Below is a copy of the article I recently submitted to the Korean Fulbright Review, a collection of writing from all the Fulbright researchers and ETAs who have spent the past year in Korea on a Fulbright grant. I wrote a blog entry that this article was based on; however, I thought I would publish this final version as well.
밥 먹어요 (I eat rice.)
By: Jennifer M. Anderson
“Do you like rice?”
It’s a question I don’t recall answering before coming to Korea. If I had been asked my answer probably would have gone something like this: “Well, I don’t not like rice, but I would never choose to eat it. When I have to eat rice, I prefer brown rice, and sometimes I don’t mind it when it’s part of a sushi roll but the rice itself, no. I guess I don’t really like rice.”
It took me very little time to realize that in Korea this answer is unacceptable. My first lesson on rice came on my first day of school. We were standing in the lunch line when my co-teacher popped the question. At the time, I was naïve enough to think he wanted an honest answer, so I said, "No, not really." To this he muttered "huh" under his breath and scooped a huge portion of rice onto my tray. "Rice is good for you; it keeps you from getting fat." When I responded with raised eyebrows, he continued, "People in places like Africa, China, and India eat rice and they're not fat." In my mind I was laughing. Here was a man who had solved America’s obesity problem by way of simple observation. Now all he had to do was tell the rest of the world! I could imagine Mr. Hyun selling his diet to thousands of Americans with a slogan like: "One cup of rice per day keeps the fat at bay."
I am living proof that Mr. Hyun’s theory is incorrect. Rice doesn’t like me as much as I don’t like it. Those small white grains do little more than convert themselves quickly into glucose, eventually surrounding my middle as if in organized protest against my body. Nonetheless, Mr. Hyun’s response to my casual dislike for such a bland food caused me to think twice about my answer to his question. It wasn’t long before I had changed tactics completely. The following day when I was confronted with the question, I could hardly leave enough time for the inquisitive mind to finish before blurting out an enthusiastic “Yes!” “Oh yes, I like rice!” Suddenly I was consumed with the desire to shout it at the top of my lungs, sing it as if it were the chorus to my life!
This brought about a new problem altogether, as I feared an overly observant person might notice the small helping of rice on my tray and ask the obvious question: “If you love rice so much, why don’t you eat more rice?” I’ve thought about this, and formulated a response in the case of such an emergency: “Because good things are best when enjoyed in small quantities.” Fortunately my skillful maneuvering of the rice particles on my tray and slow eating tactics have shielded me from this follow-up question.
You might ask yourself why I’m still in the closet about my blatant dislike for rice. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t asked myself the same question. Koreans are proud of their rice, it invades many aspects of their lives. A Korean meal is not a meal without rice. I often find myself at a restaurant, stuffed full of meat and side dishes, when the waitress arrives with a tray of steaming white rice, like a recurring nightmare only I’m not dreaming.
I have been told that eating rice at every meal is a practice resulting from a time when there were food shortages in Korea, a way of showing that Koreans do not take rice for granted. Perhaps you have heard the greeting "Have you eaten rice today?" For me this question has never radiated warmth. When I first heard it, I was horrified that Koreans would actually police the consumption of rice. I was worried my charade might finally be found out. My panic turned out to be in vain, the question was nothing more than a greeting leftover from a time when rice wasn’t as plentiful.
Korea’s relationship with rice has led some to assume that bread is to America what rice is to Korea. It is true that there are some similarities between rice and bread. For example, the way Koreans call all bread, “빵” whereas, we differentiate between cake, muffins, bagels, and so on, but consider rice to be rice. Still, bread does not play the same role for Americans that rice does for Koreans. In fact, many Americans, myself included, prefer not to consume carbohydrates at their meals at all.
Perhaps you have to experience Korea, to understand how my answer to a question as simple as “Do you like rice?” can change from one continent to the next. In reality it’s a different question altogether. In Korea, “Do you like rice?” is not a question regarding preference, but one that deals with culture. If it were about preference, there would be no right answer, and no reason to modify my answer. For a foreigner in Korea, though, there is only one right answer. The right answer is most definitely a nod in the affirmative unless you want to be outcast and grouped with the foreigners who came here to make money, the foreigners who aren’t interested in Korean culture, who don’t try to speak Korean, the foreigners who date their students and travel in packs. In Korea, this question is not about rice; “Do you like rice?” is about Korea and how open you are to this experience.
I’ve never liked rice, not Spanish rice, not wild rice, not even fried rice and especially not white rice, but in Korea I eat rice. I eat rice every day, at almost every meal even breakfast. This is one of many small concessions I’ve made in my daily life in Korea, and I am motivated by a basic human desire: acceptance. Eating rice is one of the ways I can show Koreans that I am willing to approach this experience with an open mind.
I remember a time when I witnessed a first meeting between my mother and one of my brother’s college girlfriends. She hardly looked my mother in the eye, didn’t shake her hand, hardly glancing at us while we stood talking to him. We all knew that it was a temporary relationship, but it was troublesome nonetheless. In Korea eating rice is one of the things I do to show Koreans that I care. The amount of rice I’ve consumed is tangible evidence of how much I care. I’m not going to lie, when I return to America, I may never eat rice again, but for now 밥 먹어요.
Bio:
Jennifer is originally from Roswell, New Mexico and received her B.A. from the University of Denver in Creative Writing and Spanish. Jennifer currently teaches English at Joongang Girls High School in Jeju City on Jeju Island. In July Jennifer will return to the United States to begin law school in the fall.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Virginia Tech and South Korea
Today I walked into my classroom and a table of students were whispering with worried expressions on their faces.
Finally they looked up and said:
"Jennipa, umm... Virginia Tech....we're sorry."
I was a little puzzled, because the way they said it seemed to be a personal apology, as if it were somehow their fault. Then I remembered that the gunman was born in South Korea. I thanked them for their apology, but they went on:
"South Korean blood... Americans... will think...immigration bad.... Americans not like South Koreans. "
To this I replied as simply as I could, because of the language barrier:
"But the gunman was crazy, that is unrelated to the fact that he was South Korean; I think most Americans will realize that."
And they said:
"But American newspaper, ABC, headline said: 'South Korean Gunman kills 32'"
I was surprised by their sincerity and shame, because it was as if they were apologizing for something that they themselves were responsible for. My initial reaction to their apology was shame for my own country. I was ashamed to think that they would assume that Americans were so quick to judge. I told them that I didn't think Americans would blame an entire country for a violent act that was carried out by a former citizen; however, in the back of my mind, I thought it was possible that they'd raised a valid point. hated to think that our country had gained a reputation for making such sweeping generalizations and placing blame on immigrants and foreign nationals. My students actually expected American immigration to refuse entry into our country due to this atrocious act by someone who happened to be a foreign national from South Korea.
At this point it hadn't occurred to me that there was something else at play here which had nothing to do with America and everything to do with Korea. It is why many Korean-Americans in our Fulbright group were warned upon arrival that their life could very possibly be much harder in Korea than the rest of us. It is why in my classes, no student wants to sit at a table by themselves, even if it's just by chance and doesn't mean anything, nor do they want to call out the answer if they're the ONLY one who knows it. There is a collectivism in Korea that as an American is hard to understand, because it links everyone together, making conformity the ideal and everything else undesireable. This is one of the biggest cultural differences between Korea and the USA. In Korea you're either in or out; if you can't be defined as Korean, then you should be clearly recognizable as a foreigner. America is composed of immigrants and foreigners from all over the world. If an American had done something similar in a foreign country, I would feel horrible, but I wouldn't be ashamed, as if it were someone related to me by blood who had shamed my family and our name. Here there is a different mindset about what it is to be a Korean, and a sense of pride that comes with being Korean. A Korean is a Korean and nothing can change that, you either are or you aren't Korean, and there are certain expectations that come with being a Korean. These expectations are linked to everything, from the way you walk to the way you talk, dress, and act. It is not O.K. to be a Korean and not fit the mold.
The shame and apologetic attitude that I found in students and teachers at my school today was not limited to my school and my city; I have heard accounts of similar reactions from Fulbright teachers around the country. Many Fulbright teachers have been taken aside and offered sincere apologies for what happened. Another similarity is the tendency for Koreans to refer to the gunman as Chinese. It's bizarre, because everyone knows that he's South Korean, and although there may have been a short amount of time when it was unclear exactly what his origin was, his name is distinctly Korean and it has been verified that he is indeed from Korea. Still, when I arrived at school this morning, my co-teacher said, "I'm very sorry for what happened at Virginia Tech..." I said thank you, and she went on,"especially when I heard he was Chinese." To this I raised my eyebrows, saying, "you mean South Korean?" and she said, "oh, yes, yes." It's almost a subconscious way of dealing with the shame, trying to re-categorize him or disown him. I'm not saying that my co-teacher actually believed he was Chinese, I'm not sure why she said that, but it's interesting, because other Fulbright teachers have reported similar experiences where teachers referenced a Chinese gunman rather than a South Korean.
Later, when I checked my e.mail and read that there was a rumor (started by a Korean radio station in L.A.) circulating about how the parents of the gunman had committed suicide, it seemed like yet another way of trying to diminish this intense shame that has caught South Korea by surprise. It also seems like an assumption that Koreans would make, because in a nation where your repuation is everything, the logical thing to do when faced with such unbearable shame would be to take your own life. Another Fulbright teacher reported that a teacher told her the gunman had committed such a horrible act because of his "American way of thinking." I also think this is a result of the shame, a way of rationalizing it or trying to make sense of something that is almost impossible for a Korean to believe that another Korean would do.
The fact is that this young man was deeply disturbed, he must have been, or he couldn't possibly have done what he did. The sad thing is that he had no help, not from his parents, not from professors, not from the school, not from other students. This in no way means that he was justified for what he did, nor does it mean that it could have been prevented, but it is a sad situation for everyone involved. Sadder still, is how we forget about these things, as if they're minute details not even worth mentioning, but do not hesitate to make this mass murder into something more political (i.e. gun control, immigration, etc.), more personal (South Koreans thinking that they are to blame and me being ashamed of American prejudice) instead of realizing that the event is simply tragedy at its worst, not preventable, perhaps not even understandable; the most appropriate thing to do is not to argue, not preach, not rationalize, not blame, but simply to mourn.
Finally they looked up and said:
"Jennipa, umm... Virginia Tech....we're sorry."
I was a little puzzled, because the way they said it seemed to be a personal apology, as if it were somehow their fault. Then I remembered that the gunman was born in South Korea. I thanked them for their apology, but they went on:
"South Korean blood... Americans... will think...immigration bad.... Americans not like South Koreans. "
To this I replied as simply as I could, because of the language barrier:
"But the gunman was crazy, that is unrelated to the fact that he was South Korean; I think most Americans will realize that."
And they said:
"But American newspaper, ABC, headline said: 'South Korean Gunman kills 32'"
I was surprised by their sincerity and shame, because it was as if they were apologizing for something that they themselves were responsible for. My initial reaction to their apology was shame for my own country. I was ashamed to think that they would assume that Americans were so quick to judge. I told them that I didn't think Americans would blame an entire country for a violent act that was carried out by a former citizen; however, in the back of my mind, I thought it was possible that they'd raised a valid point. hated to think that our country had gained a reputation for making such sweeping generalizations and placing blame on immigrants and foreign nationals. My students actually expected American immigration to refuse entry into our country due to this atrocious act by someone who happened to be a foreign national from South Korea.
At this point it hadn't occurred to me that there was something else at play here which had nothing to do with America and everything to do with Korea. It is why many Korean-Americans in our Fulbright group were warned upon arrival that their life could very possibly be much harder in Korea than the rest of us. It is why in my classes, no student wants to sit at a table by themselves, even if it's just by chance and doesn't mean anything, nor do they want to call out the answer if they're the ONLY one who knows it. There is a collectivism in Korea that as an American is hard to understand, because it links everyone together, making conformity the ideal and everything else undesireable. This is one of the biggest cultural differences between Korea and the USA. In Korea you're either in or out; if you can't be defined as Korean, then you should be clearly recognizable as a foreigner. America is composed of immigrants and foreigners from all over the world. If an American had done something similar in a foreign country, I would feel horrible, but I wouldn't be ashamed, as if it were someone related to me by blood who had shamed my family and our name. Here there is a different mindset about what it is to be a Korean, and a sense of pride that comes with being Korean. A Korean is a Korean and nothing can change that, you either are or you aren't Korean, and there are certain expectations that come with being a Korean. These expectations are linked to everything, from the way you walk to the way you talk, dress, and act. It is not O.K. to be a Korean and not fit the mold.
The shame and apologetic attitude that I found in students and teachers at my school today was not limited to my school and my city; I have heard accounts of similar reactions from Fulbright teachers around the country. Many Fulbright teachers have been taken aside and offered sincere apologies for what happened. Another similarity is the tendency for Koreans to refer to the gunman as Chinese. It's bizarre, because everyone knows that he's South Korean, and although there may have been a short amount of time when it was unclear exactly what his origin was, his name is distinctly Korean and it has been verified that he is indeed from Korea. Still, when I arrived at school this morning, my co-teacher said, "I'm very sorry for what happened at Virginia Tech..." I said thank you, and she went on,"especially when I heard he was Chinese." To this I raised my eyebrows, saying, "you mean South Korean?" and she said, "oh, yes, yes." It's almost a subconscious way of dealing with the shame, trying to re-categorize him or disown him. I'm not saying that my co-teacher actually believed he was Chinese, I'm not sure why she said that, but it's interesting, because other Fulbright teachers have reported similar experiences where teachers referenced a Chinese gunman rather than a South Korean.
Later, when I checked my e.mail and read that there was a rumor (started by a Korean radio station in L.A.) circulating about how the parents of the gunman had committed suicide, it seemed like yet another way of trying to diminish this intense shame that has caught South Korea by surprise. It also seems like an assumption that Koreans would make, because in a nation where your repuation is everything, the logical thing to do when faced with such unbearable shame would be to take your own life. Another Fulbright teacher reported that a teacher told her the gunman had committed such a horrible act because of his "American way of thinking." I also think this is a result of the shame, a way of rationalizing it or trying to make sense of something that is almost impossible for a Korean to believe that another Korean would do.
The fact is that this young man was deeply disturbed, he must have been, or he couldn't possibly have done what he did. The sad thing is that he had no help, not from his parents, not from professors, not from the school, not from other students. This in no way means that he was justified for what he did, nor does it mean that it could have been prevented, but it is a sad situation for everyone involved. Sadder still, is how we forget about these things, as if they're minute details not even worth mentioning, but do not hesitate to make this mass murder into something more political (i.e. gun control, immigration, etc.), more personal (South Koreans thinking that they are to blame and me being ashamed of American prejudice) instead of realizing that the event is simply tragedy at its worst, not preventable, perhaps not even understandable; the most appropriate thing to do is not to argue, not preach, not rationalize, not blame, but simply to mourn.
Miscellaneous Photos
Last Saturday night I had dinner at one of my co-teacher's houses. She made delicious abilone soup, and I met her husband and little girl (who is about 2 and a half). My co-teacher goes by the name "Jennifer" also, but her real name is: Kim Hyun Sook. Here I am with her and her daughter. After dinner the four of us went to a "nore bang" or "singing room," where they seemed to be overly impressed with my ability to belt out 80's pop songs from U2 to Starship.
Kim Hyun Sook's daughter (English name: Hillary) and husband (English name: Benson). Benson recently applied for a VISA to visit the United States, although he's not sure where he wants to go yet. He did say that he would like to come to Denver and possibly New Mexico this summer and see me if I'm there. Benson is a professor and writes editorials for the Korean Herald.
Kim Hyun Sook's daughter and I really hit it off. She's as cute as can be. She especially enjoyed playing the pointing game where we went over the words for things in Korean and English. She actually seemed to grasp the concept that something can have two names, one English and one Korean.
Fellow Fulbrighters, experimenting with three chopsticks...it's harder than Janaki makes it look, let me tell you. It was sort of a contest, and it caught on quickly, although it probably wasn't that appropriate considering we were in a nice banquet room with an extravagant buffet in a 4 star hotel.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
HAPPY EASTER!
Here I am with three of my favorite students! They asked me to take pictures with them last week outside of school. This was a suggested pose... now that I see the picture, I'm not sure I had it exactly right.
This is the view of Halla Mountain from our school (the mountain that I climbed a few weeks ago). Also, the cherry blossoms that you see on the other side of the athletic field are in full bloom right now, and they are everywhere! It really brightens up the island!
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Happy 80th Post!
Wow, I just realized that this is the Blogging Buddha's 80th blog post! I don't know why that's exciting or even worth mentioning, but it's a little ironic, because I haven't been very good at writing on my blog in the past few weeks. I knew it had been awhile when my father sent me an e.mail asking if I had "writer's cramp." He was just kidding, but it still reminded me that I have not written anything almost three weeks. It's also quite a coincidence that the Blogging Buddha's 80th blog birthday falls on the same week as my Grandfather's 90th birthday! Actually, that's not really a coincidence, because the two events couldn't possibly be more unrelated; however, I wanted to wish my Grandfather a "Happy Birthday" from Korea, and that was the best literary transition I could think of. "Happy 90th Birthday Grandpa!" A few thinks have happened since I last wrote on my blog. Last weekend I attended my last Fulbright workshop. All 70 Fulbright teachers came to Jeju Island for the weekend and we stayed at a very posh hotel on the other side of the island. It was really fun, because the point of the workshop seemed to be socializing and little more. We spent the weekend singing karaoke, trying to teach ourselves how to eat with three chopsticks (more difficult than it sounds), and lounging in our hotel's over-priced coffee shop with a great view (one person would order a $7USD coffee while the rest of us hovered around the table, enjoying the spectacular view of the ocean.) Monday I returned to Jeju City and was informed that I would have a "preliminary black belt test" the following Sunday (today). I spent all week training for this morning's test, which they told me would be harder than the actual black belt test and if I didn't pass, I wouldn't be able to test for my black belt in June. (when I say that they told me this, I mean that they looked up words on the internet and I used those words to guess what they were trying to tell me, but what I'm trying to say is that there was a lot of reading between the lines on my part.) This morning I got up early and one of my instructors drove me out to an abandoned hotel, where I realized all of the other kids in my class had spent the previous night. The test itself was quite interesting. The minute I got out of the van I had kids hanging themselves out the windows yelling "Hiiiiii" to me. I didn't realize that it would be other Tae Kwon Do gyms as well as my own, so most of the kids had never seen me before. I was constantly surrounded by kids who were intent on testing the following English phrases out on me: "What is your name?" "You are pretty." "You are tall." "What do you like?" "How are you?" and "He is crazy!" (the last phrase seemed to be their favorite, and they would yell it while pointing at one of their friends.) The age range of these children was 7-12 years old. In order to understand what my morning was like, you must close your eyes and picture an empty room. Then fill that empty room with 100 children ranging in age from 7-12 years old. Each child is wearing a Tae Kwon Do uniform that looks as though they have not taken it off in a week (one boy had his pajamas on under his uniform.) They are all running around this big room, as if they have been spoon fed sugar for breakfast. Some kids have others pinned on the ground, one boy was is laying on his bag while his friend drags him around by his Tae Kwon Do belt, others play tag, and then there is me, sitting in the corner, surrounded by a dozen or so children who are staring at me and practicing what little English they know. Now picture ten Tae Kwon Do teachers walking the room, chatting to one another, oblivious to the chaos that surrounds them. That is what my morning was like. I just tried to survive until they blew the whistle and lined us back up to do our poomsaes and eventually take our test. For those of you who don't know, a poomsae is a sequence of punches, kicks, and blocks that you must learn in order to attain your black belt. There are 8 of them, and they generally get harder as the number goes up. (The hardest part for me is keeping them all straight.) As we got ready to take the test, each of my instructors approached me with two thumbs up, and said: "Fighting" (I think this means: "You can do it!") I felt a lot of pressure, especially because I knew my instructors were nervous too. Luckily, I didn't let them down. I did my poomsaes and at the end when the judges (very serious men in suits, who seemed to have been flown in for the occasion) were giving us all their critiques, they said my name, "Jennipa" followed by: "Very good." I felt as light as a cloud; it was like finding out I had won a Fulbright grant all over again. I rode home in van with 25 screaming children, and the whole time I could only think about those judges and the "very good," that they presented me with. It was better than a ribbon or a trophy, it was verbal praise from a Tae Kwon Do grandmaster, which seems to be a rare find. I am now halfway to my black belt; my next test will be in June.
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