You Can Go Home Again

If taxes and things like the new airline fees we are all paying seem unfair, what do you call the passing of time? --that which seemingly prevents us from ever being able to return home again—as Thomas Wolfe’s book of the same name famously put it.

But is it true that we can’t go home? Yesterday, I returned to the neighborhood I once lived in as a Peace Corps trainee in Daegu, Korea. In the winter of 1973 it was a cold and dusty section of town, bordered by a large park (Dal Seong Park) that brought dignity and some open space to a dense community which once featured an ancient fortress and whose history dates back to the Bronze Age.

Dal Seong Park (spring 1975). Author seated on right.

Today it is no less a hard scrabble place. Mr. Lee, who owns a pastry stall in the neighborhood, told me the nearby alleys still feature old, dirty Korean inns where you can get “s.” “S?” I asked quizzically. “Sex,” he answered with a sheepish grin.  I wasn’t looking for sex but I was searching for something else—an old Korean bathhouse I had frequented for several months during that winter of 1973. In those days, hardly any Korean homes or inns had baths or showers. Every so often people would go to a public bath and share huge scalding hot tubs with dozens of people. I was returning to see what had happened to that bathhouse—an institution which has literally disappeared in Korea along with the less endearing "bucket brigade" of men who used to go door-to-door removing sewage with large sturdy brown buckets dangling from wooden polls that ran across their backs.

Honey Bucket Men (Daegu circa 1974)

I stopped and questioned two old women who were squatting in front of a store. I pointed across the street and in halting Korean asked if the building was a bathhouse about 30 years ago. One of the old women waved me on and the other laughed—they obviously thought I was crazy. But I soon found Mr. Lee behind his counter and asked if he spoke any English. He smiled and said “Yes.”  “Would you know,” I asked, “if that building used to be a bathhouse?” “Sure,” he said. “look at the top, it still has that large vent that was always on the roof of bathhouses.” Looking up, I noticed a barely visible red insignia depicting steam coming out of a circle that was synonymous with bathhouses.

I was pleased. The inn I once stayed at was now a lifeless parking garage but I had at least found my way home. I reminded myself of a traditional Korean folk music concert I attended just a few months ago. Sitting alone in the back row I suddenly started to cry. The familiar music had found an emotional vein sending years of sentiment and stored memories gushing uncontrollably.

One can indeed go home. I was there. But there is an emotional fee to pay for the time and memories that have escaped from the bottle--those things that naively once seemed so everlasting.

The Way of Rice

In malls throughout the United States I have seen vendors selling grains of rice with microscopic words--even entire poems--novelly inscribed on a single grain of rice. It's an ironic endeavor given the pervasive and timeless role that rice has played in Asian societies. Rice is a central part of the culture here in Korea and has been for thousands of years influencing music, dance, how respect is paid to ancestors, even providing straw roofing for homes.

Rice is literally served with every Korean meal. It is so integral to Korean society that there are perhaps two dozen words for rice--each describing a specific state, stage or nuance. For example, mo is a rice seedling, sal is husked rice, pap is cooked rice, beo is rice grain, nwi is unhusked rice in husked rice--you get the idea.

"Pap" cooked rice, in Korean

My earliest and rather fond dealings with rice were with a black man I met as a kid. Perhaps the most comforting face in the A&P supermarket--where my mom shopped--was that of Uncle Ben. His iconic image graced the package of what was certainly one of America's most popular food products of the 1950's and 60's, Uncle Ben's rice.

My first experience with rice was with this gentleman

The U.S. was, and still remains, a leader in rice production--ranking 11th worldwide. But Korea, roughly the size of the state of Indiana, is 12th, producing 7.4 million tons of rice annually. China ranks first with a harvest of nearly 200 million tons. (data courtesy of Dr. Yoo Man, V.P. of ICID)

Rice paddies found throughout Korea paint the country in rich, undulating shades of green. Visible from high-speed trains, car windows or along local streets and country lanes, rice paddy fields ("non" as they are known in Korea) grace the space between mountains, rivers, cities and villages. In a sense, they fill the spiritual space, the soul of place here.

It's hard to over-estimate what rice has meant in the history of society here, and frankly, what it continues to mean in a Korean's life. Indeed, the words of a single grain of rice have centuries of stories to tell.

Rice paddies on the campus of Yeungnam University

The Smile

The chapter that is my first semester teaching here in Korea is nearly written. It has been four months filled with countless surprises, smiles, magic, deep reflection and amazing lessons.

Last evening I was told this story by a dear Korean friend:

"The Buddha was to speak before an audience of 1200 monks who were awaiting his wisdom. He entered the venue, stood before his audience and gazed into the eyes of each monk. It was still. He cut one chrysanthemum and held it for all the monks to see. He looked out. One monk smiled. The 'speech' was complete."

Watermelon and dojang (name stamps)

DAM

I am often a victim of my own naivety. Paraphrasing director and actor, Woody Allen, who long ago realized he had lost any objectivity he may have once held for New York City,

“Chapter 1. He adored New York City. He romanticized it all out of proportion…”

from the opening of the movie, Manhattan

- - - - -

It was a day like any other here. The daylight expanded in its way, gradually filling the corners and spaces in the apartment complex. The community stirred with its morning routines, mothers conveying children to schools, retired older men making themselves busy, others plying their routines in the streets and offices.

My morning too was leaning into its familiar path.  Then, serendipity quietly interrupted. A few hours later I found myself walking inside the city’s art museum. My Korean teacher, Kwak Mee Rah, whose invitation ignited this magical escape from routine, and I, had the place to ourselves. The Daegu Art Museum (DAM), gallery by gallery, humbly but knowingly, revealed its many personalities to us.

“Art speaks the soul of its culture.”

Abby Willowroot

Ms. Kim, a young museum employee, felt us creating ripples in the still pond of her early afternoon. Putting her book down, she left her isolated seat and came over to excitedly offer her insights coming, as they were, from under a restrained veneer of black and whiteness.  Her hair was styled in a communist Chinese-like pageboy cut.  She had a baggy white shirt, black skirt, tights and shoes.  Speaking Korean, she opened the door to our afternoon of colors, textures, and surprises. She made bare part of the soul of Korean culture.

We felt the raw emotion of artist Sa Yung Sun:

We saw the range of Park Seng Kwang:

And the amazing textured art of Park Seo Bo, which can't be fairly appreciated here:

Finally, the magical colors of Kim Jong Hak:

Which brings me to my closing confession...

“Chapter 2. He adored Korea. He romanticized it all out of proportion.”

Buddha's Birthday

                                       "Material wealth is not life's ultimate goal."
                                                              From Buddha's teachings

It's a national holiday here, the birthday of Buddha. Buddhist temples are like ubiquitous jewels. They are found everywhere one goes in Korea. Siddhartha Gautama Buddha...Nepal is said to have been his birthplace, India his final resting place.

Though it is hard to be definitive, approximately 23% of Koreans practice Buddhism-the single largest religious following in Korea. Many more Koreans visit buddhist temples and respectfully partake in rituals.

I visited Bulguksa (불국사) Temple in Gyeongju (경주) on the occasion of the birthday of Buddha (563 BCE - 483 BCE). Waves of people filled the thousand year-old complex. Parking spots were hard to come by and public buses were packed. Vendors sold food and trinkets, from sunglasses to tantalizing paper umbrellas.

An old woman was selling fresh berries in paper cups.

Middle-aged women were dressed proudly in their finest traditional clothes. I couldn't help but stare at one woman who, with quiet dignity, wore a light grey, 2-piece outfit with tiny, finely sewn patches of pink and blue pastels.

The air was filled with a rainbow of colors as far as the eye could see. An important ritual I observed was the pouring of water over a small golden statue of the buddha. Followers would take turns pouring and bowing.

                                       "Nothing which comes to be is ultimately satisfying."
                                                                   From Buddha's teachings


My memories replay the mental films of buddhist monks selflessly leading resistance to military thuggery in Burma, to Chinese authoritarianism in Tibet and in countless other places in Asia and throughout the world. As I depart the temple grounds I hear an enchanting sound--a simple knocking on hollow wood--a monk's call for alms.

                                              "All things that come to be have an end."
                                                                    From Buddha's teachings

That Beautiful Sound

There was that mesmerizing traditional Korean music concert several weeks ago. The striking colors of the women’s dresses igniting the sounds that filled the air of the outdoor affair.

The clanging of the metal pots and pans of the stall vendors on still nights, tells stories of families, hard work and earnestness. The fried wontons, the rice cakes, the sizzling meat and chicken on grills, the steaming liquids, wafting in and around the blue and white plastic canopies, swell the night so completely.

The Asian birds singing their songs along crowded streets and tree-lined dirt paths. Ah, their sweet melodic chirping gains my attention far too infrequently. My loss.

The voices of the children: happy and excited, going to school, playing, learning how to share, how to survive, and hopefully, how to thrive. Their sounds fill the streets most mornings here.

The cacophony of older women talking excitedly in groups, passing by or stationed under trees in the shade—out of the sun. They have earned their right to speak boldly, passionately, about anything.

No, the most beautiful sound I have heard these past few months came on Saturday. When, having earlier reached for an old friend of mine, I heard that once familiar sound from long ago. That reassuring smack when the cover of a ball relinquishes itself to the pocket of a glove. Ah, that is the single most beautiful, most satisfying sound I have heard here.

                                                     An old friend         

Between the Lines and Lanes

There are two essential passions in my life these days--drinking my morning coffee and trying to stay alive while crossing the streets of Korea. Both are challenging. Coffee, it seems, isn’t required by the populace here until about 10 or 11 o’clock in the morning--that is the time most coffee shops seem to open. And those painted crosswalks--surely they are not there to protect pedestrians. There is a somewhat confusing and downright frightening cat and mouse game that goes on when crossing Korean streets.

Truth be told, roadways here are in a near-anarchy state. It’s every driver—and therefore every pedestrian, for him or herself.  Signaling is strictly optional. Some drivers literally speed up when turning corners. And fuel is added to the fire by the addition of a lunatic cadre of motorcyclists and scooter drivers who pepper the streets starting at lunchtime and continuing throughout the afternoon and evening. They are the food-delivery madmen of Korea, who drive without conscience; darting recklessly in every direction, often riding on sidewalks, oblivious to anything other than their food delivery destination and their convulsive return trip back to the restaurant. In fact, I hear the haunting drone of their scooter engines as I write this.

There are other contemporary matters here that are quite bedeviling.  In the last few months alone, a number of local high students, four reportedly in just one area apartment complex, have committed suicide. All indications are that these deaths can be attributed to bullying.  A rash of student bullying seems to have swept the country. One story in The Korea Times suggests that some students are harassed because they don’t have “cool gear.” It appears that groups of bullies have taken to wearing The North Face branded clothing—which, given its premium pricing here, is seen as cache by many students.  Victims of these bullies are reportedly wearing less expensive and non-hip brands.

Another phenomenon is the popularity of cosmetic surgery--again, especially amongst young students. Having eyes and noses altered to resemble those of westerners is de rigour in the middle class. Very few people seem to reflect on, or question, this trend. Subway stations in affluent neighborhoods are filled with huge cosmetic surgery ads targeting young Koreans.

These are trends that lie between the lines and the lanes of the new Korea. One can only wonder where the pressures and trappings of success and affluence may take this tiny nation.