing could have prepared me for what my students shared about my classroom.

According to them, Miss Morrow was strict and intimidating. She liked her classes to be very calm and would stop in the middle of teaching to turn a cold stare at a student who was out of line, frightening the whole class. She was “too authoritative.” They also found that addressing me by “Miss Morrow” instead of “Samantha” or “Sam Ssaem” (the Korean abbreviation for seonsaengnim– teacher) was overbearing, formal and confusing.

My co-teacher was under the impression that it was Fulbright’s desire for me to go by a formal English title, but I informed her that it was my own choice. It made sense to me that students would follow English protocol for addressing their teacher in a conversational English class. I explained that some Korean friends had also advised me not to go by “Sam Ssaem,” since it sounded too much like the “Konglish” expression “same-same” to be taken seriously.

She nodded and continued. “Our students learn grammar and the English reading from the textbook. We want you to be English outside the textbook for them. We want them to talk to you in English. Right now, they are too intimidated to

speak to you outside of class. We want you to be more of a friend to our students.”

“So you think I should ‘loosen up?’ ” “Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically.

I had my orders and hours of existential contemplation ahead of me. My school had great intentions for me as an English resource, but it was clear that my teaching persona was directly conflicting with the school’s goals for me and its students. What was my role here? Was my teaching getting in the way of the students’ learning?

I had worked hard crafting a “fair but firm” discipline persona in the U.S., with master teachers ever encouraging me to be more strict. The eyes in the back of my head were trained to bring every tardy, gum-chewing, sleeping student to task. The “cold stare” my students so hated was a basic component of my non-verbal classroom management. I countered this strictness with extra efforts to become familiar with my students as individuals inside and outside the classroom. As an American classroom teacher, it took me less than three days to memorize the names of all of my students, and about a week to find out what activities and clubs they were involved in. However, in Korea, I had to accept aspects of student anonymity with the reality of encountering hundreds of students in the classroom on a weekly basis.

Were the demands of the Korean system really so different that my American teaching persona translated into strict and unapproachable? Or had I changed upon my arrival to Korea in an attempt to fit into the role of the native English teacher? What was the same, what was different?

The Same Sam-SaemSamantha Morrow, ETA 10-11


My answer came as I reflected upon the overlapping memories of two conversations: one in Korea, one in Los Angeles. Both were with high school boys who towered over me physically, but neither of them could look me in the eye as I inquired why they were sleeping in my class.

“You’re a good student, but you haven’t been able to keep your eyes open lately. What is happening outside of class that is keeping you from staying awake in my class?”

One answered, “Well, I’ve been busy.”

The other shrugged, “Well, I try, but it is so difficult here.”

I prodded for a clearer answer from both.

“Well, I’m working an extra job after school and I get home late. My girlfriend is pregnant and moving in with me, so I have to provide for my family,” Jose* said finally looking up at my face with a steady gaze.

“I study all the time. I sleep during class because I am tired, and the teachers get mad,” Jae Woo* ended with a mutter as he subconsciously covered his face with his hand, a bad habit exhibited anytime he was nervous or ashamed.

“I need to stay in school to get an education so that I can be a good father.”

“My parents and the teachers expect so much, but no matter what I do, I fail.”

I’ve spent the last eight months trying to adapt to the foreign nature of the Korean education system while maintaining my own identity as a teacher

and a person as well. But now, I remember that I am allowed to be the same person I was in the U.S. because my students are the same on either side of the Pacific. They are tired, stressed, thinking about whatever happened to them thirty minutes before my class, and wondering what will happen two hours after it is over.

With this in mind, I’ve started the new semester with some changes. I continue to meet my own goals of maintaining a classroom where students are accountable: participation is recorded daily, absences are noted and follow-up questions are asked later. However, I’m also accomplishing my school’s objectives for me: I’m learning my students’ names, slowly but surely, and wish them happy birthday on a weekly basis. I let them see me laugh at their antics before I tell them to settle down… and I let them call me Sam. Or Sam-Ssaem. Because really, I am the “same-same” teacher that I’ve always been. n

*Student names have been changed

“Dragon Lantern.” Bright colors and exotic lanterns light up the river for the Jinju Lantern Festival in October 2010. Photo: Benjamin Kester


Naju Bus TerminalTaylor Kennedy, ETA 10-11


Priceless Experience: A Camp Fulbright Student PerspectiveHyeong Jun Kim, 2010 Camp Fulbright Junior Staff

Last summer, I participated as a Junior Staff member for the 2010 Camp Fulbright. I was

excited but also worried at the same time about what I had to do. I really wanted to join the camp staff and gain a lot of leadership experience, but it was my first time to be a staff member. It meant I had to do better than any other camper. I had to be responsible and also not make mistakes. Being a good role model for the campers made me feel uncomfortable. At the camp, however, it was easier than I thought. Of course, my responsibility made me tired, but there were many people who helped me. I’d like to introduce a story about a girl who was playing the piano alone. When I arrived at the “Sky” which was what we called the auditorium, I heard someone playing the piano. I went to the piano and I found the girl who was playing. The song was so sweet that I waited until the song ended. After she finished, I asked why she was playing the piano alone. She said that it was too hard for her to talk in English and make friends with strangers. She seemed to be very shy so I wanted to help her, but I didn’t know how to help her. So I took her to other campers and let them talk to her. That night I told my fellow staff members about her and asked whether I did well or not. My fellow staff members said,

“You should be more responsible. You are a staff member. Staff members help campers when they are in trouble.”

I regretted being irresponsible and decided to help her. The next day, I asked her a lot of questions to get her talking. Talking with me, she began to feel better. As she began to get along with other campers, she seemed to have confidence. At the end of the camp, she was a very friendly and sociable camper. When she thanked me for helping her, I was really happy.

The two weeks of the camp were very strenuous. But it was priceless not only for the campers but also for me. During the camp, I was really busy and

tired everyday. During the day, I had to help campers and staff members. At night, I had to join the meeting for the next day. After that, I had to study my school subjects. But I learned something very important. Volunteer work was not just giving, but exchanging and adapting. When I helped others, I also learned important lessons.

I really appreciate Fulbright for inviting me to volunteer at the camp. I’m sure that Camp Fulbright is the best English program in Korea. I’d like to thank every Fulbright teacher and staff member and especially Vincent Flores, the director of the camp, for believing in me. It was a priceless experience. n

Hyeong Jun Kim pictured during his summer as a Camp Fulbright Junior Staff Member. Photo: Suk Woo Jung


There come moments in life when one is caught, trapped for the preciseness of a split second

between the inertia of our forward-hurtling lives and the sudden decision to take a step back from it all. If frozen there, what would our faces reveal? The thrill of breaking with convention? The fear of stepping into the unknown? The shock that we’d even taken such a step in the first place?

The face I wore onto the airplane that carried me to Korea last year was all of these faces, and maybe others as well. I could be in a suit, going to my first job right now, I thought to myself. As I boarded the plane, the self-accusatory mantra played again in my head: I had delayed real connection with my mother’s homeland for too long. My relatives would ask me why I couldn’t speak Korean, why I didn’t know Korean history, why I was coming to live there now, nine months after my grandmother’s funeral, as if I had been waiting for her to leave. But there is something in blood that is stronger than inertia and I still went.

No one lives in the house where my mother grew up. Following trends of vertical urban development and upward social mobility in the 1970s and 80s, my aunt and my uncles married and moved into apartments, leaving behind the jutaek, or single-family house. Their apartment windows, propped up on meter after meter of steel and concrete, afford views of the horizon that the traditional single-story homes could never offer. My grandmother’s house, though, offers views that people in apartments cannot see. Picture this: It’s August, and I have come back for the first time since I was eleven, or maybe twelve. At the entrance, I pause and commit the number on the rusting blue sign to memory. From here, I can look into the courtyard, untended, the tree stump such a natural accessory to this scene I almost forget

it was once a tree. My grandmother’s brown earthenware kimchi and dwengjang pots still sit at the top of the crumbling steps. The opaque sliding doors protest before opening onto rooms that look so much smaller than I remember. I look up at the black roof tiles and remember a story about my intrepid halmoni climbing over their slick surfaces in the pouring rain to fix a leak.

There are a million different ways to feel pain in your chest cavity, and at that moment, I felt as if there were a hairline crack in my heart, like the kind you might see on an old diner coffee mug that slowly lets one or two beads of liquid form on its surface before you wipe them away casually and wonder aloud if the cup is leaking. “Nah, it’s fine,” someone assures you, so you keep on drinking your coffee and wiping away the drops with your white paper napkin.

And anyways, how can one grieve a person one hardly knew?

But they put my name on her gravestone. It’s there, the very last name at the very bottom right corner, because daughters go after sons and my mother is the youngest daughter. 쏘냐. Sonja. It’s an admission to foreign blood in the family on public record, a stronger statement of acceptance than even my relatives’ hugs, smiles, and tears. It’s permission to weep.

I don’t remember the month or day when I began to feel more at home here in Korea, but I remember that I was taking the train to visit my uncle. If one’s seat is facing backwards, as mine was, there is a moment when a perfect equilibrium between forward and backward motion can be found. As the bullet train slowed near my destination, I pushed against the inertia to stand and felt the slightest of

JutaekSonja Swanson, ETA 10-11


moments hold me poised above my seat before my body split quietly into two. One of me, the foreigner, pressed back into the seat cushions and gazed with mild curiosity at this countryside station, its benches and vending machines no different than those of the last unfamiliar station name and the one before that. Maybe she was trying to count the white birds in the rice field to her right. The foreigner-me glanced over the balding middle-aged man waiting on the platform with clasped hands and did not linger.

He had my mother’s eyes, the not-foreigner-me saw. I lugged my bags in his direction and a smile stretched over his face as soon as he saw me. “You look like your mother today,” he said. As the foreigner-me faded away with the roar of the train in the distance, the not-foreigner-me took a deep

breath, coalescing, gaining substance, stretching limbs now entirely my own. Not a foreigner. “Let’s go home,” my uncle said. “Your aunt is preparing some food for us.”

My grandmother’s house will be torn down some time in the next few years, whenever the city government decides to put an apartment building there. I may not be in Korea when it happens, but I don’t need to pretend that it won’t. I hope it’s not too selfish to want to hold both memory and modernity in my hands at once, but I will try. I am scribbling furiously, collecting, writing stories about my grandmother and looking up to see apartment buildings, silent watchmen silhouetted against the sky, slide by as my train takes me to the next destination. n

“우리 집”(윤석중, 1911-2003)

눈을 감고도찾아갈 수 있는 우리 집.

목소리만 듣고도 난 줄 알고얼른 나와

문을 열어 주는 우리 집.조그만 들창으로

온 하늘이다 내다뵈는 우리 집.

Our houseBy Yoon Seok-Jung (1911-2003)

This is our house,That we can find with our eyes closed.

Just hearing the voice we know itCome on.

The doors are open in our house.The little window opens onto sky.

Let’s go look at our house.


Vibrant KoreaJocelyn Ma, ETA 09-10


A Yonsei MomentBenjamin Kester, ETA 10-11


They’re some of the smartest high school students I know, so I felt shocked by their answer. When I

quizzed them about where I was from in the United States, they said, “Philippines.” It was only the 2nd meeting of the “Media Discussion in English” club activity, but after nearly two years discussing the various aspects of American culture and sharing details of my winter and summer vacations home in Sacramento, I expected them to at least say, “California.”

Although commonly labeled a foreigner, as a Filipina American I may not be what some Koreans picture as “American.” While “foreigner” is a general term for people from various countries, “American” also reflects the different kinds of people of diverse backgrounds in the United States. An excellent example of this is the Fulbright ETA group itself. Fulbrighters represent different ethnic backgrounds, hailing from various regions, and bring textured understandings based on our upbringing in the United States. While the “native English teacher” role is more or less defined, the “cultural ambassador” role of promoting mutual cultural understanding is open to interpretation.

Korea is becoming more diverse. With changes in the Korean education system, such as international schools built on Jeju, and in English language education, such as Korea’s TOEIC, there are more English teachers in Korea from various countries. Also, more foreigners are emigrating to Korea as factory workers, college students, and immigrant brides. Transnational families with mothers and children living abroad and multicultural households with Southeast Asian mothers and mixed heritage children reflect an increasingly diverse society and the changing landscape of the Korean classroom. As a personal experience representing Korea’s growing diversity, I will always remember the

Saturday morning when I spoke five languages during my first day at Korean language class at the Damyang Women’s Center. I went to Damyang prepared to learn more Korean. However, I had no idea that I would have to utilize my own knowledge of not only English, but also Kapampangan, Tagalog, and Spanish. Walking into the Damyang Women’s Center was bewildering.

When I filled out the enrollment paperwork for the Korean language class and stated that I was an English teacher from the United States, it created confusion for the woman behind the registration table. She stared from my face to my blue passport and repeatedly asked me: if I was married; whether or not I emigrated from the Philippines; and if I was sure that my father was not Korean. Upon entering the classroom, my language instructor looked just as perplexed as the admissions woman when I said that I was Filipina American. Noticing that my classmates, all immigrant wives, hailed from the Philippines, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand, I understood almost immediately how I could be mistaken as one of Korea’s mixed children. I wondered if I could have been one of their daughters or even one of those women had circumstances been different or if diaspora had catapulted me in another direction. However, my biggest shock was when Melissa and her two children walked into the room. Her two little girls looked just like her with their large, green eyes and thick lashes and wavy, light hair. When our language instructor quickly mentioned that Melissa was a foreign bride from the Dominican Republic, I greeted her, “Como estas?” Thanks to my former teaching days in Brooklyn and living in West Harlem, I had acquired a Dominican-style accent and vocabulary that surprised even my Chicana friends in California. Now it was Melissa’s turn to be shocked, and she asked me excitedly in rapid-fire Spanish about my name, nationality, and reason for coming to Korea. The rest of the

In TandemLeah Sicat, ETA 09-11


class stared in amazement as we conversed in a language that was utterly foreign to them. Clearly, this was a morning of surprises.

I can only imagine my students’ shock when I introduced myself as their English conversation teacher. It’s safe to assume that I probably wasn’t what they expected. Their curiosity did not reflect being close-minded but showed that they were being critical. My presence offset their preconceived notions and presented a living, breathing, tangible visual representation of the United States’ ethnic diversity. This was the jumping-off point for our first lesson and the beginning of cultural exchange: to understand a language, it is important to understand the cultures and societies that speak it.

Ever astute and eager to learn, they grasped the concepts of diaspora, immigration, and nationality. They broke down the meaning of the word “multicultural” into “many cultures” while practicing their pronunciation. Watching video clips from BBC News, New York Times, and YouTube, they listened, learned about, and discussed cultural diversity around the world. When they chuckled at photographs of certain foreigners, I asked them to consider whether they laughed because of the foreigners’ appearance or whether something funny happened. I explained that it was natural to laugh if something was funny or when they felt uncomfortable about a situation.

Knowing the number of hours my students studied English grammar and vocabulary, my goal was to increase their confidence and ability expressing opinions and complex ideas in English. I suggested that they view English as one of many communication tools. After all, a tool is only helpful when used appropriately and effectively. English is not the only language spoken in the United States and nor is it the only country that speaks

English. I emphasized the importance of speaking for meaning rather than translation by illustrating that since all societies are not the same neither are languages. Therefore, direct comparisons do not reflect the diversity in thought nor the different kinds of people in the world. My students’ experiences influenced their perspectives about foreigners in Korea. Since some have studied English in the Philippines and many come from rural hometowns with Korean-Southeast Asian families, they initially assumed that I was a Filipina woman who married a Korean man, then became an English language instructor.

Last September, my own experience meeting the labor attaché from the Philippine Embassy taught me that there are no work visas for Filipinos to teach English in Korea. So, naturally, encountering a single woman who looks Filipina and teaches English is an anomaly. Holding an American passport, my status further confused many people in Korean society. For myself and other Fulbright ETAs, this combination was not a strange concept. However, since direct translations are not always helpful, I had to facilitate my students’ understanding of my ethnic background and cultural upbringing within the context of American society while teaching English and grappling with Korea’s increasing diversity.

As Fulbright ETAs we encourage communication in English and promote cultural awareness among our students. We are witnessing a critical point in Korean society and must therefore find new ways to be American cultural ambassadors. Since our very presence in Korea as a diverse Fulbright ETA group already breaks the cultural bubble about being “American,” Fulbrighters have the opportunity to expand the breadth of experiences and social interactions in a changing Korea. n


When it comes to religion, I am a frank dilettante. I grew up without attending

church or abiding by a canon. What little familiarity I do have with formal religion is a compendium of childhood memories including Buddhist paraphernalia from my grandmother’s home, family friends who were temple regulars, and the incoherent chanting of Buddhist monks. My naïveté with other religions is also plain: my relationship with the Bible recalls an independent study course in college, and my conversance with the Koran refers to speeches by Malcolm X.

And yet, from the absence of religion grew an ironic fascination with it. Throughout my life, religion- in all its variegated forms- has never ceased to goad my curiosity. I have tried to delve into religious discourse, plunging past the pages of Plato and into those of Calvin and Augustine. I have tried to understand religion in its physical realm, visiting houses of worship, rituals, and votaries: monks, ministers, and priests alike. I have tried to live by the Millian dictum to confront the unfamiliar with inquiry not hubris, veracity not pretense. Fortunately, each experience has illuminated a part of the world in ways I could have never imagined.

Korea has proven no exception.

A little more than two weeks after arriving in Korea, fellow Fulbright ETAs and I journeyed to Haeinsa, a famed Buddhist temple hidden in the hills of central Korea. I did not know what to expect, but this haven proved to be more than just a quiet respite from language classes. Our walk to the temple- enveloped by the mountain mist and lush forest leaves- could alone have been a meditative journey, but I knew I would learn something new when I arrived at the temple gates.

The austerity of the temple soothed my soul. The scents and sounds of the scene summoned a youngster within me who once only knew the simple life: to just stand in awe of the golden figure’s filigrees; to observe and absorb, while eschewing obfuscation from concepts like morality or sin; to just live, unadulterated by worry or doubt. Supplanting this childish giddiness with a quieter mirth, I walked past the courtyards and found the chamber housing the central Buddha.

I entered, infringing on the quiescence. I waded through the laity, posturing myself among others and preparing to bow. After a deep breath, I began just as I had done many years ago. While prone, I let a few moments pass, then uncurled myself to standing again, taking a deep breath before repeating. I bowed maybe twenty times, less to appease a deity and more to conjure the life I had before.

But as I bowed and whispered to myself the two prayers I knew from childhood, I wondered what my ritual really amounted to. I wondered what exactly everyone there- from the monks to the laymen- was bowing for; the rather grandiose gesture seemed to violate the more introspective dimensions of Buddhist thought. I always believed that Buddhism lay a vast distance away from many other world religions in its espoused asceticism and simplicity, but seeing everyone bow so heavily to these figures hundreds of times a day made me question my assumptions. Nevertheless, I continued to bow, trusting that my continuous furling and unfurling would produce some infrangible good.

Three months later in early November, my high school minister invited me to help the Christian club run an evening service at an army reserve camp. I agreed to play a flute solo and three

Brought to LightYoon-Chan Kim, ETA 10-11


hymns with some of my students, looking forward to the chance to not only bond with them, but also further assay the value and meaning of religion. I viewed this opportunity as a chance to broaden my horizons and disabuse myself of old prejudices. Yet little did I know that the service would regale the audience with an extravaganza rivaling a royal reception.

The talents of these students stupefied me. The vitality abounding on stage enraptured me, and I sat there, stunned. The dance crew performed three choreographed routines to electric perfection a la the boy bands of the nineties; the harmonies of the choir resonated within the hall and hearts of the audience; skits sparked unfettered laughter, and testimonials moved with poignancy. The entire service exceeded two hours, but, as with any unforgettable performance, felt much too short. As students beleaguered me with broken colloquialisms and cultural queries on the bus ride back home, I half feigned exhaustion and reflected on the long evening. What proved most striking was the austerity of faith these students evinced. The rites seemed to entrance everyone, as if the Holy Spirit had already subsumed them into His kingdom. The tenacity of the student performers pushed me to think about not just the cultivation of such fervor, but also the reward of such service: what did each student derive from investing so much into the production? What blessings motivated such unabashed devotion and celebration? To what end did they tout the probity of the Bible, the dereliction of sin, and the unconditional trust in a being beyond? Questions collided with questions, confounding a mind already dazed from sleep deprivation. I clamored to recall some of these questions on my ride to school the next morning.

Admittedly, Korea is one of the most religious countries in Asia. Hence, my trips to the temple and the church service were by no means my only encounters with religion here: I received numerous invitations to many churches; I befriended Buddhist monks on my travels; I met teachers here whose religiosity continues to humble me. I mention these two particular experiences only because of their revelatory scale.

Standing there in front of the Buddha, I tried to put aside burgeoning questions about faith and told myself to focus on bowing. I did not fight the meandering thoughts of home, grandfathers, friends or even the first two weeks of orientation, but I also did not grapple with them. I acknowledged them as extant, but told myself to concentrate: to hone in on the inner peace that my bowing exacted. Slowly but surely, I began to feel a serenity and calm wash over me like an ablution. At first I could not articulate how, but as I continued to pay my respects to the ethereal, the answer began to reveal itself. I began to realize that the source of my growing inner peace stemmed not from the aftermath of my bowing, but instead in the very act of it. It was the continuous furling and unfurling and whispering-to-self-old-chants-I-knew-from-childhood from which I derived a sense of renewal and clarity. My ritual was no means to an end; it was in fact, the end itself.

The epiphany proved no different under the cross. Watching their heads tilt up toward the stage lights as if they were seeing heaven’s light, I saw joy beam from the smiles of my students. They performed while embracing a haven beyond, seemingly untouched by the gravity that bound them to this earth. Yet as I witnessed their lucidity and passion, a familiar set of questions began to inflame me.


With each choreographed step, harmonic shift, and enunciation, I began to see something very fundamental to these exhibitions. I began to see these rites for what they really were: practice. In spite of the highfalutin concepts, these dances to Christian music, holy hymns and canticles, and personal testimonies were all forms of religious practice. They were not a means to inspire; they were themselves the end, the inspiration. The connection had been present all along. The value of the bows is not simply what comes as a consequence of it, but also the thought and peace of mind that it demands. The significance of dance, song, and speech in celebration of the holy trinity is not simply what they produce, but also the acumen such performances require. These religious practices are themselves the objective, much more than strategic tools to attain some reward outside the method. The processes themselves- the very acts of doing and thinking- are what provide the space for reflection and introspection and, paradoxically, apprehension of profane humanity. Perhaps what religious practice does, then, is militate against the erosion of basic thoughtfulness

and awareness that actually constitute human compassion, empathy, and warmth. In providing a regimented practice, religion provides an arena for introspection and humanism hard to find in the zeitgeist of modernization and technology.

Beneath the principles of religion that have always confounded me lay an impetus that compels us to reflect, act, and improve each and every day: practice. Though my discoveries came under a religious light, the essence seems ubiquitous; whether it is religious or profane, artistic or athletic, practice provides us not only mental acuity to strive on diligently, but also the discipline to persevere. Practice forges a fraternity from the fires of united struggle, allowing each of us to transcend our snow-globes of subjectivity and cultivate both greater self-awareness as well as greater compassion. Practice empowers us to face doubt with aplomb, misfortune with perseverance, and tragedy with faith, in, if nothing else, people. n

“Don’t Stop the Beat.” A monk attends to the morning drum rounds at Haeinsa Temple in Gyeongsangbukdo Province in July 2010 during an ETA all-group excursion. Photo: Benjamin Kester


The meadowlark warbles instinctively, animated by the electric dawn of the street lamp outside

my window. My keyboard ceases its clatter, and I glance at the ticking clock: Here, in Britain, half past midnight. I must be the only other creature awake at this hour, unperturbed by the surrounding gloom.

Five thousand miles behind me, it is morning. Yet in our uncanny flight, we landed in Heathrow at the same hour as when we departed 인천 (Incheon), flying through prolonged darkness as we outpaced the rising sun. In the void at thirty thousand feet, in the interstices between countries and cultures, time collapses. It seems like years since I began my westward migration, locked in a metal cage, perched on a chair, squinting into a screen, ossifying.

Poor creature, you should be sleeping, but your body tells you to sing.

* * *

I went to Korea to glimpse the future, to see how the first generations born digital were wired together. I came to Cambridge to see whether the same held for those of us old enough to remember the analog world.

An hour in a Korean classroom sums up a year of participant-observation. Boys at their desks brooding over 핸드폰 (handphones), chattering about digital alter egos in the time between classes. Present in body for the hourly roll-call, many of my students’ spirits still lingered in a virtual world, far from the chalk dust and fifteen-hour tedium of the classroom. In a written introductory exercise, four of ten listed computer games or the Internet as their favorite hobby. For a culture as study-obsessed as

Korea, it is telling that, for every four hours outside the classroom my students spent in further study, they spent three in digital flights of fancy.

For all its fantasy, the virtual environment resembles the Korean classroom more than might be imagined. In games like Lineage and World of Warcraft, mastery is achieved through endless repetition. Worlds are highly structured and societies hierarchical. Inhabitants are ranked according to their achievements. The one crucial difference: The more time students spent studying in 학원 (hagwon), the less presence they maintained in their virtual worlds. Is it any wonder that the worst-performing students flocked to the latter?

* * *

Back in the West, I am discovering what seems to be a convergent digital evolution. Here I have been living a Second Life, observing denizens of a virtual world in their natural environment and acquainting myself with their online mating rituals: computer-scripted ballroom dancing, cybersex, and virtual weddings. In the physical world, my interview subjects exhibit different traits. Some are autistic. Several struggle with abusive relationships. A couple of them suffer from debilitating motor impairments. Many are exploring facets of their sexuality for which they would likely experience offline discrimination.

Now, in the dead of night, I am trawling through lines of transcribed online interviews, searching for a common theme. If there is one, it seems similar to what my survey also suggests: compared with others online, my sample are half as likely to be married, one third as likely to be in an offline relationship, and half as likely to have any children. Though their real lives may be barren, in

Of a FeatherAshley Craft, ETA 06-07


the digital world partners and progeny abound. Like my Korean students, many of my respondents have found they are better adapted to a virtual world than to the physical one.

But are we humans so quick to evolve?

My mind wanders to the exhibit I pass by on the way to lectures. Darwin’s finches, now nestled in their glass eggs in the Museum of Zoology, were the first evidence that a species can evolve in a matter of generations. In their splendid isolation, they developed beaked tools to exploit their environment. Yet other species, grown bold and indolent from lack of predation, have lost their power of flight altogether.

On seeing the Korean 아줌마 (ajummas), stooped under their burdens of 무 (mu) and 산채 (sanchae), a visiting friend remarked that in our bodies, we inscribe the rituals and movements of our lives. Changing to suit its environment, one generation is forever shriveled and hunched from days spent harvesting crops under the unforgiving sun. Now, another is growing pale and contorted from nights spent gathering information by the computer’s wan glow.Even as our bodies struggle to adjust, our instincts seem fossilized, relics of the Paleolithic era.

Watch how our eyes glaze over when staring at the flickering monitor, just as we do when gazing

into the fire. Observe the natural reaction of the ‘primitive’ people as they first encounter television- peering round the back of the black box, looking for the tiny actors inside. From a potential list of billions, choose the Facebook friends that matter. Only about a hundred of them, says British anthropologist Robin Dunbar, will ever be truly meaningful. This is the group size we are evolved to manage: Concentric circles of family, clan and digital tribesmen.

* * *

The sound of silence stirs me from my reverie, and my journey catches up with me at last. The meadowlark has stopped its solitary

nocturne, and so, for now, must I. As I nestle into the covers, my mind lingers on a last, illuminated thought...

How will our songs change as we, too, begin to twitter into the void? n

“Sight Ripples.” Gyeongbuk Palace, Seoul. The echoing of simple figures as they repeat, in this case on the pole beams supporting the roof overhang. Photo: James Zoller


Before I ever really knew him, he was already looking out for me. It took just minutes after

landing in Korea to have him securely placed in my pocket. He told me I could use him as much as I might need, and that I certainly did. Primarily at orientation, during which my deficiencies in Korean were most glaring, he was a crutch I relied upon heavily. With every stopover at the university’s convenience store, every excursion into the neighboring Goesan city limits, he was my loyal companion, speaking for me with store clerks and thus saving me from embarrassment. He never complained, nor did he ever urge me to study Korean harder in order to gain some semblance of self-sufficiency. I knew it well, and so did he—this was far from a symbiotic friendship, as he stood to gain nothing from it.

Over time he slowly caught on, and as a result our relationship quickly turned sour. We gradually saw each other less and less until eventually we just stopped trying. My conscience getting the better of me, I sought to rectify our strained relationship and looked for him all over, but always to no avail. From time to time we’d cross paths when I’d least expect it, but the awkwardness was always just so overwhelming that nothing more substantive than a simple “hi” could ever be managed. It didn’t help that, on one of these occasions mid-orientation, I ran into him in a Goesan stationary store and had no choice but to rely on his aid, the very thing that had wedged us apart in the first place. Without a doubt, this event is what propelled our relationship toward separation, because after it, we spent not a minute with each other for a good few weeks.

His disappearance from my life produced all those symptoms you’d expect from a typical bad break-up, as I was left to fend for myself on the mean streets of Goesan without the security blanket onto

which I had become so accustomed to clinging since day one in Korea. As with any healing process, the first few days were the toughest to get past. Once those hurdles were cleared, however, I slowly began to gain that sense of self-reliance that always had seemed so far off in the distance. With the Korean language, I practiced more frequently; I listened more observantly; I studied more intensely. I knew that, if I put in the investment, the payoff was sure to be imminent.

Sure enough, toward the end of orientation, my veni, vidi, vici moment finally did come to fruition; upon being told by the convenience store cashier how much I needed to pay for my goods, I successfully handed to her the exact amount, all on my own, without any of those “lost in translation” moments that had typified my every attempt prior. Only then did I realize that I could finally move on from him, that I didn’t need to depend on him to ensure my survival.

I didn’t see him again until the last day of orientation, when all of us were departing for our various locales around Korea. I tried to convince myself otherwise, but who was I kidding? He looked good. In my time away from him, I had forgotten just how comfortable it always had been to have him close to me. But that was all in the past, and I knew that reverting to this old mentality would do no good, especially in regards to the personal growth I had experienced while on my own.

When we met for the first time in weeks, I let out a sigh of relief at just how casual this exchange was proving to be. After the initial exchanges of laughter, I told him just how self-sufficient I had finally become, and he congratulated me on my newfound sense of independence. I apologized to him for my past transgressions and assured

Blend, Don’t BreakJesse Mahautmr, ETA 10-11


him I hoped to remain close friends, emphasizing that I would now only use him in cases of absolute necessity. I’m extremely grateful I was able to salvage our relationship, for life in Korea would be downright impossible without having him in those times of need.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: I’m so happy to have you back in my life, King Sejong the Great. May you continue to sit prominently on the back of that 만원 bill, my friend. I hope you rest comfortably in my back pocket for whenever I might require your denomination. * * *

When people in Korea begin a conversation with me, it doesn’t take long for them to realize just how far they’re going to get with me. As soon as I reluctantly open my mouth, they quickly discover, much to their chagrin, that I am not one of their own, despite my seemingly Korean appearance. In order to avoid their looks of disappointment, I

always strive early on to keep a low profile and camouflage with my surroundings as best as I possibly can. A “blend, don’t break” mentality, I like to call it, I know I can pull it off so long as I draw no unneeded attention to my language deficiency. And that’s why I always considered King Sejong to be one of my closest allies.

Don’t know how much those cookies and chips cost? Just drop a 만원! Such was the strategy I employed without relent throughout most of orientation. It was much easier to do this than it was to humbly apologize to the clerk and admit to her my lack of listening comprehension. As long as the value of my goods lay somewhere between zero and ten-thousand won, a range so wide that no more than quick price-eyeballing was necessary, then I was in the clear. What about those times when I might be too close to that threshold? Check-out twice, of course, and drop a 만원 each time to boot!

My 만원 dependency was a short-term fix to a long-term situation, and I soon learned the hard

“Cloudy with a Chance of Sun.” Visitors pour into Gyeongbok Palace in Seoul on a hot summer day. Photo: Benjamin Kester


way that this strategy would not be the panacea to get me through my grant year. Once my stockpile of 만원 bills had disappeared, I knew that King Sejong would not be returning until my next payday, and I’d have to make do with the friends he left behind.

My motivation to master convenience-store dialogue was necessitated by the fact that I had no other option: if I wanted that late-night ramen, then I needed to learn. The adaptation of my reliance, from simply dropping a 만원 to actually learning the Korean language, closely parallels the differences between two forms of biological mimicry commonly witnessed in many diverse ecosystems.

In the first type of mimicry, termed Batesian mimicry, a harmless species replicates only the appearance and other ostensible features of a second, more harmful species. The mimic, however, does not incorporate whatever it is that actually makes the harmful species harmful. Thus the Batesian mimic utilizes subterfuge to dissuade potential predators from preying on it. Superficial at best, thinly veiled at worst, the Batesian mimic is akin to a knockoff Prada handbag, in that each, although roughly similar in outward appearance, severely lacks features when compared to what is genuine. The second form of mimicry, Mullerian, is much more robust than the former. Mullerian mimics adopt the actual harmful characteristics from the species it seeks to impersonate. This form of imitation is undoubtedly more powerful at staving off predation than is Batesian mimicry, since Mullerian mimics actually function as more elaborate replications of the original species.

Upon first arriving in Korea, the methods I utilized to adjust to my new environment were definitely of a Batesian variety. I had the Korean appearance down closely enough- I can thank my genetics for that- so all I had to do was adhere as tightly as I could to my “blend, don’t break” mentality. I soon discovered that even though those 만원 bills were able to help me out, a much more sustainable approach for greater longevity in Korea required becoming more Mullerian in my mentality. Thus I knew that I needed to let go of King Sejong’s hand; I needed to adapt more multi-dimensionally if I did not want to encounter the same hiccups over and over again throughout my grant year in Korea. While it certainly is still a work-in-progress, judging by how far I’ve come since then, I think I’m exactly where I need to be. I’m sure the Sejongs in my pocket would have to agree. n

“오징어” Squid drying on racks off the side of a road, pointing toward the northern coast of Jeju Island. Photo: Erin Williams


Non-captioned photo contributors: Vincent Flores and Suk Woo Jung (pp. 3-11), Benjamin Kester (p. 4), Amy Larsen (p. 12), James McFadden (p. 4), Keeran Murphy (p. 4), Jocelyn Ma (pp. 52-53), Jing Song (p. 4).

The Fulbright Program aims to increase mutual understanding between the people of the United States and other countries through cultural and educational exchanges. The Korean-American Educational Commission in Seoul, widely known as the Korea Fulbright Commission, is governed by a Board consisting of equal numbers of Koreans and Americans representing governmental, educational, and private sectors. The KAEC Board makes decisions on overall policies of the Fulbright program in Korea.

For more information regarding Fulbright Korea, please contact [email protected].

The Fulbright Commission is not responsible for opinions expressed in The Korea Fulbright Infusion by individual contributors nor do these in any way refl ect offi cial Fulbright Commission policy. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission from the contributor and from KAEC.

Infusion 2011

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