Becoming Korean

Every Tuesday and Thursday, I tidy my cubicle, draw the blinds, shut down my computer, and drive ten minutes up the road to a large, cozy house, where I am suddenly transformed by untucking my shirt, tossing my shoes on a pile outside the front door, and stepping into a house that smells of fish and a spice I can't quite name.

I am now Mr. Josh. I eat seaweed, applaud card tricks, fumble chopsticks. I give guidance, sip soup, and, most of all, I pretend I’m Korean for an evening.

In September, I got a job as a part-time tutor for nine Korean students living together with a host family, the Choe’s. Along with my friend John Mark, I go twice a week to help these students with their homework. Most days I am only with them for two hours at a time, but in November I had the opportunity to join them for a Thanksgiving retreat. It looked a little bit like this:

When I come to the hot tub, Kevin, an 11-year-old boy who is small and sprightly like a Korean Peter Pan, greets me: “Mr. Josh! Take off your shirt!”

I look at him quizzically but oblige. Then we round a corner, and I discover that all those in the hot tub are wearing shirts, some long-sleeved. Kevin smiles at me mischievously, and we dip into the bubbling water. (Later, Kevin, inspired by my precedent, sneaks around the corner to take off his shirt—but then he tucks the bottom into his trunks and drapes the sleeves over his shoulders so his front is still covered.)

After an hour-long game of Signs that shrivels my skin and saps my energy, I’m ready to leave the hot tub. But one of the girls suggests we play another game, and I decide to stay, since this may be my one opportunity to join Korean teenagers for a hot tub game of Truth or Dare.

It doesn’t take long to discover that they haven’t quite mastered the basics of Truth or Dare. When one of the girls starts the game off with “Truth,” she is asked the strange and slightly off-putting, “Is it true that you woke up without any pants on one time?” The girl gives a puzzled “no,” and we move on to such questions as “Have you ever skipped a day brushing your teeth?” and “Does your room smell really, really bad?”

The dares are more traditional. By the end of the night, I’ve pirouetted and twirled my way around the hot tub in a 30-second dance and one of the girls has pressed her face to John Mark’s wrinkled and sweltering foot.

When the game becomes too truth-heavy, with no one brave enough to request another dare, we retire to our rooms for the night. John Mark and I have been paired with the two youngest boys, Kevin and Daniel. They are equal in age, but while Kevin is outgoing and has a voice reminiscent of a Disney mouse, Daniel is heftier and speaks with a throaty warble. (At his sixth grade choir concert, you can easily discern his voice: he’s the only bass.)

Daniel loves playing cards. Whenever I sit down at my tutoring desk, he sidles silently to my side and whispers, “Pick… a card.” Sometimes the trick is impressive, but more often than not he botches it or, more strangely, walks away without warning.

That night, we play Blackjack. John Mark and I aren’t familiar with all the rules, so we are forced to rely on the instructions of 11-year-olds. Somehow, Kevin keeps winning. He’ll collect eight cards or so, pick three that he likes, and then discard the rest. When I ask why he discarded the other five cards, he answers simply, “They don’t count.”

Never play Blackjack with a Korean.

Before bed, I hand out Aquafinas and tell the boys they have to down their whole bottle before going to bed. They ask why, and although we’re only worried about dehydration, John Mark sarcastically answers, “We want to make sure you pee the bed tonight.”

They look at us with shocked expressions, and he quickly reassures, “Just kidding.”

But then I add, “Mr. John Mark is going to pee the bed though.”

“Really?” Kevin says earnestly.

“No, I’m just teasing you,” I say. I try one more time, “But I will if John Mark does.”

They gasp a third time, a sarcasm strike-out. Maybe it’s the cultural barrier, or maybe it’s the hierarchical gap—I am ever and always “Mr. Josh”—but sarcasm has yet to connect.

Despite the comedic disconnect, my time with these Korean students has been filled with laughter. After I’d worked with the Choe family for two months, Daniel asked me, “Mr. Josh, are you special forces?”

I stifled a laugh and shook my head no.

“Army?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not in the military.” Suddenly, it made sense why on so many occasions he’d greeted me with a salute. A typical American, I’d just assumed it was a Korean thing.

“Not any military?” Daniel asked, squinting up at me with a sad, betrayed expression.

“Nope,” I said. “Sorry.”

In my time with the Choe’s, my civilian status isn’t the only way I’ve come short. I have been called “geeky.” Worse, in an inadvertent insult, Kevin one day exclaimed, “Mr. Josh! You are growing a beard!” (I had had one since I started tutoring.)

That observation was the only comment about my appearance, a fact that wouldn’t have bothered me if John Mark hadn’t marveled at how many times the students commented on his good looks.

Last month, Pastor Moses, the leader of this group of students, made up for this lack by announcing three times how privileged he was to have such “Handsome, godly, handsome, servant-hearted, handsome men of God helping with the program.”

I don’t know who bribed him to say this, but I can only say a sincere, “Thank you.”


(Check back Sunday for a follow-up post: "New Culture, Clean Bum")