Playing Charades with an Asian Megapolis
It’s been about a month since I arrived for my one-year jaunt in Seoul, about enough time, I think, to jot down some first impressions of my new home.
I am in Korea through a Princeton in Asia fellowship program, which placed me in a copy-editing position at the English-language Korea JoongAng Daily. My knowledge of Korean culture and history is next to none; my knowledge of the language even less so — a good thing, then, that 1) I’ve had an amazing group of Korean friends from college who have helped me settle in and feel welcome — a warm shout-out to them! and 2) my job entails proofreading English news articles about Korean current events. In terms of gaining substantive knowledge about a country I have never been to or studied before, I am picking up a lot on the job, which has me staying in the loop about everything Korean, from the latest chaebol feuds to the minutiae of K-pop and K-drama celebrities’ personal lives (news items include sightings of celebrities eating together and the occasional pregnancy scandal).
Within a month, I have gotten the hang of certain things. Even my Korean friends are surprised by some of the information I know — the names of the ruling Saenuri Party leaders, the brothers fighting for control over Lotte, Samsung’s debacle with a U.S. hedge fund, the anxiety over low youth unemployment here. But that’s the easy stuff. Adjusting to the quotidian has proven more difficult.
Although I have no Korean language skills and my background is Chinese American, my East Asian complexion brings with it an expectation of speaking ability. At customs, an officer looks at my passport and asks me a few questions in Korean. When she sees my puzzled look, she responds, “Sorry, I thought you were Korean.” She pauses, then says, “You know, Huang is a Korean last name.” Indeed, it can be; after all, there is a rich history of cultural exchange between the two countries.
There’s a certain thrill in being able to at once seamlessly blend into a place and know you are also an outsider. It is refreshing to be able to ride the subway and walk the bustling streets without the same self-awareness I might have in the States of my race and its implications. But then, I will find myself in a supermarket struggling to do the simplest tasks like buying fruit or picking out meat, or out on the street trying to find my way around, or even in my own bathroom trying to figure out the washing machine’s buttons, and in these moments, I become immensely aware of my status as an outsider.
My interactions then amount to two-word English phrases and a lot of hand gestures—an endless game of charades. At a supermarket checkout line, the cashier points to some icons of different types of bags for my groceries. I point to one that says “For Koreans,” a type of bag that can also be used as an approved trash bag at home. She shakes her head and I continue to insist, through forceful pointing and repetition of the phrase “yes, I want for garbage,” until she finally relents and gives me the bag.
I lie somewhere on the spectrum between Korean American and foreigner, not foreign enough to elicit curiosity and fascination, but not native enough to avoid the occasional scowl — substantive Otherness without the appearance of an Other. Waiters and cashiers greet me with smiles in Korean, until my English response of “sorry” throws them into a jolt, and suddenly, their smiles give way to discomfort and some embarrassment. At a makgeolli bar, as my white friend, who has spent much more time in Korea than I have and whose Korean is nearly fluent, makes our order in Korean, the waiter turns to me and asks me to translate for her. Countless times, I’ve been stopped for directions and solicitations, and countless times, I have had to respond with a shrug and a sorry.
Being here so far as an Asian American has been like engaging in a mutual game of deception — I, with the ability to walk around and blend in with people while hiding my foreignness in certain moments, and the city, with its ability to dazzle and appeal to the aloof and newly arrived while hiding its seedier elements.
And I admit to falling under its spell. In a recent NY Times piece on Seoul, local filmmaker Bong Joon-ho, perhaps best-known for his dystopian thriller “Snowpiercer,” tells the reporter:
“Look at the layers. In five or 10 years these old houses will be gone. This is a city of destruction and reconstruction.”
Seoul is as exciting and dynamic a place as people say, a brazen blend of unabashed hypermodernity set against quaint alleyways seemingly frozen in time. But at some point, as I begin to transition out of my new arrival stage, the caper will be up, the travel goggles will come off, and the nuances, contradictions, and frustrations of this place will slowly reveal themselves. And then, I will know it has become home.
For now, I am enjoying the charade.
