Beth Salerno

Language

August 29, 2007 Author: Beth Salerno

I read a poem recently which began,

“When everything is hieroglyphic,
the back of a cereal box,
the long advertisement on the side of a blue bus,
Teletubbies,

and even the road sign with the red arrow pointing to something I cannot read,….” (Carmen Acevedo, “The American in October,” The Korea Fulbright Review, Summer 2006, p. 59).

This is how I feel. Hangul, the Korean alphabet developed in the 1500s, is still mostly Greek to me. Last week I spent an hour translating the buttons on the washing machine. (Those of you who know me well will recognize I did this after I turned it on to see what would happen.)

At the supermarket, I buy food using Holmesian deduction and the occasional words in English. One box of “plum tea” turned out to contain long green packets of white powder. Ground, sweetened, instant tea maybe? I’m getting that one translated before I try any!

The eye is assaulted in Korea by signage. Every possible urban space has a sign. Think working class liquor store in the United States and then plaster a few more signs for the right effect.

And the worst of it? I cannot read them. I am surrounded by an entire country trying to draw me in, inform me, tempt me, enlighten me and I am like a solid, unyielding wall. Slowly, slowly I begin to recognize patterns, like a child first understanding that c and a and t form that warm, fuzzy, purring thing that sleeps on their bed.

My business cards have my name in hangul. It is only slowly looking familiar. Most of your computers probably won’t read the next line, but here is Beth Salerno in hangul: 베스살레르노

I do not want to be an ugly American so I try to use my pitiful Korean at the supermarket and in restaurants. Usually I get a barrage of Korean in return and since I only understand a word or two, I have to fall back on pantomime. It is very isolating - how does one shop or go out to eat when you cannot read, speak, or understand? So each night I try to learn a few more words and constructions and I try to psyche myself up to take risks. Mostly I smile and nod, silently, as I walk through a linguistically incomprehensible world, excited when I see or hear something I know. It isn’t so bad though - it forces you to pay attention to what is happening, rather than what you are hearing or reading. Maybe that is the gift of being “other” for a while.

Entry Filed under: Language, Culture