Peace stay with you
I’ve recently enrolled in a Korean class, meeting MWF from 7-9. I’d study by myself, off and on, every fortnight or so - or several days in a row if I was on a binge - but I’m frustrated, since I wasn’t progressing with the language like I’d envisioned I would.
On the first day of class, I was the only student for the first half hour. We were reviewing the alphabet, something I already feel very comfortable with, and this Frog radio broadcaster waddles in and plops himself right across from me. Immediately I was distracted, as he was the hairiest, nasliest motherfucker I’ve ever encountered [there’s hairy, and then there’s ungroomed hairy - the latter of which, in this case, featuring ear and nose hairs protruding a third of an inch further than they should]. Awhile into pronunciation lessons, he sneered at me and tried to correct my pronunciation for a consonant that is particularly hard for foreigners to pronounce.
"Actually, it has more of a [phlegmy, overly aspirated] sound."
"I’m aware that it’s romanized with an ‘h,’ but I don’t think that’s it either."
An hour into the class, a Chinese graduate student joined us, making it a foursome with the teacher.
Apparently, the Frenchman’s general air of superiority grated on everyone in the room, and on the second day of class the teacher came up with a brilliant plan: "You understand much. I think that you should go to Korean 102. If it is difficult, come back. But you should be ok." He agreed that he was in fact vastly superior than the two of us, and he basically hopped up out of his seat. The two of us who remained - the Chinese chick and myself - bid adieu in Korean. There are two ways of saying "goodbye" in Korean. Ours was a nonchalant "peace go with you." This was reciprocated by a sniffy "peace stay with you."
Now it’s just me and this Chinese chick. I’m keeping pace with the curriculum okay, but for the my remaining classmate it’s kinda cheating. For a rough SAT analogy: ENGLISH: LATIN :: KOREAN: CHINESE. This would be like me in a Spanish class with a Papua New Guinean. I’m holding my own, but she can understand hella more than I do, so I kinda tune out when they have their own conversations. That, and I’m still terribly slow with the script, so the Chinese chick needs something to do while I’m writing away at a kindergarten level - replete with fat pencil and quadruple-lined paper.
...
Yesterday, I was walking out of my local subway station and ran into a couple "sisters." Not in the African American sense, but in the LSD sense. Of course they stopped me since a whitey sighting is pretty infrequent in my neighborhood. All was going well (away from the topic of religion) until we started talking about language. Somehow, and quite adroitly, this segued into God:
"Oh, wow. You study for an hour a day by yourself? That takes a lot of willpower. Have you found any good Korean books?"
"Actually, I read the Book of Mormon."
"Good book" must have triggered something in the eldest Elder Sister, and I was impressed with her conversation shift. She quite bluntly asked me about my religious stance, and she made it impossible for me not to answer the question. When it came down to it, I conceded that every Mormon I’ve ever met has been a fabulously kind person. When she asked if I wanted to learn to be that way, I was somehow finagled into agreeing to visit the Mormon homepage when I got home. A promise that I've so far broken.
This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself in a missionary position since I’ve been in this country. Months ago, I was chilling out in my bathrobe on a Saturday morning when I received a rare knock on the door. Thinking it was certainly a friend, I quickly opened. Two demure, pious-looking Orientals were there to greet me. One of the better parts of living here is that you aren't handed leaflets on the sidewalk once people realize you are white. I hoped there would be a similar language barrier in that case. There wasn’t, and she apologized profusely for not having any English language literature on her. The following week there was a sticky note on my door:
"Hi. I am the one who visited you last Saturday. I brought some English magazines for you, but you are not here. So I will leave them out your post box. I wish you enjoy reading those magazines. Bye."
Somewhere in my (new) apartment, I still have that copy of the Watchtower.
On the first day of class, I was the only student for the first half hour. We were reviewing the alphabet, something I already feel very comfortable with, and this Frog radio broadcaster waddles in and plops himself right across from me. Immediately I was distracted, as he was the hairiest, nasliest motherfucker I’ve ever encountered [there’s hairy, and then there’s ungroomed hairy - the latter of which, in this case, featuring ear and nose hairs protruding a third of an inch further than they should]. Awhile into pronunciation lessons, he sneered at me and tried to correct my pronunciation for a consonant that is particularly hard for foreigners to pronounce.
"Actually, it has more of a [phlegmy, overly aspirated] sound."
"I’m aware that it’s romanized with an ‘h,’ but I don’t think that’s it either."
An hour into the class, a Chinese graduate student joined us, making it a foursome with the teacher.
Apparently, the Frenchman’s general air of superiority grated on everyone in the room, and on the second day of class the teacher came up with a brilliant plan: "You understand much. I think that you should go to Korean 102. If it is difficult, come back. But you should be ok." He agreed that he was in fact vastly superior than the two of us, and he basically hopped up out of his seat. The two of us who remained - the Chinese chick and myself - bid adieu in Korean. There are two ways of saying "goodbye" in Korean. Ours was a nonchalant "peace go with you." This was reciprocated by a sniffy "peace stay with you."
Now it’s just me and this Chinese chick. I’m keeping pace with the curriculum okay, but for the my remaining classmate it’s kinda cheating. For a rough SAT analogy: ENGLISH: LATIN :: KOREAN: CHINESE. This would be like me in a Spanish class with a Papua New Guinean. I’m holding my own, but she can understand hella more than I do, so I kinda tune out when they have their own conversations. That, and I’m still terribly slow with the script, so the Chinese chick needs something to do while I’m writing away at a kindergarten level - replete with fat pencil and quadruple-lined paper.
...
Yesterday, I was walking out of my local subway station and ran into a couple "sisters." Not in the African American sense, but in the LSD sense. Of course they stopped me since a whitey sighting is pretty infrequent in my neighborhood. All was going well (away from the topic of religion) until we started talking about language. Somehow, and quite adroitly, this segued into God:
"Oh, wow. You study for an hour a day by yourself? That takes a lot of willpower. Have you found any good Korean books?"
"Actually, I read the Book of Mormon."
"Good book" must have triggered something in the eldest Elder Sister, and I was impressed with her conversation shift. She quite bluntly asked me about my religious stance, and she made it impossible for me not to answer the question. When it came down to it, I conceded that every Mormon I’ve ever met has been a fabulously kind person. When she asked if I wanted to learn to be that way, I was somehow finagled into agreeing to visit the Mormon homepage when I got home. A promise that I've so far broken.
This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself in a missionary position since I’ve been in this country. Months ago, I was chilling out in my bathrobe on a Saturday morning when I received a rare knock on the door. Thinking it was certainly a friend, I quickly opened. Two demure, pious-looking Orientals were there to greet me. One of the better parts of living here is that you aren't handed leaflets on the sidewalk once people realize you are white. I hoped there would be a similar language barrier in that case. There wasn’t, and she apologized profusely for not having any English language literature on her. The following week there was a sticky note on my door:
"Hi. I am the one who visited you last Saturday. I brought some English magazines for you, but you are not here. So I will leave them out your post box. I wish you enjoy reading those magazines. Bye."
Somewhere in my (new) apartment, I still have that copy of the Watchtower.
posted by Mark Hernandef at 10:39 PM
2 comments
