It is difficult to be surprised in Korea. Perhaps,
it is the pollution in the air, wringing the eyeballs dry, till one
only experiences the outside world as sepiatone and myopic. Or the
stench of fertilizer and nightsoil as you squint across the vista of
a ripening, flowing field of rice. And, especially, in the pre-dawn
hours in the town of Pyongtaek, where nothing meaningful ever
happens.
My American friend, a soldier with whom I had been
stationed, invited me to his wedding. That was the easy part. I now
live in Pusan, and he is stationed at Camp Humphreys in Kyong-gi
province. I also had to take the train on Sunday morning and arrive
just hours before the ceremony started at 11:00 a.m. Accompanying me
was a Korean friend. I had invited her, because she had never
witnessed a wedding between an American and a Korean. As a matter of
fact, a few other Korean-American couples were invited, as well as
their children. I was accustomed to this; I was worried about my
Korean friend.
In the US Army, there are scores of naturalized
American spouses of soldiers from all over the world,
including Korea, and no soldier really seems to notice. The little
children running around are always so cute, they do not appear, as
if they worry about to which culture they belong. But, on the train,
I could think of only the downside of marriage between people of
different cultures. It was as if every Korean national were
whispering, in that ugly, gossipy tone:
"The divorce rate is so high!"
"Its only about sex and money!"
"The children will never learn about their own
language and people. They will never be Korean!"
"How can he even understand her?"
My Korean friend and I discussed names for
children. She read my copy of the Far Eastern Economic Review. I
asked her about difficult Korean vocabulary--"high pressure system".
She drifted off to sleep, her head landing softly on my shoulder.
She started to snore.
Fortunately, my American friend met us at the
station lobby, and I tried to ignore the odd sensation of
disorientation I was experiencing. The entire place seemed
diminished, dirtier, suddenly malodorous. My friend had a little,
red bubble car. He acted calm, or maybe it was just lack of sleep.
No, he acted contented. Like people do when they have been happily
married for four months. I forgot about my earlier
doubts.
His in-laws' three-story house near Osan Air Force
Base, where my American friend and his wife lived with her parents
and brother, was situated in a small farming village far from the
main highway. It was 5:30 a.m., but inside the house everyone
was stirring. The spacious interior, decorated tastefully with
western-style furniture, was buzzing with hospitality and warmth.
Soon breakfast was cooking, replete with eggs and soup, rice and
numerous side dishes. My Korean friend and I retired for a few hours
of much-needed rest. We each showered and dressed.
I was overwhelmed by my hosts' generosity and
genuine friendliness. The father remarked about my suspenders and
the absence of a belt. We all had to convince him suspenders were
proper attire. We, the groom, bride, and her mother rode to the
wedding hall in a taxi. Upon arrival, the women went to the beauty
salon (mi-yong-shil), to apply the bride's make-up and hair pieces
(because of her shoulder-length hair). My friend and I scouted out
the rooms.
I was surprised, as an American, that the bride and
groom both changed clothing and put on their make-up together,
although, in truth, both had been married in April. This was just
the ceremony for the parents and the community. Hundreds of guests
from the village were expected, and they started to arrive after
10:00. The American contingent drifted in also, including the
American sergeant who would be the announcer. We all joked in the
salon and proceeded downstairs, to greet the guests.
The new father-in-law had invited the whole
village, extolling the virtues of his new American son-in-law. I
remarked to my Korean friend about Amish barn-raisings and weddings.
Here the guests just paid money. Everyone took their seats, and I
prepared myself for the tedium of an American-style wedding. Only, I
was completely shocked and somewhat pleased. Although the whole
ceremony was brief, it was almost commercial. Between it all, the
baritone voice of the American sergeant cut through the bubbles and
smoke with Korean and English commentary.
At times I thought I was in the audience for the
filming of the "Wheel of Fortune". The bubbles piped in from spouts
in the floor during the bride's procession were reminiscent of
American television in the 1950's. The fog billowing from the cake
platform almost alarmed me, as if a gas attack were underway. At one
point, neither bride, groom, nor audience could see the cake. And,
the official speaker (churae) spoke for too long. I understood that
he was talking about both the bride and groom, but my Korean friend
also translated for me. I was certainly pleased they were such good
candidates, but after a few minutes, I thought I had suddenly been
transported to an auction. Even the guests were commenting: "he is
handsome, but a little fat!"
The photo sessions were amusing, especially trying
to rig the perfect shot of the bride, tossing the bouquet to her one
hopeful maiden. Then, a quick lunch upstairs, with a generous spread
of Korean soups and side dishes, and American beer and soju. It was
done. The guests melted away, a few assembling at the in-laws' home
for a reception. At the house Americans and Koreans mingled some,
and shared beer. It was an endearing moment when four men ordered a
Guinness for the first time, from my friend, who was wearing
traditional Korean clothing.
I left Pyongtaek that evening contented, but also
concerned. I watched my friend bow to his new parents, kneeling on
the ground and head bent to his hands resting on the carpet. The
announcer speaking Korean. The bubbles and smoke. A cake with two
fake layers and one, topmost layer, used only for cutting, not
eating. The facade of flowers. The men inspecting the bottles
of Guinness. My friend in Korean dress. A married couple, Korean and
American, holding hands during the ceremony, and their two daughters
squirming impatiently in their seats. My friend in light make-up. It
was all so commonplace, but yet, so special. It seemed so
uncomplicated to get Koreans and Americans
together for a brief period of time, laughing, talking, and sharing
food, during a ceremony more American glitz than Korean
tradition.
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