Sun’s rise in about an hour and a half and I never do sleep much anymore. Though, I mean, yeah, normal.
One of my students told me I look like a panda, and she looked concerned, then motioned punches to the face.
If there’s one thing to love about Korean children, it’s their unabashed and brutal honesty about the way you look every day. So, yeah, potential teachers, if you’ve poor body image, you may want to go somewhere else.
Being blond and eyeblue mostly gets me awkward compliments and stares from everyone I meet. My students are amazed by the blond hair on my arms, too, and can’t help but try to rub it all the time.
Another thing to be noted for potential Korean teachers: Korean children really like to touch you. Like, a lot. A weird amount.
Anycase, I’ve decided to talk about some good things now. Sorting through the political crises of my early twenties may last me the rest of my short life, but what really pulled me out of the sinking depression of the weight of imperialism was a beautiful girl who was kind to me for one night in Busan.
The most beautiful person I’ve met here, and that’s what she was: beauty. Tall, thin, halfirish, halfkorean, which is some kind of magic collaboration [and I’ve strong feelings towards the link between those unlikely cultures and their histories, but maybe for another day]. She found me and pulled me away from the noise, the berating bass of expatriation, the many bodied woman that is every bar in every city in every lifetime, and she spoke to me in soft tones, tentative touches. She made me nervous, which I’m not accustomed to, but the way she flashed her eyes, made her eyebrows dance, I was lost before she spoke my name.
She told me we didn’t need last names.
The night continued, swirling past me. Not drinking, just talking, the hedonism surrounding, but never breaking through.
She was kind to me.
When I left I didn’t want to, and I think I may remember her forever, if only because of eight hours, if only because we never had to know each other for longer than that night. No names, just histories and faces.
My love for starlight, fading in sunlight.
Michelle, my Busan girl.
I’ve dreamt of you for days and will for a thousand and a thousand more.