I was
invited to an eightieth birthday party for a great grandfather (well, I suppose
technically he was a great-grandfather, but I mentally ignored the youngest
member of his clan when calling him halaboji)
whom I had come to know during my first year in Korea. I don’t recall the exact wording but his
national id card describes him as something to the effect of “a national
treasure,” a result of his past military service.
Halaboji
walks a slow meandering path, his hands crossed behind his waist in the typical
fashion of the country’s once noble yangban. He is not fazed by typical societal
conventions, as I noticed when he passed off a rather loud piece of flatulence
as “natural, no?” His most-used
descriptor, like many of his generation, appears to be “communist.”
“President
Noh Moo Hyun? He is communist. ‘Sunshine Policy?’ See, I tell you
he’s a communist!” (노무현을 모르니? 얘 공사주의자. 햇빛정책을 알지??)
“Is that so?” (아, 그러세요?)
(In English) “He likes Kim
Jong-Il! They are all communists! You don’t know?”
One visit I made to his house,
in an effort to retrieve some items I had previously stored in his garage,
resulted in my collecting Japanese apricots, maeshil, from the trees in his yard. While Halaboji is apparently tall enough to
bring down a torrent of apricots around my unprotected head, there were several
fruits that only “Dolsey,” was
capable of reaching.
“Dolsey (돌쇠)” is a nickname I acquired from my Korean friends while still
stateside. The pronunciation is about as
close as the Korean language comes to forming my last name. It means, in rough terms, that I am a
hereditary servant. I try to imagine
that I must be somewhat akin to Wodehouse’s Jeeves, but given the public’s
general reaction to Halaboji’s cries of “Dolsey! Get over here! (돌쇠야! 너 일러와!)” I am
fairly sure that of a “Dolsey’s” many traits, one cannot, sadly, count a superb
education or elegant demeanor.
I had been
fairly certain that I would be the only white attendee at Halaboji’s eightieth birthday
party. I was a bit surprised to discover
that I was also the only non-relative present.
Thirty Moons and one Dolsey.
Apparently this didn’t bother anyone; on the contrary they placed me in
all the “second-generation” photos, and I did the requisite birthday Kowtow in
front of Halaboji. One friend, having
seen the photos, coyly recited the Cookie Monster’s wise adage that “One of these is not like the others…do do
doo be boopedoo.”
After the
preliminary photo session I was sent outside to eat barbequed pork and drink
soju, Korea’s liquor of choice. It is
one of those alcohols that I assumed I would only find a cute cultural oddity,
but for which I have, for the sake of my male Korean friendships, fortunately
developed a taste. Particularly with
barbecue, one can truly claim to have acclimated when after swallowing a piece
of pork covered in pepper sauce and wrapped in lettuce, a shot of soju results
in an exhalation of “aaashhhhh,” a cry somewhere between pleasure and the pain
one’s digestive system is currently experiencing.
I drink with
my father and his friends stateside, but it seems to be understood that they
are not going to drink heavily, and that while I am still young enough to drink
heavily, I will probably not do so in their presence. Violators of this rule are looked at askance
during future social functions. The same
cannot be said of Koreans drinking culture.
If I am by some miracle not tipsy at the end of such an event, I would
do well to create a plausible excuse for my sobriety. I should note that being opposed to the consumption
of alcohol is not an acceptable one; in fact any excuse related to health is
suspect. It would be better to say that
one has to make weight for their upcoming world title shot.
There is a
tendency for foreigners (and truthfully even some natives) to view Korea as a
land where there is no misbehavior: no
drugs, no guns, no crime…no sex (though one must wonder how the Korean people
have managed to avoid extinction without that last one). And while it’s true that there aren’t many
drugs, guns, or criminal acts (at least anything that would make the front page
stateside), and that sex is kept relatively quiet, it’s not as if Korea is a
nation of man-children walking around with a collective lollipop in their
chocolate-stained mouth. As the alcohol
began to circulate in the ajosshi’s bloodstream, the conversation somehow
turned to weed.
“Hey Dolsey, is weed a drug?” (“야 돌쇠야, 대마초를 마약으로
생각해?”)
“Uhh…well, not really.” (“아, 아니요”) Uh-oh, time to tread the waters
carefully.
“See! No big deal! Have some more whiskey Dolsey.” (“그렇지, 봐봐
이들! 돌쇠, 위스키 한잔 더 하자!) Phew.
Following
the he-man woman-hater clubs masculine consumption of meat and alcohol we
retreated to the house for a birthday song and what appeared to be songs from
the attendees’ childhoods. I didn’t know
the words, but I am fairly adept at smiling and standing still, a necessary
skill for anybody visiting a foreign country.
Having
finished the songs I found Halaboji and told him, slightly loose, to live a “long long time! No seriously live a long long time! Stay in health! (“오래오래 사세요! 아뇨, 정말 오래오래 살아시기를 바랍니다. 건강하세요!)” With a few bottles of soju and a box of rice
cakes in hand I left for home, hoping that perhaps one day I too would be
called “Halaboji” while wearing the traditional yangban attire. A true rags to riches story, from Dolsey to
Halaboji.
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