Mark H. Kim

I have rather little idea as to what constitutes a Korean adult.

It was the first wedding I ever attended. The sign on the front door of the wedding hall read “11:00 – 12:00″; my uncle must have been entitled to precisely an hour of celebration. Such formalities. I would have liked to sit somewhere—perhaps in awe, perhaps in disgust.

I was told to say hello to everyone, however. Grandfather passed away, and father was in Las Vegas: Jangson, the first son of the first son, must now take care of the formalities. All of a sudden I knew everyone. I approached each and every person in the wedding hall, re-introduced myself—hello, I am Jishik’s first son; long time no see—and ask about the job, about the children. Again and again I explained what I was studying at the university (oh no, I don’t plan on being a doctor), how long I was planning on staying in the US (Not quite sure, but how could I abandon the fatherland?), and when I was going to marry (ahaha, before too long, I suppose, before too long).

In the meantime, my cousins—mostly a year or two younger—were sitting in a corner, taking pictures to post on the Internet, wondering when they could take the cake.

I have rather little idea as to what constitutes a Korean adult. Of course, I know how to be textbook-polite. I also know the mannerisms and the expectations of a typical Korean male adult. What I do not know is the grown-up I would have morphed into had I been given a chance.

If anyone had asked what it was like to live in the US, I would have liked to say that the Korean in me may have become an ideology, not an identity. Nevertheless, everyone was pleased to see me: I must have done my job right. Whether I truly know what role I must assume is another issue—and, perhaps, not a relevant issue when we only have an hour to celebrate.

Developed countries are all alike. It isn’t quite enough to talk to everyone in Korean, not enough to read Korean ads everywhere.

I was running late, I think. I had to get to another airport for a transfer flight at 8, and I got on the 6:50 bus, and  since I had forgotten the distance between the two airports, a flaming anxiety ensued: nobody had my phone number, as I had just rented a cell phone at the airport, and if I missed the flight, then I would have to spend an hour to get to the train station, sit through three more hours of train ride to get to the destination, and let myself be stranded in a huge city without being able to contact anyone—at midnight—unless I make an overseas call and ask father for help, which is an undesirable option as I already have to pay sixty won per second to make domestic calls—I shudder to think how expensive overseas call on this damned phone would cost; the airport is nowhere to be seen, but the bus seems to be coming to a stop (hey hey, you can’t waste my time like this!), as the bus driver just opened the front door—the bus hasn’t come to a full stop yet, but it’s okay, under no circumstance anyone can possibly get hurt.

And an old lady jumps onto the bus.

Hardly anyone gives a damn. We all just assume that she has to go somewhere real badly. She just couldn’t wait; what’s the surprise?

Korea, oh Korea, how could I forget thee.

I was still a twenty-one-year-old boy when I woke up. Or twenty maybe, I don’t know. The shower was still fifteen steps away from my bed, and twenty minutes were still required to defrost my body enough to bend down and grab the shampoo bottle. It was May already, but that didn’t mean anything; the damned floor hadn’t gotten any closer.

It was supposed to be a big day, I believe. I hadn’t been to the fatherland since I moved to the U.S. in 2004. I also hadn’t been on a trip by myself, let alone a fortnight-long overseas trip. I’d packed the first volume of Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time in my suitcase, spent some time with mother trying to find the fancy suit I rarely wear, and hopped onto the black limousine which had been waiting in the driveway. Perhaps I should have cried a little; perhaps I should have blurted out a sappy goodbye or two.

Instead I was thinking about the take-home exam I had not completed. I was thinking about how uncomfortable it is to wear full suit and sit in the back of a spacious limousine by myself, how uncomfortable it will be to sit through fourteen hours of flight in a goddamn suit. I was thinking about the time zone differences, about the optimal time to sleep in order to minimize jet lag. Quick computations suggested that I must not sleep on the plane.

Does the character create the plot, or does the plot create the character? I had wished my departure would be more dramatic. Of course, I was not expecting that mother would break down and cry me a river, or that a band would magically appear from the sky and play me a fanfare. I had merely wished to be slightly more nostalgic; after all, the ingredients were there. Nevertheless, the nagging nervousness never followed, robbing me of a chance to indulge myself in a search of lost time.

Certainly the character failed to steer the plot.

I just came back from Korea! A series of posts chronicling my journey will be updated in the next few weeks, once I am settled into my new apartment in New Brunswick.

1. In Search
2. On The Run
3. Growing Up, Growing Into

I just received the winter issue of The Paris Review in mail a few days ago. I have purchased a five-year subscription on December 7, so it is quite late, even considering this message:

If you ordered a subscription, please allow 6-8 weeks for the delivery of your first issue. All other items will be shipped out within the next few days and should arrive in one to two weeks, depending on the ship method selected. International orders should arrive within six to eight weeks.

Notwithstanding the delay, the magazine—the little of it I have read thus far—did not disappoint me. Publishing Massimo Vitali’s “Bathers” seems to me a cruel choice on the editor’s part—for the stimulated yearning for the summer beach—but the photos are gorgeous, nonetheless. I never knew photographs of crowds of people could be so interesting. A quick Google search reveals that Vitali has been focusing on beach photography as of late. His portfolio even sounds beach-y.

I have only given a perfunctory glance to the “Winter Poetry” folio in the middle, and only one poem has caught my eyes so far: Dorothea Tanning’s “Cultivation.” Incidentally, it is the one poem The Paris Review decided to post on their website.  The other piece I read, however, was absolutely stunning. It is Carsten René Nielsen’s “House Inspections,” which I read three times, front to back, in one sitting, marveling at its beauty. One curiosity: The Paris Review decided to categorize it under “fiction,” which confused me a little bit, as there seemed to be no semblance of plot or character development in the “story”; furthermore, Nielson’s website categorizes it as “ten prose poems.” I wonder what sparked this seemingly—well, false decision.

Now, if I could find the time to read the rest of it…