The following is a draft excerpt from my novel, Gyeosunim. If you haven't read my previous novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, be warned that while there are no spoilers, you may be missing some context.
Monday, May 13, 2019
I walked to the centre of the building, where one of the main sets of doors lay before a wide sidewalk. Six students were standing nearby and I approached them. “Shillye habnida, yeong-eo hasil jul aseyo?” Excuse me, do you speak English?
They seemed to mutter to themselves, as if in a conference over my question, before one of them spoke. “We speak a little,” said a tall, heavyset young man. Two of their friends said something quickly in Hangul before moving into the building. I was surprised to learn that only a third of the students spoke English. In 1988, I would be surprised that any of them spoke no English. Brad and Wilma had told me that almost every Korean under forty could speak some level of the language.
I addressed the tall Korean. “Is this the Languages department?”
“Languages department?” he repeated.
“Yes. Is this where students learn English?”
“This is the Education department.”
“Education department?” It was now my turn to be the copycat.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Do you know where students study different languages?”
“This is the Education department,” he repeated, “I am learning to teach.”
“Ah, I understand,” I said. “Is there a department for learning to speak English.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. He and his friends spoke in Korean and I could see some shaking of heads. They were all as confused as the man I spoke with.
“Is there an administration office in this building?” My hand gestured down the length of the building toward the far end, where the English administrative department had held an office, which was across the hall from where my office had been.
“Yes,” the young man answered.
“Do you have time to show me?”
After another conference with his friends, two bowed to me and then moved off, heading back down the street, toward where the twin building stood. “Yes, we have a few minutes,” said the young man, pointing again to his friend who supposedly also spoke English but had said nothing to me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you and your friends.”
“That’s okay,” he said, “they had to go to class.”
“Do you have a class to get to?”
“Soon. We have time.”
“Thank you.”
We entered Truth Hall and I stepped back in time. Nothing had changed, not even the style of clothes that the students wore. Jeans, t-shirts under button-up shirts, and sensible shoes. There had only been a dress code for the teachers, not for the students.
From the foyer, we turned left and headed down the long hall. Students were heading to classes but there wasn’t the crowded hall that I often had to negotiate to avoid bumping into someone. We passed a classroom that had been one of mine, where I taught a couple of advanced-level classes, and I was able to peer in briefly, before the door was closed. The teacher’s desk was still on a riser but the long tables with plexiglass partitions had been replaced with individual desks. I explained to the young men that I had taught here twenty years back and they nodded in acknowledgement. Why else would I be here, I’m sure they surmised. I withdrew my old identification card and handed it to the tall student. He awed and turned the card to his friend before handing it back.
“You were so young,” he said. I took the card back with no more than a grunt.
The door to the old administration office had been at the very end of the hall, before you passed through a glass door, turned left into a stairwell, where there was an exit to the building. But before we reached that door, we turned and entered a door that used to lead into a classroom. Inside this brightly lit room, I could see that a wall in the classroom had been knocked down and that the older office had expanded into both spaces. A long counter stretched from one end of the room to the other as a partition between the staff who worked in this room and the visitors. It was similar to the setup in a bank, where tellers stood side-by-side and served customers. But signs hung from the ceiling, over each administrative person, with a different label on each one. The signs were in both Hangul and English, and I read Architecture, History, Civil Engineering, and my eyes stopped when I read the sign for English. A short woman in her mid-forties stood on the other side of the counter. Her hair was styled upward but kept short on the sides and at the back. She wore small gold-framed glasses that had a fine chain that would be used to wear around her neck when she didn’t need them. She wore a red turtleneck sweater under a checkered jacket. Her bright lipstick matched the sweater.
When we approached the counter, the tall student explained my purpose to the woman, who looked at me while she listened.
“How can I help you,” she said in flawless English.
“Excuse me,” said the student to me, “we must go to class.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, “thank you so much for your help.”
“You are welcome. Have a good time.” He and his friend bowed, and they left.
I turned to the woman. “Hello, my name is Roland Axam. I used to teach English in this building many years ago.” I presented my old ID card, which she took and examined thoroughly.
“Wow,” she said, “you used to be so handsome.”
Ouch. “I’m visiting Chŏnju for the first time in twenty years and was looking for the English Language department. Is the department still in this building?”
“This is the Education department,” she said.
“That’s what I’ve been told.” I pointed to the sign above her. “I was led to believe that you were the one to see about the English department.”
“I am with the English Education department. We don’t teach the English language, we teach students who want to be English teachers.”
“But is there a department in the university that teaches the English language? Is there a department for learning foreign languages?”
“No, I’m sorry, there isn’t.”
“I used to teach English to students in this building. I also had classes in the library, at the top of the hill.” I pointed to where the library stood, on the hill that was behind this woman, past the windows that faced south.
She half-turned her head, as though to follow my gesture. “That building hasn’t been a library for a long time. It’s only used for classes now.”
“Would you be able to look for a faculty member? Maybe one of my colleagues still works somewhere here.”
She placed her fingers over a keyboard. “Do you have a name?”
“Choi Chul-won.”
She typed in the name and looked at the computer screen that was to the side of her. After a couple of seconds, she said, “No, I don’t see that name.”
“What if I give you an English name?” I was thinking of Brian Rogers and John Peterson, two career teachers. Both had married Korean women and had been set to spend the rest of their teaching years in the country. It was likely that John would have retired long ago, as he would be in his mid-seventies. But Brian was my age, was fluent in Korean, and had embraced the culture.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any foreign teachers,” the woman said.
“None?”
“There is no English-language course taught here. There’s one at Chŏnbuk National University, but not here. I’m sorry.”
“No English program, the library has moved. My, things have changed.”
“Twenty years is a long time,” she said, handing back my card.
“My office used to be across the hall.”
“Today, it’s a student lounge,” she said.
“Do you think it would be okay if I wandered around campus? I’d like to revisit some of the places where I frequented when I worked here.”
“Feel free to explore,” she said, “but I would kindly ask you to avoid classrooms that are in progress.”
“Of course. Thank you.” I was still in wonder at how perfect her English was. She was old enough to have been a senior student when I was teaching here, but even my best students didn’t speak with her level of proficiency and breadth of vocabulary. She had obviously spent many years in an English-speaking country.
I bowed and exited through the door that used to belong to the administrative office for the English teachers. Across the hall, the door to the student lounge was open and I could see sofas, lounge chairs, and study tables. A large flat-screen TV was against the wall to the left of the doorway and I could see a news network broadcasting in high definition. The bookshelves and lockers that used to break up the room, as well as the teachers’ desks, were all gone. At the far end, where my desk, Russell’s desk, Ashley’s desk, and Chul-won’s desk had been arranged, I could see ping-pong and foosball tables. About a dozen students were spread out, either watching the news, studying, or talking. No one seemed to take notice as I looked in and imagined my old colleagues, preparing lessons, advising students, or eating lunch.
I passed through the doorway into the stairwell and out the door that I had used countless times to move between Truth Hall and what was once the library. Trees that had been newly planted had fully grown along the boulevard that led up the hill and had now obscured the look to the classic style building, with its tall concrete columns that supported the roof and the front of this massive structure. The trees that reached high above, between the sidewalk and road, provided a canopy that shaded me from the hot noon sun. As I climbed the last, steepest part of the ascent, the former library hadn’t changed from its exterior. Only the rich blue roof offered colour to this otherwise colourless concrete slab. At the base of the centre of the building, two stone lions guarded each side of the massive double stairs that climbed to the second floor, where there was a grand veranda that spanned the front and sides of the building. I knew that in between these stairs was a set of doors that led inside the library—I was still thinking of it as that—and I decided to use this less-conspicuous entry.
The wide hallway that divided the building was more brightly lit from newer, energy-efficient sources. Bright paint, the colour of a green screen, adorned the supporting beams, and on one side of the hall was a mosaic-styled map of the world, with pictures of famous innovators spread over various countries. The largest picture over the United States was Steve Jobs, and there were many Korean faces that I didn’t recognize. The Hangul that ran along the base of the mosaic had one word that I could easily translate: soo-puh suh-tah. Superstar. At the end of this wide corridor, at the back of the building, an equally wide set of stairs led upward, and I climbed them. When this building was the library, the offices for the director to the university, Mr. Cho, were housed on this floor. I reached the top of the stairs to find an identical floor plan to the one below me. An alcove to my left led to where the main desks of the library had been, and I could see glass desks that led into a large room that still had book shelves and tables. It looked as though it was a study hall with resources for the students. Hallways to the right led down to the corridors that led to where Cho’s office had been, but the lights in that corridor were out. I guessed that they were on a motion sensor to save energy but I wasn’t about to waste the energy, myself.
On the wall to the right side of this wide hallway, nine TV panels made one giant screen, which seemed to advertise the university. Young men and women of model material seemed to be collaborating and enjoying each other’s company. As different facets of the school came onto the screen, the words “Find Your Potential” came up, in English.
For a university that no longer seemed to teach English, they still seemed to use the language.
I walked the entire length of this hallway, which opened up into a two-story foyer, the walls on either side painted the same blue that I had seen throughout the campus and was adorned with artwork of varying sizes and colours. Beyond, the furthest wall was floor-to-ceiling in glass, and doors led out to the second-floor veranda outside. Did I go outside or did I climb to the third floor, where I used to teach my advanced, conversational-English classes? What was I hoping to find here? There were no English classes, no English teachers. As far as I knew, I was the only western person on the entire campus.
There was nothing here for me.
I passed through the doors and onto the concrete veranda. I could look out over to Chŏnju, to the east. Even the view from here held nothing familiar. The last time that I had stood here, looking out to the core of the city, it was the end of December, 1988. I could see past the campus, which was much smaller, over the rice farm fields, into Hyoja-dong and toward the buildings that made up the heart of Chŏnju. Now, towering apartment complexes and office skyscrapers obscured the old city. I wasn’t in the city that had been my world for two years: I was in an unknown Korean development.
Time to leave. Jeonju University as it was now didn’t have room for me.
I walked down the hill from the former library and made one more pass around Truth Hall. I took the path along the back of it, where my old office faced out to a row of tall, densely leaved trees. As I passed the windows, I could see that they were open and many more students had filled their lounge, so that there was a steady commotion of young voices in animated conversation. The sound reminded me of recess at my elementary school in North Berwick. The excited screeches and laughter was more childlike than the sound of young academics. I could make out the one boisterous voice in the crowd: the alpha male, no doubt bragging about himself. Time hadn’t changed that.
I followed the path along the length of the building until I came to a flight of stairs that led down to where the brown-bricked students’ union building lay, with its tall clock tower indicating that the noon hour was approaching. It was in this building where I had obtained my identification card, with the photo that had told the English education registrar that I used to be good-looking. As Kim’s Hair had become inconvenient to reach for a haircut, I had also used the barber shop within the students’ union building. I walked around it, instead of through it, mostly because I couldn’t remember the interior layout and didn’t want to get lost, especially if I were to discover it had been renovated beyond my fallible memory, but also because I found that the floral landscaping around the outside of the building to be too lovely to not admire. And as I came around to the front of the students’ union, I saw a massive white structure that was several times larger in layout space than the old library building, Truth Hall, and its twin building, combined. This was the new library building. Next to the students’ union building, it looked shiny and new, making its neighbour look like a throwback to the 1980s. But I quickly found the old road that led down a gentle slope towards the restaurants and shops that comprised the off-campus area that I knew so well. However, to get there, I had to walk under a massive residence building that spanned both sides of the road and were connected by a multi-floor overpass.
I could see the buildings that once housed a print shop and school-supplies store, a billiard hall, and a restaurant that once served makkoli, a semi-fermented, sour rice wine. All of the shops had, of course, been replaced by coffee houses, mobile phone stores, and different restaurants. Beyond this cluster of establishments, the street continued to the main road, where more shops and eating places offered more business. The only thing that really seemed different from this strip was an arch at the end of the street that welcomed visitors to Jeonju University, naming it as “The Place for Superstars” in Hangul. The only reason why I knew what it said was that I could read and understand the word “Superstar” and that I had seen this slogan, in English, throughout the campus.
Once beyond this arch, I was hoping that the bus stop that used to carry me back into the city was still there. I was a long way across campus back to where the bus had let me off, at the new main entrance, and the sun was beginning to get hot. I was in luck, for the stop was exactly where I had left it, more than twenty years before. The sidewalk was built up—that is to say, there was finally a sidewalk—and the road had widened to twice its width, with four lanes for vehicles instead of two. I found some shade in which to stand and retrieved my smartphone, into which I searched Google Maps for the Gaeksa, the ancient governmental guest house that now served as a popular meeting spot in Chŏnju. While I found the street and structures on the map, I could not find the word Gaeksa. But I was able to tap the bus stop that was across the street from this well-known landmark and, by using my current location, I could determine the bus that would get me there.
My stomach was growling: it was time for lunch. I was craving a hot bowl of dolsot-bibimbap, a hot stone bow that contained rice, vegetables, and a bit of meat, topped with a raw egg that would cook when stirred into the bowl that was too hot to touch. In 1998, I knew where to go to get the best dolsot-bibimbap, but when the taxi had driven me from the bus station to my HanokStay room, we had passed the location of that restaurant, which was across the multi-street intersection from my old hagwon, and Shin-po Wori-mandu was gone. I knew that the chain still existed—I had seen notifications for it when I had studied Google Maps from my hotel in Seoul. The question was whether the chain still existed in Chŏnju. If not, I only hoped that I could find an equally good restaurant in the neighbourhood that surrounded the Gaeksa, for it had been the best area to find good food in the past.
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