Mr. Brotherhood told us about language barrier
in grade ten geography class. Mr. Brotherhood was an excellent
teacher: well prepared, highly knowledgeable, and able to draw
on a wealth of personal experience. He and his wife had travelled
the world, and Mr. Brotherhood brought the world to our pre-internet
classroom through slides, stories, activities, pictures and
movies. In grade 9 we were too mischievous to benefit much.
During slide shows, even on the slides where there were just
trees or tall animals, we would ask in whispers to one another,
“Is that you, sir?” or “Is that your wife,
sir?” Granted, they were a stately couple, Mrs. Brotherhood
just an inch shy of her 6’3” husband.
One day Mr. Brotherhood gave Phil Sirosky a detention for talking
too much. Phil answered, “I can’t sir. I have to
put the meatloaf in the oven at 3:45.” We laughed. Mr.
Brotherhood said, “Is the meatloaf that important, Philip?”
Phil answered “Yes sir. A man’s got to eat.”
More laughter. Mr. Brotherhood: “Tell me young man, are
the Sirosky’s having company tonight?” Phil: “No,
sir.” Mr. Brotherhood: “Well they are now. A man’s
got to eat,” he said, taking out his plan book. “Let’s
see … you’re putting the meatloaf in at 3:45
… it should be ready by 5:15. Let your mother know I’ll
be there at 5:00 for a small chat before dinner.” We were
impressed; Phil was panic-stricken.
We had settled down considerably by grade 10 when, in World
Geography, Mr. Brotherhood mentioned language barrier as a potential
source of difficulty when travelling. This was not hard to grasp
or to write on a test. It was one of those abstract terms you
“learned.” Fifteen years later in Korea, I learned
something else: it was a lot easier to write “language
barrier” on a test than to experience its reality.
2. WHAT THE …?
I recall taking the Pusan- Seoul train for the first time. Periodically,
announcements would come over the public address system. Not
understanding a single word was not as disconcerting as the
seeming urgency of the messages. A more logical mind might assume
standard announcements such as the next stop, caution to not
forget one’s belongings, guidance toward the proper exit.
This mind, however, was prone to taking off on its own track,
a dangerous run-away fuelled by imaginathene and extrapoline.
Did they say there’s a blockage of the tracks up ahead?
What’s going on? Maybe we’re not going to get to
Seoul. Maybe we’ve already passed Seoul. This might not
even be the train to Seoul. I got on the wrong train! People
kept staring too. Why are they staring? Maybe the announcement
said all foreigners had to get off the train or move to the
baggage car. Something is going on here. I’m not paranoid
but that sounded like a military order. We must be getting close
to the DMZ. That’s it: the North Korean army is threatening
to hijack the train. Or maybe somebody got caught for smoking
in the bathroom. The language barrier was fertile ground
for many an odd thought, like three days later when I left Seoul.
Sunday afternoon, the subway level of Seoul Station was
pulsing with people, like Grand Central in New York but the
throngs were more dense, the people moving faster, the ceilings
lower, the walls closer, snippets of conversation incomprehensible,
public service announcements blaring, people staring …
the noise, the walls, the people, the pace, the stares, …
they’re all going to attack on cue from the public
service announcer… gotta get out … people
blocking my way … on purpose? What are they doing?
More announcements blasting through ... can’t understand
anything …“Remove all foreigners from the building.
Exterminate all foreigners immediately.” There’s
an exit! I took the stairs two at a time, hauling my bag,
wrenching my back, …doh. Outside. Breathe. Nobody was
in pursuit. Rain fell lightly. I wanted to know … wanted
to know … what people were saying, how to speak …
and suddenly from within emerged a great desire to phone Mr.
Brotherhood and say, “I got it! You know what you taught
us about language barrier? I got it – I mean, really got
it! …Ya. Grade ten. … What do you
mean who is this?”
There were less odd encounters with the language barrier. Our
pay cheques were direct deposited. This was convenient for the
“in crowd” who could read the bank machine screen.
The “in crowd” of Korea: how confidently they swaggered
up to the machine; how nonchalantly they pushed the right buttons
- in the right order, no less; how regularly they walked away
satisfied; how pompously casual they were about it all. The
“out crowd”, on the other hand, stood wide-eyed,
trying to make sense of the pretty characters on the screen
until rescued by one of the “in crowd” or pressured
by deep breathing on the shoulder area and/or the threat of
heel stepping. Bank lines were one place where personal space
issues could be felt out, so to speak.
Inexperience with illiteracy caused me to seek out students.
This might be a valuable learning opportunity for both sides,
I thought. The students had other thoughts. Their gasps, nervous
laughter and expressions of alarmed disbelief suggested they
were thinking, “It is not possible: all-knowing foreign
teacher knows nothing.” They managed to overcome their
incredulity long enough to give a demonstration with instructions:
“Begin … this … kurigo … ha ha ha …
and … pimil … uh … secret … secret number
give me please … and … this … here …
and … how muchee? … and … okay.” It
worked. “Thank you very muchee.” I failed to take
notes.
The next payday, I went it alone. How hard could it be to take
money out of a bank machine? How hard? Well, how hard is impossible?
The young man next in line helped. “Pimil?” I gave
him my secret number. “How muchee?” He explained
the transaction, pointing to the receipt. I nodded my ignorance.
Bowing, extending two hands, he gave me the money. I thought
him an exceptionally polite young man. I thanked him and departed.
“Oh – oh – sir – ca-deu.” He gave
me my bankcard. I thought him an exceptionally honest young
man.
Things came regularly in the mail. My apartment number
was on the envelopes. They looked like bills: there were numbers
in rows and a bigger number in a coloured box. At the top or
bottom were what looked like dates; dates that had one thing
in common – the past. Whether hastening to pay overdue
bills made any sense is questionable. What is unquestionable,
though, is the imprudence of paying bills without knowing what
they were for. One might have been for electricity, the other
heating and the third … well, I had no idea but the bigger
number in the coloured box was so small it didn’t warrant
asking. All sound reasoning aside, it felt good to pay a bill.
It felt good to do something ordinary citizens were doing. The
post office teller would take the money, stamp the paper, give
me change and say something conclusive. That was the exit cue.
In a virtual linguistic vacuum, such small accomplishments produced
inordinately great feelings of satisfaction.
One bill really screwed me up though. It was the bill
that apparently did not have to be paid. It was a receipt; possibly
it was paid directly from my bank account. I never knew. The
third time I tried to pay it, the post office clerk got out
a dictionary and wrote on the envelope: “Money –
not necessary.” I kept that envelope, each month thereafter
matching it up with the incoming bills and not paying it. Still,
I never knew what it was all about and I would think to myself
as I did on so many occasions, “Ignorance is bliss.”
Accepting this in all honesty and humility was part of dealing
with the language barrier. Living in the vacuum too, allowed
a person to explore the musings of her crazy mind.
In department and grocery stores, the messages were always
loud and energetic; not unlike cheerleaders’ chants but
more irritating. The tone, the volume, the speed, my complete
ignorance and overactive subconscious all combined to have me
wondering whether the North Korean army was approaching as we
traversed the aisles of the supermarket. Scouting the district,
it seemed nobody else was scrambling for shelter so I ruled
out that possibility. Maybe the store is closing in five
minutes and the message is: “Hustle in, hustle out, hustle,
hustle, hustle!!” as Hummer Hume, our baseball umpire
used to holler between innings. Scanning the aisles, I
could see no group hustle underway so then I wondered if they
were announcing big sales. Buy 10 cans of Spam and get one
free! You must leave store with minimum purchase, 11 cans of
Spam.” Or, “Tuna – not ordinary
– peas and carrots already mixed in tuna can. Easy –
tuna salad you can make. Today special – tuna with pea
and carrot, one bread and one mayo. All together, let’s
buy. These great American products were sold there.
What’s more, at holiday times, they were boxed into gift
packages: capitalistic residue left over from the war.
3. PATRICK
Keeping one’s sense of humour helped in dealing with the
language barrier. In the mix of crazy foreigners in Korea were
some comical ones reminding us to step back and laugh. One such
foreigner whose humour was remarkably similar to Crazy Phil
Sirosky’s, was Crazy Patrick Lane. Patrick described one
of his experiences with a taxi driver: “I was going to
teach in Daeyon Dong. This cab driver picked me up in On-chun
Jang. His taxi was impeccable; Buddhist beads hung from the
rear-view mirror. As soon as I got in, I could feel calmness.
You know how you sometimes feel that at the temples? It was
like that in this guy’s cab. He seemed like the ideal
Buddhist follower: composed, controlled, of respectful disposition.
I tried to talk to him but he didn’t speak English and
my Korean is pathetic so I thought I’d just kick back
and tune into the calmness. Even the tape he played was peaceful:
Buddhist chanting. It was so relaxing, watching Mount Kum Kang
go by, cruising in Korea. I was even considering shaving my
head and giving it all up for big brother Buddha … when
the driver suddenly hit the brakes and swerved. Another car
had cut him off. Under his breath, he said, “**cking son
of a bitc*.” I couldn’t believe it until he
said it again louder. I just started laughing. He laughed too
so I said, “Son of a **tch,” and he came back with
“Co** **cker” three times. So I said, “F***
you” and he smiled into the rear view mirror and said,
“F*** you *rick!” All he knew were swear words,
and he knew how to use them too! I think he learned them in
the army. For the rest of the ride, we just swore at each other
in English, pausing long enough to laugh and then start again.
When I got out of the cab, I shook his hand and said, “Thanks,
son of a b****,” and he said, “Bye bye stupid bast***.”
I stood there, laughing like a fool as he drove away with his
Buddhist chants spilling out the window.”
Another time, Patrick was on his way from Pusan National
University to Nam-po Dong. It was 2am after a night of drinking.
He had kept just enough cash for a cab home. He mumbled to the
driver, “Nam-chun Dong.” The driver responded, “Nam-chum
Dong.” Patrick passed out for a while. When he awoke,
they were driving through a tunnel. Patrick told the story like
this: “I knew there was no tunnel on the way to Nam-po
Dong so I said, “Hey, ajasshi … Nam-po Dong.”
And he said, Nam-po Dong *&^%!%/, Nam-chun Dong!”
So I said “Anni anni! Nam-po Dong!” There was no
turning back at that point. The whole way through the tunnel
we yelled back and forth: Nam-chun Dong! Nam-po Dong! Nam-chun
Dong! Nam-po Dong! I wished he could speak English so we could
just say, “Did too.” “Did not.” “Did
too.” “Did not.” “Liar.” Liar.”
‘I know you are but what am I?” As it was, when
we finally emerged, I couldn’t tell you Nam-po Dong from
Nam-chun Dong or Ding-dang Dong from King Kong’s Dong
… I just wanted to get home. The driver wanted the fare
showing on the meter and he wanted me out of his cab. I gave
him every last won I had, right down to the coins, but it wasn’t
enough. He looked at me with disgust. I thought he was going
to spit in my face but he didn’t. He just started
yelling furiously. I slammed the door and he squealed out of
there like a bat out of hell.
There I was, stranded on the wrong side of the Hwang Ryung Tunnel
at 2:30am with no money. I asked the man in the booth, “Phone?”
but he just shook his head and gave me the exact same look of
disgust the cab driver had. Just as well he refused to open
his window; that way he couldn’t spit. I figured walking
through the tunnel was illegal but no other ideas ran through
my blank mind so I began. You know, that cement ledge is only
yae big: about six inches. Sober it wouldn’t have been
as bad but I was still half in the bag. I really had to concentrate
to not fall into the traffic lane. At first it wasn’t
bad but the further I got into that tunnel the more car exhaust
there was. I started coughing. The worst of it all was the freaking
horns. Not one of those f***ing cars would stop to give me a
lift but every last one of those horny bast*** blared like there
was no tomorrow. What the hell were they honking for? To let
me know that horns sound 50 times louder in the f***ing Hwang
Ryung Tunnel? I was coughing, plugging my ears, and trying to
make my way along that ledge. I must have looked like a total
freak of nature. Every now and then I’d stagger a bit
and that only brought on more horns.
“So you walked the whole way through?”
“Oh ya, all the way. And believe me, that’s a long
tunnel. By the time I got out, my ears were booming and my chest
was heaving.”
“So what did you do?”
“I had a cigarette, of course. I know how to look after
myself.”
“You’re a wild man, man. About how long did the
Hwang Ryung Walk take you anyway?”
“I don’t know: definitely more than an hour. You
know, there’s quite a bit of traffic going through there
at that time of night. Man, I can still hear those horns, echoing
and amplifying off the walls. The next day, let me tell you,
I had the ultimate pounding headache - and I think I’m
still suffering from tunnel vision.”
We had some good laughs at the hands of the language barrier
and at the mouth of Patrick. Over time, as we gained a better
“sense” of Korea and Korean people, the fear associated
with language barrier dissipated. Before it diminished, however,
there were three unforgettable episodes. Both the bronze and
silver medal performances took place during the first 48 hours;
gold in the Scared Sprint would be championed three weeks later.
4. WHITE GLOVES
It was a dark and stormy night. Okay, it wasn’t stormy,
but it was night, and as with most nights, it was dark. Plans
had been made. I was to purchase a second-hand computer from
Dean, a young American who was heading back to the small town
of Bath in New York State. That weekend he was to be best man
at his best friend’s wedding and then, he was going to
try to open up a Korean Bath House. It would be called the Bath
Bath.
Dean had given me directions to his apartment next to Kwanganli
Beach, one of the many areas of Pusan I had not yet visited.
For all I knew, it could be Waikiki Beach. This complicated
city had no grid-like organization like Calgary and Edmonton.
Pusan’s roads wound in all directions over and around
the mountains. On top of this, there were no street names or
numbers. Now, language barrier is one thing but telling someone
to go somewhere that has no address is quite another. Often
the U2 song, “Where the Streets have No Name” came
to mind. When I lived in Renfrew, where all the streets had
names, I used to really like that song but like “language
barrier”, after experiencing its reality, became less
enamoured of it. Nonetheless, after a full day of
teaching, I boarded what I believed to be the right bus and
got off when the announcement sounded kind of sort of possibly
something like Kwanganli Beach. There was no beach in sight.
Where to now? I think Dean said, "Go down to the water ...”
A snaky alley appeared to slide downward so I took it.
After doing the twist with that windy road, I stopped
a couple of girls. "Mianhamnida. Beach?" One girl grabbed her
girlfriend's arm, shoved her away from me, laughed nervously,
and said, "No Englishee! Ha ha ha!" They ran away, looking back
and laughing. What an insult. My best Korean and they took
it for Englishee. I kept walking. The clock
inside a convenience store said 10:40pm. It was late –
too late to give up. Besides, Dean was leaving for the United
States the following day so this was my only chance. A frightened-looking
lady stood at the store counter. I made the same sublinguistic
attempt: "Mianhamnida. Beach?"
She said, "Kwanganli Beachee?"
"Yea."
"Uhhh ... you go ... " She came from behind the counter, took
my arm, led me to the door, opened it, pointed and said, "Go."
One syllable of English gave me hope and direction.
Soon, something caught my nose: the sea! I stopped and listened.
Is that the sound of waves? Oh, let it be. Let it be, let
it be, let it be, the East Sea, if there will be an answer let
it be the East Sea. Smell and sound guided me toward
... yes ... sand plus water equals beach.
Thank goodness for signs in English. "Lotteria" is the
Korean version of McDonald’s. Dean had said his apartment
building was the first one after Lotteria. I walked faster now,
past the Lotteria, to the first apartment building on the right.
Two security guards were in the control booth. I heard one of
them say, "*%$)/&#^&**%$(/*ayo?" I showed him
Dean's name and apartment number. He could read English. He
pored over his list of names. Then he re-pored in reverse, bottom
to top, back to front. One more time forward, then one more
time backwards. He was the most porous man I’d ever met.
He asked, “*#*#^!^!**(#!^???” I shrugged my shoulders.
The two guards broke into rapid discussion which, though Korean
to them, was Greek to me. Every now and then, they would pause
to ask me something. I would shrug and point at the paper, which
only caused them to resume discussion at a higher volume and
speed. They were becoming more immersed in finding a solution.
After fifteen minutes of watching, listening, wondering, pointing
and shrugging, exhaustion and frustration overtook me. That
what they were saying was what I needed to know compounded the
frustration. In a daze, I looked at the men, watched their lips
and hands move, heard every staccato syllable, but understood
only one thing: that I understood nothing. As the saying goes,
I couldn't take it anymore. I bowed to them, turned and walked
back to the street.
The invisible language barrier had reached a critical mass that
left me a weakened heap of exhausted futility. I wondered if
I was losing my sanity. The cumulative effect of cultural, linguistic
and geographic adjustment was upon me. For three weeks, a tough
skin had absorbed or deflected tiny arrows of language barrier
but now in this lost and overtired state, a point of saturation
had been reached. One more might be the de-stabilizer.
There were no phones in sight and I had no coins. I went into
the Lotteria, gave the teller a 1000-won bill and made the international
"phone" gesture. She took the bill and gave me two 500-won coins.
I found a phone and dialled the number.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Is this Dean?"
"Ya! Sheila! Where are you?"
"I'm at the Lotteria but I'm not sure if this is the right one."
"Can you see the beach?"
"Ya."
"Well, there's only one Lotteria on Kwanganli Beach so you're
at the right place."
"Okay. Where should I go?"
"Just keep walking to the end of the beach and I'll come to
meet you."
"Okay. I'm looking at the water. Which way should I turn - right
or left?"
"Go right. You're almost at my apt. bldg."
"Okay but ... "
"Or just stay there. I'll come and get you."
"Okay."
Soon, I saw a tall, dark-haired foreign guy walking my way.
Feeling relieved, I walked toward him, smiling. He walked past.
A lot of Korean people walked by too. I could feel them watching
me and when I would look at them they would quickly look away.
I stopped looking. Five minutes later another foreigner approached.
I played it cool until he said, "Are you Sheila?"
Wow - that sounded so good: English, my name, and the right
guy.
"Yes, are you Dean?"
"Ya. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
We shook hands.
“What took you so long?"
"Oh, I don't know. I've been sort of lost."
"Are you okay?"
"Yep."
"My apartment is just up this way."
We walked by the first apartment building.
“I tried going in there but I think they said you didn't
live there.”
“Oh ya. I guess my building is the second one. Sorry –
I shoulda clarified that. Mine is the first big apartment building.”
Sorry? Not as sorry as I am.
It was after midnight. He booted up the computer and showed
me how it worked. It was fine. I paid for it. Dean helped me
haul everything into the elevator and to the street. He hailed
a taxi. The man did not look impressed as we loaded his car
with the monitor, keyboard, hard drive, earphones, and electrical
cords. Dean gave the driver directions.
“Thanks Dean. Keep your nose clean at the Bath Bath.”
“Ha – bye!”
I squeezed into a small space in the back seat next to the hard
drive.
He said, "*&^$%#@--)$!"
"Pansong."
Driver: "Pansong?"
"Yea, Pansong."
Driver: Sungsim Wea**%&$(/*^@%#?"
“Nea, Sungsim. Wee Pansong.
Driver: Ahhhhh ... Pansong Mal-go, "Pan-SONG!" It all sounds the same to me.
He let out a sigh of frustration.
What’s his freaking problem? What’s he so mad
for? Maybe he dosen't like foreigners. Maybe he doesn't like
all this computer stuff in his car. Why is he wearing those
white gloves? Why isn't he turning around to go back past the
beach? I was nervous. He continued to drive away from the
beach. He took a ramp onto an expressway. My mind raced. If
he’s getting onto a highway, he must be leaving the city.
If we’re leaving the city, this guy must be taking me
out into the country somewhere. If he’s taking me out
into the country … oh no … it's after midnight.
He's wearing gloves. Why is he wearing those white gloves? He's
a killer. He strangles his victims and wears gloves so there
are no fingerprints. No. That's not possible. Settle down. You're
just tired.
He spoke on his radio to someone in Korean. Frightened
out of my mind, I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I heard
the engine slow down. My eyes opened to see a big transport
truck up ahead at the side of the highway. The back door of
the transport was open. The taxi driver pulled in behind the
truck. The transport driver was standing beside his truck. There
were no other vehicles in sight. The taxi driver stopped his
car and turned out the headlights.
It’s a trap. Of course: the taxi driver radioed this
guy and told him he had a live foreigner. They’re gonna
– oh no – and then dispose of me in the back of
the transport. No witnesses. No fingerprints. As the taxi
driver walked in front of the car, his white gloves began to
unbuckle his belt. I knew this was it. Every pound of my heart
was a shock of fatal realization:
I can't believe this is how I'm going to die.
... raped and killed on a dark highway in a foreign country
... my family will be sad
... naive
... set up
... not knowing what the hell was going on
... gotta run
... computer's history
... get out and run as fast as you can
... open the door and run
... go legs
... go faster
and then ...
"Sorry! Sorry!"
Running, full of terror and survival instinct, I glanced back.
Thoughts registered in rapid succession. My mind snapped a picture
and computed:
... big transport door wide open
... transport driver not moving
... nobody chasing
... taxi driver's voice scared and sincere
... scared and sincere?
I looked back again. Nobody was moving. The taxi driver
repeated, "Sorry." He walked to his car, opened his door and
motioned me back. In his voice was something that I understood
beyond that single English word. It was concern and fear. He
was not going to harm me.
Rubber legs took me back to the car. The transport driver did
not move an inch. As the taxi driver pulled out, the headlights
crossed the transport driver's face. Mouth open, jaw slack,
he was stunned.
The driver again said "Sorry."
I said, "It's okay."
He said, "Okay. Sorry."
The de-stabilizer had been effectively launched. Its only visible
effect was the growing circle of black on disappearing grey.
Tears. They rolled onto my grey sweatshirt that darkened to
black as it absorbed mind-altering fear. Out the window I looked
at nothing, cared about nothing.
Crackling static snapped me out of submission. The driver
was changing the radio from a Korean station to one with English
music, his right white glove turning the dial. This must
be a hallucination. I really have lost my marbles. It can’t
be that song. But it was that song. It was the Beatles
singing, “Yesterday ... all my troubles seemed so far
away.” Of all times, in all places, of all songs …
why here and now? That song cracked through the language barrier
and put me on the verge of hysterical laughter.
It was like that in Korea: a series of quirky dramas with
subtitles in a different language. Audience perception could
create horror from comedy and vice-versa depending on the interpretive
filter that was the individual’s mind. For the most part,
dealing with the language barrier was entertainment. On the
other side of the screen were incidents so frightening I would
have given my right arm to be back in the safety of Mr. Brotherhood’s
geography class, writing with the spastic left, “Disadvantages
of travelling to a foreign country: 1) language barrier, 2)
…”
5. ENGLISHEE TEACHING OKAY?
I found it odd that so few native English speakers spoke
Korean. Foreigners who had resided there three, five and ten
years still could only say a handful of survival phrases. I
thought, “Phhhh … lame-o.” Then I began to
study the language and realized that I was “Lame-o.”
It was hard for English speakers. Japanese speakers picked it
up relatively quickly since the grammar and Chinese vocabulary
base were similar. English and Korean, on the other hand, were
vastly different. In the end, however, it was not the similarity
or difference of the two languages that determined whether a
person learned the language. As research has shown, the main
factor was motivation. The motivation situation
in Korea was unique. Even if a foreigner had personal motivation
to learn the language, there were on the whole, more incentives
to not do so. As I saw it, Korean people were “English
crazy” in the year 2000:
Formerly nicknamed "the Hermit Kingdom," South
Korea's destiny has changed dramatically in the twentieth century.
This country has opened itself to the world, casting off its
hermit's cloak and without a backward glance, delving into world
markets and trends. It appears nothing will stand in the way
of Korea's becoming a world economic leader. Pride in self and
country motivates Korean people at the individual and national
level to endure and overcome any obstacle in the path of achievement.
Two more ingredients: i) an unrelenting work ethic within ii)
a group-based society; have also factored into the rebuilding
formula. Following Japanese Occupation (1910-1945) and the Korean
War (1950-1953), literally from the ground-up, South Korea has
toiled its way to the year 2000 when it stands as one of the
world’s largest economies.
With this as its updated curriculum vitae, one
ought not be shocked at the fervour with which South Korea has
approached English language acquisition, another obstacle to
be overcome en route to global prominence. Yet as Korean people
march "diligently" toward their linguistic destination, many
foreigners stand wide-eyed, for more reasons that one, witnessing
this "national obsession" with English.
The English language is everywhere. Two all-English
daily newspapers distribute nationally and abroad. A number
of Korean radio stations offer daily English instructional programs;
some present news highlights in both English and Korean. Advertisers,
entertainers and politicians alike often infuse their messages
with English catchwords, attempting to enhance appeal. On subways,
messages are announced in Korean and then in English. In 1999,
Pusan National University students finally put their collective
feet down when campus buses began announcing in English only.
Apparently, they needed to be told “where to get off.”
English has been taught in Korean middle and high
schools for the last 50 years with a focus almost exclusively
on reading and writing. Still today, the primary motivator for
Korean students of English is obtaining a high score on the
TOEFL(Test of English as a Foreign Language) examination. Results
from these grammar- and vocabulary-based tests are fundamental
screening criteria for university entrance and corporate hiring
decisions. Consequently, Korean students have been programmed
from a young age to understand and manipulate written English.
English conversation has not been of concern until
more recently.
As Korean corporations determined to gain larger
portions of international markets in the 1970's and 1980's;
as more Korean citizens chose to travel abroad; the need for
spoken English instruction became glaringly evident. This was
yet another obstacle to be overcome, so the call went out to
English-speaking nations. In response, a wave of native English
speakers flooded South Korea, ready to wag their native tongues.
That is what we were expected to do: wag our tongues
in English. English-speaking foreigners represented a means
of “getting an edge.” We were valuable tools, if
they could just get their hands on us. Complete strangers invited
us into their homes, no questions asked, to teach their children
privately for big bucks ($40-$100 Canadian an hour). Some people
thought pursuing the Korean language a foolish diversion in
light of foregone profits. This pragmatic perspective of native
English speakers meant there was little social encouragement
or reinforcement for learning Korean. Strangely, while immersed
in Korean language and culture, our role was that of English
Machines. It was widely accepted by foreigners and Korean people
alike that English Machines were fuelled by the almighty dollar
and maintained with delicious food and gracious hospitality.
Individualistic intrinsic linguistic desires were not of benefit
to the system and in some ways ran counter to the expectations
inherent in the English Machine designation.
English speakers were constantly propositioned and in
fact pressured, to teach people’s children. Korean people
we had never met before pried persistently until they knew our
complete weekly schedules better than we did. Most foreigners
were willing to teach privately since the pay was good and the
people were highly accommodating. However, when a foreigner
was not reciprocally accommodating, the would-be employers kept
finagling until their agendas became ours. Before we knew it,
they had wedged their will into that spare two hours we had
been reserving for sanity retrieval - all this in a brief, unsuspecting
subway ride. That is how it happened: first, the parents wedged
their way into our agendas; then their children wedged their
way into our hearts; and after that, there was no turning back.
In the end, the majority of English speakers had neither the
spare time nor sufficient motivation - desperation - to learn
the language. Though it was difficult and occasionally scary
to not understand Korean, on an average day we could manoeuvre
adequately enough in English to have our basic needs met. Nonetheless,
I wanted to learn the language so I began to study. One of the
first words I learned was the Korean word for rice, pronounced
“bap,” which appeared on all restaurant menus. There
was bibim-bap, bokem-bap, kim-bap, chori-bap, bap, bap, doo-wap,
shimmy shimmy coco bap … you name it. This was Korean
101: if you ordered anything with “bap” you knew
you were getting rice. That practically every Korean meal came
with rice did not stop us language kindergarteners from celebrating
that we could identify “bap” written in Korean,
and what was more, we could say it. We took pride in knowing
that when we said “bap” we were going to be served
rice – not because it was a standard part of every meal
but because we had read it and we had said it. Soon enough,
we could see it in our bowls and on our plates. We would point
and say,
“Bap.”
“Mmm … bap.”
It was primitive; we were primitive; but at least we knew beyond
a shadow of a doubt, one thing: bap was rice.
6. BAP CHUSEYO
Being a self-centred, gimmee gimmee kind of gal, I learned
“chuseyo.” Chuseyo = “Give me please,”
or “May I please have? Sentence order of Korean and English
is different so if you were asking for water (pronounced “mool”
in Korean) you would say “Mool chuseyo”; roughly,
“Water, give me please,” with the same level of
politeness as “May I please have some water?” Knowing
all about “bap” and “chuseyo”; endowed
with basic deductive ability; in the land of rice; with a pocketful
of Korean won; nothing could be easier, I reckoned, than purchasing
a bag of those lovely white grains. Five muted months had come
and gone. The time was nigh to seize the day; seize the rice!
I went to the corner store where I thought I had seen
rice before. It was not immediately visible. They must have
rice. This is Korea for crying out loud. There must be rice
in here. What is this – some kind of practical joke?
Where the heck are they hiding the rice? The owner followed
me around the store. This happened often in stores, not as a
means of theft prevention but as a means of good service. Personal
space was becoming an issue. She was gaining on me. I walked
ahead quickly, trying to gain some distance. She picked up the
pace and just as she was about to step on my heel, I turned
around abruptly.
There was a decided difference in acceptable personal
space. My hypothesis was that it correlated to the population
density of one’s native country. Korea and Canada being
at opposite ends of the population density scale, it seemed
reasonable that most Canadians in Korea would experience discomfort.
Additionally and admittedly, however, there was a more sinister,
more powerful, idiosyncratic quirk at play. It all began in
grade two at St. Francis Elementary School when we had to line
up to go downstairs to music class or upstairs to the library.
We lined up shortest to tallest, which put Jane McNally behind
me. Jane had incredibly big feet. She tried to hide them but
everyone in our class knew Jane’s feet were longer than
our teacher, Mr. Bennett’s. Without fail, at one point
of traversing the stairs, Jane would step on my heels. Far beyond
fingernails on the chalkboard, heel-stepping was to become my
worst pet peeve. This intense aversion went into remission,
only to resurface in the environment of shrunken personal space,
to elicit the defective behavioural adaptation of turning abruptly
upon close followers and startling them so that they moved back.
It was pathological, but effective.
The corner store lady jumped back. With that extra six
inches, I gained my composure and remembered the day’s
mission: seize the rice. I bowed and said, “Annyong Hassimnikka”
(very polite hello).
“*~*~*~*~*~ikka?”
She was asking what I wanted. It was my big chance to say a
complete sentence:
“Bab chuseyo.” The lady jumped back another six
inches.
“Moosun Marimnikka?” = What did you say?
“Bab chuseyo.” I repeated.
Why is she looking at me like that? She looks confused and
a bit scared but …why? No, that weird facial expression
must be surprise. Of course: she can’t believe I can speak
Korean now. That’s right, my good lady, you heard
it right. I can speak Korean. This foreigner walks and talks.
Oh yes, life is going to be different from now on. I got the
lingo.
The lady led me to the door, pointed down the street and
said, “&#&#&#&#eyo!” She was none
too impressed. What the … ? She mustn’t have
heard me. On an average day, I would have left but not
today. It had taken five months to string together these two
words – this complete sentence - and I was not about to
let opportunity pass on by. I figured it must be an error of
intonation on my part so four times I repeated it, stressing
a different syllable each time: “BAP chuseyo”; “Bap
CHUseyo”; “Bap chuSEyo”; “Bap chuseYO?”
The lady became more agitated with each rendition. The language
thing was going nowhere. Leaving my voice on my sleeve, I decided
to show the her what I meant. Back into the store I went, muttering
“Bab chuseyo”, more determined than ever to “seize
the rice.”
She was on my heels again, this time waving me toward
the street. What the heck is she so freaked out about? Maybe
foreigners aren’t allowed to buy rice. Why is she hiding
the rice? I went up and down the aisles. She finally put
an end to my rice search by hustling to the next aisle and heading
me off at the pass. She forced a bar of soap into my hands,
walked me to the door and waved me away, rapid-firing Korean
the whole time. What’s with the soap? I sniffed
my underarms. No problem there. I had showered two hours earlier.
Maybe soap and rice are the same word in Korean. I went
home and looked that up in the dictionary when I got home but
“beenoo” did not sound anything like “bap.”
That day I went riceless.
A month later I was studying Korean with a professor at
our college. Professor Kim was stern with her students. They
had to write a test at the end of each class. Otherwise, she
said, they would not listen. This one day, Professor Kim told
me about rice. She explained that there were different words
for rice. Cooked rice was “bap” but uncooked rice
was “ssal.” I told her the story about the day in
the corner store. Stern Professor Kim began to rock and roar
with laughter. I laughed with her. It felt good to laugh and
to see Professor Kim having such a good time of it. After a
few minutes, however, it became apparent that she could not
stop. Hmmmm … it was funny but not that funny.
She rocked right out of her chair, still roaring in laughter.
Where the heck is she going - to the bathroom? Stern
Professor Kim laughed her way to Professor Jeung’s office,
and a minute later they both staggered in, doubled over in laughter.
I had never seen either one of them this way before. Have
they been into the soju? No … it’s the middle of
the school day. I dunno. Korean humour sure is different.
When they finally settled into intermittent bursts of laughter,
Professor Jeung explained that there was more to this than “bap”
– “ssal” confusion. “Bap chuseyo”
was an expression panhandlers used. In effect, the day I had
tried to buy rice, I had been begging. Professor Jeung said
there was a rhyme that they used to sing as children, “Bap
chuseyo,” and that her children still sang this rhyme
when they played. It was like begging, “Can you spare
any change?” Those were the things a foreigner some times
had to learn the hard way.
7. WIND SONG
My second month in Korea Liane and I went hiking. We could hear
men’s voices up ahead. They were yelling out aggressively.
Liane was not bothered in the least so I said nothing to her
but my thoughts were full of fear. It sounds like
there are about 50 of them. Maybe they don’t like foreigners.
What are they yelling about? Maybe they’ve spotted
us and are passing the message on to invite their buddies so
they can gang up and attack us. Maybe they want revenge on foreigners
in general and we’re the unlucky targets. When you
can’t understand a single word of what is being said,
when you’re in an entirely new environment, it can be
scary. In this particular instance, we came over the knoll from
where the shouts had come. We saw the men: all four of them,
shouting out from the precipice to the open space of the world.
The view was beautiful. The mountains of Korea were respite
for the soul.
On this day, however, these men got quite a jolt when
they turned and saw two mountain women approaching. Liane always
created a stir because of her height. Even in Canada a six-foot
tall woman with a beautiful smile created a stir but in Korea,
where people had never seen a woman this tall, they could not
hide their shock, despite years of composure training. The most
common reaction was, “Ooooowwwwaaaahhhhhh,” followed
by nervous group laughter. We exchanged greetings and then as
we continued on our way, one man yelled, “*$#*@!!+++^^^^^^^^^^
yo!” He ran after us and gave us each a tangerine. A little
further down the trail a man, sitting on a rock listening to
the radio, waved us over and gave us chocolate bars. Only in
Korea, we thought, do you go hiking and come home with gifts.
Korea was a gift-giving society and people were especially
giving to foreigners. They wanted to make us feel accepted and
welcome in Korea. In the absence of a shared language, Korean
people found other means of conveying our sentiments. They gave
with sincerity from their hearts; you could see it in their
eyes. The power of the language barrier could dissolve by connecting
on a human level. On this day in the mountains, as great and
intense was my fear when we went up the mountain, equally intense
was my relief and gratitude on the way down. It seemed that
out in nature it was much easier to connect with people. Time
was not a constraint, people were more relaxed, the bpallee-bpallee
way of life was left behind. Wind swept across the mountains,
circling to chatter with maple leaves, swaying with the boughs
of evergreen pines, and wasn’t it fitting that the pines
of Korea bowed gracefully, respectfully, to the wind?
That Korean breeze sounded just like the one that blew through
the trees of Mount Saint Patrick, near Renfrew, near Ottawa.
Perhaps it had come across the Prairies, through the Rockies
and over the Pacific; wind of the world singing its “one
song.” Borders, languages and religions did not capture
or slow the wind’s wordless song. If only our human languages
flowed so freely!
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