After
returning to the United States I recall listening to a man interviewed on NPR
talk about his immigrant father’s trouble with the English language. After initially struggling to form even
basic phrases, the father eventually acquired a level of English that his son
termed “negative English.” That is to
say, he spoke just enough English to land himself in trouble, but not quite
enough to find a way out. Although I had
not heard the term before, I was all too familiar with the concept.
My rooming
situation in Seoul was one not readily comparable to anything I’ve seen in the
west, but could perhaps be best described as a pension. In Korean it is called a “Hasook Jeep (하숙집).” The boarders in a Hasook Jeep all have their
own rooms, with television, internet, and in some rare instances, their own
toilet or shower. The majority of these
rooms have trouble holding more than two individuals at a time, and many of
them have rules explicitly stating that cohabitation of these closet-sized
rooms is prohibited (partially to maximize rent profits, partially out of
concern for those boarders living on the other side of those paper-thin
walls). The building is taken care of by
a middle-aged woman called an “ajumma (아줌마),” the term by which all middle-aged women in the
country are called. They clean the
building and cook some type of meal (often no more than rice and odd vegetables
that, thankfully, do not exist in the west), and take care of (i.e. outsource)
any maintenance issues.
While room
size is certainly not to be overlooked, in reality the most important detail in
choosing a proper “hasook jeep” is finding a kind “ajumma.” Unfortunately such a commodity is in short
supply. At best, most of them will
suffer your presence silently. They will
put together a meal with some semblance of nutritional value, and only bother
you for rent once a month. There are, of
course, exceptions. One of my former
ajumma, for example, used to take fellow boarders to the countryside to pick
flowers. I presume that there was also
frolicking. But it should be understood
that most of these ladies simply don’t have the presence of mind to separate
their anger towards scrubbing and cleaning from their anger towards their
residents.
It is also
important, if more difficult, to ensure that the other boarders are somewhat
sane and cooperative. There are many odd
people in this world, as I am reminded on a daily basis, and naturally some of
them find their way to Korea. There are
Japanese women who, unable to marry in their own country, come to the homeland
of their favorite dramas in an effort to avert a complete meltdown. There are also westerners who, driven by
yellow fever, a failure to find gainful employment, or a mixture of the two,
come to get laid and get paid (there were relatively few westerners who, like
myself, were simply too shiftless to go to college).
There are also cultural differences
that, in many cases, cannot be overcome by peace and understanding. For example, unbeknownst to me prior to
entering my first hasook jeep, Japanese people apparently love indoor
heating. In fact, I think they may like
it more than sex, Pokemon and Sailor Moon combined. For this reason I humbly beg the reader to
never live with a large number of Japanese people in either the fall or
winter. In light of the high volume of
Japanese in my hasook, the ajumma thought that 30 degree Celsius, or 86 degree
Fahrenheit, was a suitable temperature for our lovely boarding house. Yes, that’s right, they wanted to heat their
rooms up to a temperature that would have caused any sane individual to turn on
AC.
Unable to
sleep, I asked the Ajumma to turn down the heat. She complied, but then later, once again
unable to sleep, I found that the heat had been turned back to its original
temperature. This process repeated for a
few days, with me asking the ajumma to turn the heat down, her doing so, and
then moving it back up. Finally when I
asked why she kept increasing the heat she said the other boarders liked
it. “Well,” I replied, searching through
my limited lexicon of three or four insults, “the other residents are
idiots.” I then switched to English for
a few heated swear words which, thankfully, no one appeared to understand.
Perhaps her
failure to comply with the basic living standards set forth by the U.N. was due
to her long-festering anger at my existence.
I had managed to incur the wrath of my ajumma early on by failing to
wear shoes in the stairwell. Living on
the third floor, I thought it was a bit of a waste to put on shoes so that I
could go down to the second floor for dinner, and so I often went
barefoot. The ajumma asked me why I
wasn’t wearing shoes, and thinking that she was concerned my bare feet might
lead to a cold I responded, “Oh it’s
okay! I’m an American! We do this all the time!” I was a bit confused at her cold, silent
stare, but having never seen her smile during my time at the boarding house, I
chalked it up to a cultural inability to express emotion.
Perhaps my
most salient failure involved use of the communal toilet. Feeling a bit queasy late one evening I went
to go relieve myself in the bathroom.
Having already managed to clog the toilet once by flushing toilet paper
(a major no-no when using the low-pressure toilets of Korea), I was careful to
avoid doing so again. However, as I
discovered all too late, whoever had used the toilet before me had already
clogged the toilet. Had it been a small
shit, I might have just gone to bed and worried about it in the morning. Sadly, it was not small, and its odor was not
insignificant. I grabbed the plunger and
shoved it in without result for the better part of an hour. At the end of the ordeal the toilet bowl was
sprinkled with specks of shit, and there was a bit stagnating in a pool at the bottom
that simply would not flush.
At this
point my language abilities could still be classified as “Negative
Korean.” Although I felt confident that
I could tell the ajumma that I had clogged the toilet, I was less confident
that I could explain, to her satisfaction, that it wasn’t my fault. Like any rational being, in an effort to
avoid confrontation I placed a fragrant sachet (meant to be a gift for my
friend’s mother) on top of the toilet seat and crept back into my room.
The next
day when I entered the bathroom there was a sign written in the men’s
stall. Although I knew it dealt with the
toilet I had to grab my dictionary to understand all the words. Translating, I was surprised to learn that
“Whoever did this has no conscience.” I
was also somewhat perturbed upon learning that they should “please move
quickly!”
Some time
later I called a high school classmate mate of mine, Andrew, who was on
vacation and back in Seoul. I told him
about the problems I was having with my living situation. “Man…the
ajumma here is such a bitch.”
He responded, “Dude about that…you have to move.”
What? Apparently, the ajumma, fearing direct
confrontation with me, had called Andrew’s mother to tell her that I needed to
move. I’m not sure if she knew that I
was the culprit in the toilet incident, but I imagine she suspected such a
thing could only be the result of housing a troublesome American like
myself. Truthfully I couldn’t blame
her. The general cleanliness of the
Japanese residents had left me wondering if they were capable of producing
something as vile as shit.
Not really having much say in the
matter, I packed up my bags and moved to another boarding house a few meters
away. This second one was located on top
of a bar, and I must say that there were many days when I longed to be in my
old residence, which was located on top of a piano studio. Even the poorly struck f-notes of elementary
students were preferable to the incessant banter of drunk college girls calling
out for their equally drunk and substantially more obnoxious boyfriends.
Thankfully though, this new hasook
jeep was run by a kinder ajumma, who I eventually came to call “emo (이모),” or
“auntie.” The only real misunderstanding
was that she imagined I loved Cornflakes.
When I would come to breakfast in the morning and halfheartedly attempt
to swallow rice and seaweed soup, she could tell that there was some sort of
cultural food barrier. The
solution? Cornflakes.
“William, we have cornflakes!” she
would excitedly say as I stared blankly into the adjoining hallway, trying to
conjure images of steak, eggs, and country biscuits. While I am certainly a fan of several cereals
currently on the market, I dislike Cornflakes.
They are bland, but still manage to lack the nutritional value of other
bland cereals. Eventually, tired of
inventing excuses for why today was not a good day for cornflakes or fish, I
quit going to breakfast at the boarding house, and began frequenting the
nearest McDonalds for a “HohtKayKuh
(hotcake) and Soshijee (sausage) Sehtuh (set).”
My first experience with Korean
McDonald’s had been about two weeks after arriving in the country. It was an experience for which, I must
pathetically admit, I spent time preparing.
In my mind, I practiced saying what it was I wanted over and over, and
wrote and rewrote the vocabulary I would need in an effort to memorize the
material. I had decided that I would
order a cheeseburger with onions.
When my turn to order came I
nervously said that I would like a hamburger with cheese and onions. The server responded, “cheeseburger?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Ketchup?”
“No,” I said. Please give me only cheese and onions.”
At least, that was how I imagined
the conversation unfolded. In reality I
think it went along the lines of:
“Hamburger?”
“Please give me cheese onions.”
I believe the latter is more
accurate because upon unfolding the hamburger wrapper I found a bun with cheese
and diced onions. The meat was nowhere
to be found.
But while I understand what went
wrong in the aforementioned situations, there are several situations about
which I am still, to this day, utterly confused. Once, while walking by the Hyundai Department
store in Sinchon, the district of Seoul in which I lived, I ran into a girl I
had met at a Mexican restaurant aptly named “Choi’s Tacos. I recalled thinking that she was a bit odd
the first time I met her, as she seemed to be unconcerned with wiping off the
massive amounts of sour cream that had accumulated on her lips. Regardless, I stopped and talked with
her. Perhaps I missed something, lacking
much ability in the language, but it seemed to me that she was asking for
subway directions. Odd, considering that
of the two of us it was clearly I who should be asking for directions, but I
went with her into the subway station and pointed on the map to where she
needed to go.
She then told me that she didn’t
have money for the subway, and that we should go get tea. I had been complaining of late about not
having anything to do after school, and so I agreed. To make friends, I rationalized, perhaps one
has to spend time with women who forget to shave their legs or wipe their
mouths. The path to the tea-shop,
however, seemed unnecessarily convoluted.
Why did we have to take so many back alleys?
Eventually we arrived at a private
institute where one could learn Latin.
The girl informed me that as a Catholic she had been trying to learn the
ancient language. I wasn’t quite sure
what being Catholic and reading Latin had to do with drinking tea, or why we
couldn’t have gone one of the innumerable tea shops around the subway
station. Apparently, sour cream girl
informed me, one could obtain a cup of green tea from the school’s main
office.
Surely I missed something when
conversing with this girl, but I wasn’t particularly concerned with finding out
what exactly I had misunderstood. She
seemed very odd, and having recently watched the “Davinci Code,” I was
wondering if I hadn’t encountered a member of Korea’s Opus Dei. I walked back home and lay on my bed so that
I could reconsider the day’s rather strange events. I vowed to keep my mouth shut in the
future.
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