"How long? Korea?" I looked at the two students in front of me, at the clock on my computer, and back at their grinning faces once more. They were smiling at me, which doesn't always happen, so I didn't let that pass me by. You know that thing where when you smile at someone, even a stranger on the street, and their initial reaction tends to be to smile back? A smile is contagious? Not here. Nope. Even when I put on my happiest, toothiest grin and look directly into the eyes of my students, I'm usually met with a blank stare. It's not that they hate me. Some of them probably do, but even the ones who openly really, really like me don't seem to understand why I'm smiling at them. Smiling back doesn't even cross their mind. It's a cultural difference. One in a sequence of many. I have thin, wavy hair. Big eyes. A "high" nose. A "small face" (whatever that means). I'm white. I live in South Korea. My life is a cultural difference.
The two inquisitive girls just graduated the sixth grade at the elementary school where I am an English teacher. For a lot of reasons, the main one probably being a very large language barrier, we didn't know all that much about each other. I knew how long I've been in Korea, but for some reason I still turned to the clock. It was 3:56pm on February 26th. Two things ran through my head. First, it was four minutes to four, four being the time my flight into Korea had landed many months earlier. Second, it was the 26th, the day of the month when my "official" contract begins and ends. Six months later would be the end.
"Six months," I said. They knew what I said, but still looked at each other for confirmation. I had been in Korea for six months. It was actually longer, more like six and a half, but no need for specifics. The first couple of weeks hardly count, anyway, as orientation was more of a purgatory than reality. Looking back, it seems like it was a dream. I was so scared, so confused, so excited. So everything at once. I had never been to Asia, didn't know anyone that was surrounding me, and had failed to research the city in which I would be living. I'm still confused and excited and many other things at almost all times, but I'm rarely ever scared, so at least some progress has been made.
I had never had this much personal interaction with either of the girls, and I was pleasantly surprised by their ability to hold a conversation in English about everyday things. Most of the kids know the textbook well, but when I try to go off the grid and speak with them human to human, that's where the struggle begins. But we talked about all kinds of topics - our siblings, pets, movies, music, TV shows - all of the key topics to discuss with people whose personal lives you know nothing about. They also took on the role of being my Korean teachers, teaching me helpful phrases I definitely should have already learned in the past six months.
"Uhhh yearbook? Your picture," one of them said, while motioning to her mouth with a huge smile. Okay, so maybe my standards for "able to hold a conversation" aren't exactly the highest. But really, we kept the conversation flowing. I laughed because I knew what she was getting at, without her forming a complete sentence.
"Yeah, I was the only person who smiled," I said. And I was. Cultural differences. Shortly after arriving in Korea, we had picture day. Nobody let me in on the not-so-secret secret that no one else would be smiling in their photos. The mugshot look is really in here, I guess. So not only was I the only wavy-haired, big-eyed, high-nosed white girl in the yearbook, but also the only person who looks way too excited to be at work that day.
Six months in Korea. I'm starting to understand basic Korean language and I still get overwhelming rushes of anxiety when I set foot in a grocery store. I don't know my home address, but I can tell a taxi driver how to get there in Korean. I still smile at everyone and feel a hint of victory and triumph when I get them to smile back. Why would I stop? It's so nice to have a reason to smile.
