Me Gook

In ChonJu, Peter nudged me awake. I’d finally dozed off in exhaustion, coming to life in delirium. We stood on the naked taxi platform our arms crossed as the wind lashed against us. Peter explained the frozen gusts originated in the bitter Siberian north and in the springtime they would carry yellow dust from China, then summer monsoons, and in autumn the ‘Yoondonal’, three days warm three days cool. He said it was so accurate you could set your watch by it. As I arose from the numbness of the hard bus bench, I was again lost in the symbols and sounds of this new place. Even the smell of asphalt was different. We fell into the taxi like herded sheep and Peter gave orders in Korean so beautifully I was impressed and for the first time I actually noticed how completely at ease he was, leaning forward, his hand pointing directions in this strange new tongue. Questions rushed to me in adrenaline bursts. How long did it take to learn to speak? Would I ever make it look that easy? The digital clock on the dash read two a.m. The driver sensed my bewilderment. “You American?” He veered onto the main road through the city. “Yes,” “Ah… Me… Gook?” “Huh?” Peter slapped my back and answered knowingly. Nodding as the driver smacked his lips in delight. “I have… something special.” The driver nearly careened off the road pulling a cassette from the glove box and shoving it into the deck. Suddenly Michael Bolton’s creamy smooth voice blared in our ears. “When a maaaaan….. loves a womaaaaaaan,” the driver karaoke’d along, winking at me in the rear view mirror. “This real Rock and Roll. Yes?” For a second I was shocked at his English ability. I’d been in the country for five hours and this was the first Korean person I’d met. Would everyone speak this way? The novelty wore off as I asked him what other American music he liked and the driver spun his head around on a pivot, rubbing the back of his neck like a genie’s lamp. “This…. song…. Michael Bolton.” He grinned widely. I laid back in the seat and let the music wash over me. Two more songs: A Mariah Carey and Backstreet Boys. The moment surreal as we left the city and headed down a long straight highway that dissected fields of darkness lit up only by red blinking radio towers. No stars. The apartment complex was exactly like Peter described. Stone cement facade climbing forever into the pitch black sky. Exterior hallways. Blinding florescent light bulbs flickering. We elevatored to the fifth floor as I caught my breath. This was to be my home for the next twelve months. Later I would learn that Korean buildings don’t use the number four as it sounds too close to the Japanese pronouncement of murder. I remember only that Peter stated this was the teacher apartment, furnished and provided by the school. We were to follow Korean customs in the house, which meant slipping off shoes at the door. The apartment itself was sparse. A main room adjoined to a kitchen with linoleum floors leading to a bathroom with western toilet but no tub, only a shower nozzle and open hole in the floor that acted as a drain. Three rooms in all. Here I met Katie, a southern belle from North Carolina who was also a teacher. She spoke sweetly but sleepily, saying she’d stayed up late to meet me, then just like that she retired to bed. My bedroom was no bigger than a closet with just enough room for a mattress laid lengthwise wall to wall and a small two drawer dresser no bigger than my suitcase. This would be my room. This would be my starting point. I would no longer entertain thoughts of taking my own life or falling into the sadness of the world. I was suddenly reborn. My new life started now. Turning, Peter checked his watch and put an end to the night’s conversation. “This was my room when I first arrived. You’ll work your way up from the bottom. If you survive.” He dropped my bag onto the floor. “As for now get some sleep. Your first class starts in five hours.”