Teaching was becoming exhausting. His wife was always cautious with him when he came home from work completely drained, but she was especially so today. He could tell even in his weary state that she was walking on eggshells. It was in the middle of cleaning up the dinner table that she finally opened her mouth. She probably figured his mood had improved after a hearty home-cooked meal.
“Dong Min has set the wedding date. The fourth of August. It’s at the height of the summer heat wave over there as well. I asked my parents why he’s getting married when it’s so hot and they said they wanted it to be during your summer vacation. The bride’s family wanted a May wedding at first but gave in to our side. You know how my parents go out of their way to accommodate you. Not that you should feel pressured.”
Having said this as casually as possible, she swung around and dunked her rubber-gloved hands in the sink to resume the dishwashing. Dong Min was her youngest brother. She was the oldest of her siblings, and after she married, her parents immigrated to the United States. Her family now lived scattered throughout California. When it came to her family matters, his wife was always meek and unassertive. He felt bad that she had to approach him so gingerly about something as important to her as her brother’s wedding, so he replied cheerfully.
“Oh, good. We haven’t gone anywhere in a long time, so let’s enjoy the trip. Let’s take the kids, too. I’m sure your mother set the date in August hoping to see her grandkids, not so much me.”
“Really, honey? You think you can go to the States without getting an apology from the American ambassador?”
His wife hurriedly peeled off her rubber gloves and asked in a serious tone. She had an incredulous expression on her face. Oh! That’s when he realized his blunder and understood why she was behaving so strangely. In all probability, his wife had not waited all this time hoping and believing that he could actually get an apology from the ambassador. Despite her outward excitement, she clearly seemed to be disappointed in him. How could he have forgotten what she hadn’t? If she were disappointed in him, then he should have rightly been disappointed in himself. It was a promise he had made to himself, but she was just an innocent bystander who had gotten dragged into the mess. As if caught having a meaningless affair with a woman far less beautiful than his wife, he was angry with her and disgusted with himself. He felt horrible. He made it worse by muttering, “We bring it upon ourselves to be ignored like this, us Koreans . . .” He was trying to brush off his forgetfulness and the insult he had endured by blaming the rest of his fellow countrymen.
Lee Chang Gu had received a phone call from Kim Hye Sook in mid-March the year before last. When the phone rang, he was in the school staff room thinking that teaching was getting tougher every day. That was a recurring thought, not one spurred by a recent difficult event.
“Teacher? This is Mr. Lee Chang Gu, right? Hello! This is Kim Hye Sook from the twenty-third class. I hope you’re doing well.” It was a cheerful, friendly voice.
“Oh, hi. What a pleasant surprise . . .” He mumbled hesitantly, pretending to know her, but he couldn’t conjure up a face to go with the voice. He had been a Korean language arts teacher for over twenty years at a private girls’ high school. If he were to look up the name Kim Hye Sook among the alumnae who had been through the school system during his tenure, he’d no doubt end up with a list of a few dozen people. She must have detected the uncertainty in his voice.
“I’m calling from the States. Los Angeles. Remember I stopped by to say goodbye before going abroad? I graduated at the top of my class and received an award from the Board of Education at the graduation ceremony. That Kim Hye Sook. Do you remember?”
Of course he did. She was the first and the last valedictorian to have emerged from his homeroom class. Clean-cut in appearance and from a good home, she was a gifted student. Her innate intellect was complemented by a predilection for studying, and in fact, she was a downright bookworm. In her senior year, she had no trouble gaining acceptance into Seoul University. No special care or attention had been required of him as her homeroom teacher. Once Kim Hye Sook’s identity became clear, he felt more embarrassed than pleased to hear her voice. That was because he recalled the events leading up to the twenty-third graduation ceremony, something he’d prefer to permanently banish from memory. His colleagues as well as the principal had insisted that he take everyone out to celebrate. The valedictorian’s homeroom teacher usually did, but they were pressuring him to give an especially big feast because the valedictorian was also bound for Seoul University. That year was the first time he had taught a senior homeroom class, but he vaguely remembered being treated to such an occasion previously. He had no idea what was expected of him. Get-togethers like these were unusually frequent at that school. Once, a female teacher wore a swanky new outfit to school and everyone admired how good it looked on her, fussing over what brand it was and how much it cost. Someone nagged her about celebrating her new outfit, and marinated beef slices appeared on that day’s lunch menu. Apparently, you could hand money to the kitchen staff to buy a special food item, and as a favor they included it in the meal at no extra cost. At first, he had something similar in mind, but their clamoring for a double celebration made him think twice. So he decided on beef short ribs at a modest restaurant. From the beginning, his colleagues thought it odd that the gathering wasn’t at a hotel buffet. When they found out during the meal that it wasn’t Kim Hye Sook’s parents who were treating them, they stopped chomping on the ribs and exchanged glances. Then everyone began treating him like a naïve fool. Some of his colleagues were openly indignant, as though they were about to storm out of their seats at any moment, while others tried to lecture him on how to handle parents of students who were exceptionally bright or came from wealthy homes. He was being chewed out instead of the short ribs and he endured it silently like someone guilty as charged. But inside, a part of him burned with shame and anger for belonging to such an organization.
He hadn’t become an educator because of any ideals, but he wasn’t doing it just for the paycheck either. He had been a college student in the 1970s, when widespread student demonstrations on campuses caused constant school closures. He was never arrested or expelled, but he knew what it was like to sing songs of the movement until his voice turned hoarse in protest against social injustices. He was in complete solidarity with the movement, in theory at least, and was preoccupied with its ideals throughout his college years. He lacked, however, the guts and the passion to do anything drastic. Other comrades were seemingly more zealous and would rather have died standing up than kneel in defeat. But even they eventually turned mainstream, their burning passion proving to be nothing more than a passing phase. A few diehard activists did carry on the cause beyond the campus, infiltrating the job market to organize labor movements against big corporations. He had mixed feelings about them, respect on the one hand for their unwavering principles and skepticism on the other for their radical actions. He chose a career that suited his wishy-washy stance. It was noble to sacrifice oneself for the good of the masses, but he thought it was just as honorable to live as a member of the masses. Teaching, in that respect, appeared to be one of the most people- and service-oriented occupations for a college student courting idealistic views. This belief was further validated by the scorn and pity he received when taking education classes, which were heavily favored by female students. An unmanly and unprofitable career choice meant that he wasn’t selling out to mainstream society.
The nickname he earned on his first day of teaching was “girlie.” For a man, he had a rather soft, effeminate face, and it turned beet red in front of the students. His nervous eyes didn’t know where to fix their gaze. The girls got such a kick out of this bachelor teacher that they clapped and laughed, triumphant that they’d found the perfect object of amusement in the bashful young man. According to his own recollection, the girls meant nothing to him. What made his face burn was a sense of failure, the yearning for freedom that remained unfulfilled and the acute realization that he didn’t know anything. The nickname “girlie” did not last long. He soon turned into a boring, stoic teacher and lost the bachelor title as well. But a part of him always remained as timid and insecure as a girlie. It was just that he no longer blushed so much. Only he could feel how much his insides still burned, instead of his face. The guilt that he had escaped the social conflicts facing his generation by finding refuge in the school system reddened his heart more than his face.
“It’s been a long time. How can I help you?” he asked in a blasé voice, not caring whether she was calling from Los Angeles or the moon.
“I wanted to invite you here. What’s your schedule like around May twenty-sixth?”
“Thank you for the offer but I’ve been to the States enough times. My in-laws live there.”
“I’m not asking you to come for sightseeing. I’m officially inviting you to a seminar hosted by my department, the Department of East Asian Studies at the University. For the past three years, we’ve been holding a seminar with the theme, “The Experience of Colonialism and Modernity: the Cases of Korea, Japan, and China.” We usually invite speakers from these countries, and this year’s focus is Korea. I’m presenting on the topic.”
“Are you saying you want me to come and listen?”
“Of course not. My thesis paper analyzes Korea’s colonial period through your novel, The Satgatjae Village. I bet you had no idea that I was such an ardent fan and a researcher of your novel.”
“So what are you saying?”
The irritation in his voice was obvious even to himself. Because he was often brusque and aloof with his students and even with his own children, he had been at times accused of being uncaring and irresponsible. When it came to his writing, however, he had a tendency to be overprotective.
“Teacher, please don’t be angry. I feel like I’m being interrogated for something I did wrong. Anyway, let me get to the point. I wanted to invite you as the author of the original work. Before the conference, I plan to send out a translated version of The Satgatjae Village and an abstract of my thesis so that the participants can come prepared and use the materials for discussion. On the day of the conference, you will be introduced first—of course not as my high school teacher but as the author Lee Chang Gu—and then I will present my paper. Afterward, there will be a question and answer session on my presentation, but I suspect most of the questions will be directed at you. At this stage, I perceive my role as coming up with the discussion topics before the conference and moderating the discussion during the conference. For me to fulfill this role and to interpret effectively, I need to know even in general terms your views on the colonial period and its rippling effects on our modern society. One thing we can do is to have you present your views in a twenty-to-thirty-minute speech, but translation is again an issue. You can send me a draft of your presentation or I guess you can come here a couple of days early to brief me. I really want to do a good job. You’ll see that there is growing interest in East Asian studies here in America, especially in California.”
“Then perhaps there’ll be a few people who can read and understand my book in our language?”
“No, most people aren’t quite that proficient, although there are a few who can understand some Korean . . . Don’t worry about the language barrier. I know I can do a good job of interpreting.”
“Did you translate The Satgatjae Village into English?”
“No, I didn’t have to. It’s included in the collection of Korean short stories that Helen Kang translated with the grant from the Korean Literature Foundation. You didn’t know about this?”
“Helen Kang . . . Yes, I know her. Do you think she’s a reliable translator?”
“First rate. She immigrated here when she was in elementary school, and maybe because she grew up with a grandmother, she understands even the highly culture-specific aspects of the Korean language. Her command of English is, of course, just as good as that of a native speaker. She’s my age and is married to an American. She’s really smart and ambitious—very dedicated to raising awareness of Korean literature abroad.”
Having listened up to that point, he told her that he would do his best to go when he received the official invitation and hung up hastily. He was irritated because of the mention of Helen Kang and the fact that her translation would be used.
He knew with certainty that he was an ordinary teacher with twenty years of experience. As a writer, however, he had no idea whether he was successful, popular, or recognized. He had absolutely no multitasking skills. He couldn’t even read while listening to music. Still, he had tried his hand at both teaching and writing, neither of which was an easy discipline by anyone’s standards. It was a mystery to him how he graduated from college having studied so little during those chaotic times, but the little that he did learn enabled him to earn a living. The ideals, to which he had devoted so much more of his time and energy than studying, couldn’t just be abandoned. To do so would be an act of betrayal against his value system, and he didn’t want to end up hating himself. Thus, teaching and writing were the two pillars that upheld his livelihood and his pride. He had resolved to write one or two pieces per year, for self-gratification if not for anything else. The problem was not that he didn’t have enough time; it was that he couldn’t write a word without completely transforming his mindset from that of a teacher to a writer. That meant that he could only write during his vacations, but this so-called transformation often lasted only days or weeks, so that it left even less time for writing. Always nervous and crabby, he was quite unpleasant to be around during these periods of transition. This writing process of his had become something of a bad habit with him. Usually he was never like that at school, and he was surprised to find himself now showing symptoms of anxiety reserved only for writing. He half-regretted consenting so quickly to the invitation when school would be in session in May, but he felt he had to attend. It wasn’t that Kim Hye Sook had begged him to the point where he couldn’t refuse. His decision was based on Helen Kang. Although he had never met this woman, he had spoken with her over the phone a couple of times. It was, of course, laudable for a translator to take the time to consult the author on tricky sections of the original text. But she had not called to discuss easily misunderstood passages or to share views on the subtle use of symbolism and metaphors. She called to ask the meanings of “rafters” on traditional roofs or “paying off someone else’s debt,” words or phrases in Korean that one could easily look up in a dictionary. She had tested his patience then. But when she asked him who comfort women were, he was at a complete loss for words. This was not simply a matter of searching the dictionary. No matter how fluent she was in English, she was simply not the right person to translate work dealing with such topics.
His story didn’t deal directly with the experiences of the comfort women, but the story’s setting was based on the devastation of a poor farming town toward the end of the Japanese occupation in Korea. His mother was born into poverty in such a town and was only eighteen when her parents essentially sold her off to a widower in his mid-thirties who’d been left with a bunch of kids. She had three more kids of her own before becoming a widow herself at twenty-three when her husband died in the Korean War. Her parents showed no remorse for how her life had turned out; they claimed that they had no choice but to marry her off in a hurry if they didn’t want her to be dragged off as a comfort woman.
He was born after the liberation so he didn’t even have a vague memory of the oppression, but he had come into this world through the body of a victim of that time. He had wrestled with the story, pouring all of his mother’s bleeding sorrows onto the paper. He didn’t want anyone reading it lightly. Helen Kang remained unapologetic, believing that her English proficiency more than made up for her shortcomings in Korean. What frustrated him more than her ignorance or audacity was his patience in putting up with her to the end. In getting one or two of his stories translated into English, was he hoping for his writing to break through the language barrier and step into the international arena? Or was he simply complying with someone fluent in English because of his inferiority complex? Either way, his heart ached with shame.
His English was probably worse than that of a typical high school student, owing to the fact that he was a Korean lit major in college in the seventies. Student demonstrations on campus and constant school closures did not make for a very conducive environment for academic learning. It was only after he became a writer that he began feeling inadequate about his English. Once he had published and joined a couple of trade organizations, he discovered that there were many opportunities for attending seminars overseas as long as he paid his way. At first he felt a certain pride in globetrotting not for the purpose of sightseeing but for sharing literary viewpoints. He was certainly not new to international travel. His wife’s family was a large, tight-knit group. As the eldest son-in-law, he was constantly invited to their family events, and attending one every now and then had him frequenting the international airport. The different nature of his work-related travel from attending such family events was what was so appealing at first. His wife also encouraged him to travel for work, more pleased with the tickets she had to pay out of their meager savings than the prepaid tickets sent by her family. He soon learned, however, that these work trips didn’t amount to much more than impressing his family and colleagues. From the very beginning, he, of course, was not deluded enough to think that he’d stand tall in front of foreigners and express his views. He was timid by nature and unsociable, so mingling with foreigners in his broken English was quite beyond his imagination. He had just wanted to see other people with different physical traits and cultural backgrounds working in the same field, to get a glimpse of their world. That desire to keep open a thin line of communication with the outside world was not unrelated to his suspicion that his writing was somehow crude by global standards. But these occasional strolls into the open world of literature always left him feeling ostracized. It was more than his inability to communicate in a universal language or the lack of opportunity to express his views. It was an odd feeling different from those frustrations. He and his countrymen were somehow invisible, even if they were to show up en masse and occupy all the seats. Maybe it was only he who felt that they never belonged. Once, a renowned colleague conversant in English made a presentation, insistent on speaking in Korean with a foreigner translating for him. The gist of his impassioned speech was that a Korean writer must be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature within the next decade. He was ill at ease the whole time he was listening, feeling goose bumps spread on his skin. He must have been the only one to feel this way because the other participants, including the foreigners, all nodded in respectful agreement. Feelings felt only by him—they were always the problem.
There was a line from an old movie that he could never forget. A Jew living among Europeans summed up his experience this way: you can get close to the stream, but you can’t drink. That line from the movie expressed so precisely the feeling that he could never be a meaningful part of English-speaking or otherwise white-dominated language circles. That particular scene from the movie was the only thing he remembered. For all he knew, that scene could be completely unrelated to the movie’s main theme or the movie itself could be a forgettable, third-rate flick. Never mind the plot or the main characters; he couldn’t even remember whether or not he had enjoyed the movie. For him to have zeroed in on that scene for no reason was probably due to his own antenna. Or probe. That was the thing about these feelings. What others accepted so naturally as the norm, he alone wavered and hesitated over, unable to go with the flow. Just as others could tell by looking at his outward appearance that he was none other than Lee Chang Gu, these hypersensitive feelings had always made him stand apart from others.
Knowing full well the type of person he was, he had still accepted Kim Hye Sook’s invitation. It wasn’t because he wanted to help her or because he thought the conference was important enough for him to attend despite his shortcomings. In fact, he supposed that the gathering was not much more than a study group held by a bunch of graduate students. This, he came to suspect much later. What made him accept so quickly was his lack of trust in Helen Kang. Even if she could convey the main gist of his writing, he highly doubted that she could tease out the subtleties woven into the story. The poignant intricacies of his native language that permeated his work would be almost impossible to transplant into another language. For someone like Helen Kang to volunteer to translate this kind of work was a testament to her lack of judgment and literary understanding. Overconfident in her bilingualism, she obviously took on work that did not move her. That was more than an insult; it was a butchering of the text for which he had sweat blood, and that he could not allow. He had to explain, to show the life he had breathed into every word. This sense of responsibility and passion for his work was strong enough to override his shamefully narrow-minded ways.
After he had spoken to Hye Sook on the phone, he received a letter from her university on April 30th. The letter was dated April 18th and was signed by Donna White, the director of the Humanities Research Center of the University. As is often the case with official correspondence, the letter was, fortunately for him, easy enough to understand given his high school level proficiency in English. She began with a greeting and extended an invitation to him on behalf of the organizers of the conference “The Experience of Colonialism and Modernity: the Cases of Korea, Japan, and China.” She also included the schedule and the terms of the invitation. In addition to airfare and miscellaneous expenses, an honorarium of $500 was offered. “Humph, they want me to go all the way to America to make $500,” he complained to his wife. He could indulge in this kind of complaint only because an honorarium, however small, had been offered. He had no idea what others received in these situations, but an honorarium was never a consideration in his decision to attend. He figured they would pay for his travel, lodging, and meals, but money was not the deciding factor in attending the conference. It wasn’t a matter of wanting to attend. He had to. Five hundred dollars was certainly not much, but it was a nice icing on the cake. Attached to the letter was a form requiring him to fill in his birth date and other personal information, which they needed to include in application papers for the J-1 visa that is issued for cultural exchange programs. They also wanted his itinerary and a credit card number for reserving a hotel and transportation.
Before responding, he needed to get permission from the principal for a leave of absence during the school session. He had never made an overseas trip during the semester. Fortunately, he didn’t have a homeroom this semester, so as long as someone covered his lectures, his students would not be terribly inconvenienced. He could have planned to do some sightseeing before or after the day of the conference on May 26th, but he didn’t want to seem opportunistic. The East Coast, maybe, but he’d been to California many times. His wife might get upset if he went all the way over there and did not see her parents, so he planned to stay one night at their place after the conference. He was tentatively working out a five-night stay when Kim Hye Sook called him at his home. East Asian Studies departments from a couple of other universities were interested in meeting with him, so she wanted him to factor extra time into his schedule. In addition, a poet he was not acquainted with contacted him, claiming to be the general secretary of a literary organization.
“Mr. Lee, I understand that you were invited by the university? That’s wonderful news for us here at the Western Chapter of the Korean-American Literature Society. We are always looking for ways to invite renowned authors from Korea, but our funds are very limited. What a stroke of luck it is for us that we have this opportunity to piggyback on their invitation. Please do not say no. We know that your schedule is tight and we don’t want to burden you, so we’re planning an informal round-table discussion. We’d be honored if you’d meet with us. One of our members is a reporter for a Korean newspaper branch here, and he’s hoping to meet with you, too. I hope you won’t refuse an interview with him either.”
The man certainly was polite, perhaps overly so, but there was a pushiness to him that exerted plenty of pressure. Was it really him they wanted to invite? He was confused and pleased at the same time. Hey, am I really who I am? he joked to himself. Imagine being dragged from one place to another to meet people. He might just be too busy to sit down for a meal with his in-laws. Just thinking about it made him chuckle. His wife’s family never looked down on him, but it thrilled him to think that they might look at him in a whole new way. Kim Hye Sook insisted on taking him sightseeing for a day, so even an eight-day trip might prove to be too short. Although that itinerary included a Sunday, he would have to miss a full week of school, for which he needed permission. The principal was a self-proclaimed dilettante of literature who didn’t mind sharing with the world that he had entered, without success, the annual spring literature contest for three years straight. He apparently hadn’t read any of Lee Chang Gu’s work, but always feigned interest. When he entered the office, the first thing the principal asked him was, “Do you not write these days, Mr. Lee? It’s never easy for writers to debut, and now that you have, you must continue to publish. How else will you win anything?”
The principal habitually lamented the omission of Lee Chang Gu’s name whenever big and small literary awards were announced. So here he was again harping on about winning awards. Normally he would have ignored him, but considering that he had a request to make, he replied politely.
“I may not win any awards, but I am writing diligently. Just last month, I published a novella in a literary magazine.”
“Tut tut. How can any writer be this cold and indifferent? If my story got published in a magazine, I’d bring multiple copies to leave here in the principal’s office and the staff room. I’d also promote it among the students. I’m not saying this because I want a free copy. In this day and age, you have to toot your own horn. There are all kinds of literature awards out there and you haven’t won a single one. That, in my opinion, has more to do with your lack of marketing skills than your writing skills. Others who don’t know you might think that you’re stuck up because you’re proud and stubborn. You come across like that here in school, too, you know.”
“Me, stuck up? Oh, no. I’m the opposite, actually. I’m so insecure that I cringe when someone claims to have read my work.”
“Then why become a writer and publish? That makes no sense to me.”
The conversation was headed nowhere, so he made a blanket apology to end further argument. Then he informed the principal about the conference and requested to take leave, adding that he tried to make the trip as short as possible so as not to inconvenience the students.
“Is this true? Does this mean that your work is recognized overseas? When was it translated? I take back what I said about your lack of marketing skills. Forget the small awards and go straight for the Nobel Prize, eh? I envy and commend you for your grand ambition in this age of globalization! Well, well. Good for you!”
The principal, easily excitable by nature, jumped at the news with his eyes bulging out of their sockets. He squirmed, afraid that someone outside might hear them and snigger. It would be a mistake not to mention that the invitation came from Kim Hye Sook.
“Please calm down. Nobel Prize? You misunderstand. Do you remember Kim Hye Sook? The valedictorian of the twenty-third class?”
“’Course I do. The best student we’ve ever had since the school opened. How could I forget?”
The principal’s exaggerated speech sounded like the lines in a popular television comedy, and he almost laughed. He tried to explain in a more serious tone what Kim Hye Sook was doing in America and why she wanted to invite him. But the mention of her name excited the principal even more, and he viewed the two of them as international celebrities.
“That Kim Hye Sook. She sails into Seoul University bringing honor to her alma mater and now she’s trying to promote Korean literature on the world stage. She did research on her mentor’s book and is now inviting you as the author of the original work. Well, there’s a former student worth her weight in gold! It must be times like these that you reap the rewards of being both a teacher and a writer. You are so blessed.”
As if that song and dance weren’t enough, he continued to hanker after the Nobel Prize, commenting that such-and-such a writer in Japan was able to nab the coveted award after partnering with a capable translator and that there was no law against the pair of Kim Hye Sook and Lee Chang Gu doing the same. During the staff meeting held the next morning, the principal made a big announcement on the subject. Fortunately, much of the time was devoted to applauding the illustrious alumna Kim Hye Sook, and the bell rang before the globalization of Lee Chag Gu’s literary work could be discussed. One thing about the principal was he considered keeping class time a top priority. So in that respect, the principal’s grand illusions of his work served him well when he asked for a whole week away from school.
After obtaining his leave, he sent Donna White his travel itinerary and the personal information necessary for a J-1 visa application on May 2nd, which was two days after he received the invitation letter. He asked her to reserve a room for him and said he would buy the airplane ticket and bring the receipt to be reimbursed. With his own trip to America pending, he often spotted articles in the paper featuring the increased number of visa applications at the U.S. embassy and the difficulties experienced by applicants. Sometimes photographs of long lines in front of the embassy accompanied the article, warning that even after all that waiting and passing the interview, it could still take over a month for the visa to be issued. This was the peak season for visa requests with students and tourists trying to leave during the summer months. Complaints poured in that the embassy did nothing to meet the increased demand despite being aware of the problem. But he doubted that the embassy would budge to quell public outcry. He vividly remembered his own horrible experience of standing in line for hours in front of the embassy the first time he applied for a tourist visa. So he called up a travel agency to find out how long it would take for a J-1 visa and was told that it normally takes two or three days, but more than a week during busy periods. Fortunately, his tourist visa was still valid for another two years.
Despite having that tourist visa as a safety net, he began feeling nervous as almost two weeks had passed since he’d received the letter. Kim Hye Sook called often. Her fussing bugged him, but he knew that she was just trying to prepare him before the important event. She had sent him a summary of her thesis presentation in Korean, but he could not focus on reading it as he was too anxious about the visa. He wasn’t sure that there was enough time after the papers arrived from the U.S. He hated to leave things up in the air, so he forwarded a letter to Donna White to this effect:
“I’m sure you sent the application papers upon receiving my information, but I have not yet received them. Even if I get them sometime this week, there might not be enough time considering how long it takes the U.S. embassy to issue a visa these days. I have a valid tourist visa that will enable me to enter your country, and I’m not sure why we have to go through this much trouble to obtain a J-1 visa.”
Donna White responded immediately the next day. She explained that the university policy stipulated without exception that international participants come under the J-1 visa and that the five-hundred-dollar honorarium and reimbursement of other expenses would only be possible under that condition. She had already sent the original copies of the papers, so they should arrive shortly. He asked his travel agent to have the application ready for submission when the papers arrived from the U.S. and to make a flight reservation departing on May 25th. May 15th came and went, but still no papers arrived from the U.S. The travel agent called daily and nagged him about the papers. In his desperation, he contacted the university again, urging that unless the papers arrived by international express mail that it would be impossible to obtain a visa. When Kim Hye Sook heard the news, she immediately condemned the Korean postal service for its unreliability, assuming that it was the culprit for the delay. She also comforted him by saying that the U.S. embassy probably would not treat a respectable scholar such as himself like any other tourist. Considering that the invitation came from a major American university, he thought what she said could be possible. Donna White also wrote back saying that she had sent another set of papers by express mail. He didn’t understand why original copies had to be submitted when today’s technology allowed electronic communication to occur instantaneously. The express mail didn’t arrive right away but three days later, at the same time as the papers sent by regular mail. It was Friday, May 19th, and no matter how much they rushed, the papers couldn’t be submitted until Monday morning on the 22nd.
His hopes of receiving special treatment did not pan out. After sending him the papers by express mail, the conference organizers must have realized the unlikelihood of his obtaining a visa at this point. Kim Hye Sook sounded panic-stricken on the phone, and he could almost see her stamping her feet in anxiety. Donna White also wrote to him every day. He informed them that obtaining a visa by the 25th was not feasible at this point, secretly hoping that they would ask him to come on a tourist visa. Given all their fretting, he figured that it wouldn’t be so difficult for them to bend the rules a bit if they truly wanted his participation. The honorarium and travel expenses were hardly grand sums, and they could pay him at a later date through other means. And if that weren’t possible, heck, he supposed he could waive it altogether. But it was up to them to first suggest alternative means so that he could reluctantly accept. Equipped with both a valid visa and a flight reservation, there was nothing holding him back from going to the States. Nothing, that is, except the damn J-1 visa.
He was so desperate to go solely because of his reputation. Thanks to the principal, the whole student body and his colleagues knew about his pending trip to a major American university to make a presentation on his book in front of foreign scholars. His friends in literary and social circles naturally came to know about his plans because he had to reschedule meetings with them during his travel dates. News travels fast, and many of his friends and acquaintances had been telling him to look up so-and-so at the university or to say hello to so-and-so at another university. Now that he thought about it, it had already been two months since he’d received the invitation. Those two months had been so chaotic for him and he barely got any work done. And to think that he had endured so much anxiety and humiliation for nothing made him feel infinitely small and worthless. He was about to give up, almost relieved at not having to participate in a conference that would be conducted entirely in English. Obviously, he was still insecure about that. Then the university contacted him asking how much longer it would take for the visa to arrive. He consulted the travel agency and was told that another week should be sufficient time, to which the organizers suggested postponing the conference to June 8th. So he was going after all. Now that he was going, he kept thinking that it’d be far easier for him if he weren’t. At any rate, he briefed the principal on all that had happened. The principal shook his head and said that he could have gotten him a visa in a day if he had consulted him sooner.
“Do you know what’s so great about teaching? Our reach spans high and low places, every nook and cranny in this country. Our students, past and present, may appear to be all the same, but they come from all kinds of backgrounds—a kid with family connections all the way up to the president, a daughter of a gang boss who could dig up a stolen diamond ring, to name a few. People think that teaching is a dead-end occupation with neither money nor power. I beg to differ. No one has as many connections at every level of the social hierarchy as a teacher. You have no idea. Do you know Yoon Aera, a sophomore who speaks excellent English? Her father has immediate connections to the American embassy. He’s now a congressman but he used to be a diplomat who once served as an ambassador to the U.S. Thanks to him, my son got issued a visa that had been rejected the first time. It’s true. That man sure had some powerful connections.”
Even while listening to him, he had no idea then that he’d resort to asking that student’s parent for a favor. He thought he still had plenty of time. On the day that he expected the visa to come through, he got another disappointing call from the travel agency. The reason was that the conference date indicated on the invitation letter was May 26th, but the application was submitted after that date. Truly, this was ludicrous business, especially because the embassy was technically correct. Without anyone specific at fault, the process had taken too long and the visa was denied. Explaining how the conference had been postponed to the embassy staff would be futile because that person would be powerless to do anything about it. He was too weary to be roused to anger, so he simply informed Kim Hye Sook by phone and Donna White by fax of the situation. They did their best to help him, but he had no regrets because he was so fed up with anything associated with America at this point.
Because of this resolve, he was recovering surprisingly quickly from the debacle when Donna White contacted him again. It was too late to resend the papers even by express mail, so she said that the university administration would contact the embassy to explain how the conference had been postponed from May 26th to June 8th and to request for leniency given the unfortunate circumstances. He wanted to put the matter behind him but was caught up in it once again. With little time left and feeling more clueless than ever about the workings of the U.S. embassy, he consulted the principal. Of course, his intention was to secure the help of the powerful politician with connections. The principal exceeded his expectations by quickly and proactively making a request to Yoon Aera’s father. Soon, word was received for them not to worry. The travel agent also suggested that things would go much more smoothly if the university contacted the embassy directly. One week of the two-week postponement had already passed, and only a week remained until the conference. That meant that he had to leave in five days, and in his anxiousness he made repeated visits to the principal, and continued to check if the university had contacted the embassy. According to his travel agent, the embassy had not heard from them yet, so he called Kim Hye Sook and lashed out. She was an easy target for his anger and complaints. Donna White soon contacted him, saying that they had sent a fax to the embassy.
Again, he spent restless days in waiting, unable to do anything other than worry about the J-1 visa. In a dream, he dropped his passport on the street and instantly the ground turned into a slithering conveyor belt that whisked away his passport. Even in the dream, he shook from head to toe in deathly fear of losing his passport. He awoke from the nightmare in self-pity and scorn. Despite the ominous dream, happy news soon arrived from the connected politician. The principal called before school started on the morning of June 5th.
“The visa has been issued. You need to go in person to pick it up sometime this morning. Ask for Mr. Roberts. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him already—a handsome, friendly guy who is quite conversant in our language. So don’t worry. And don’t wait in the long line by the back door, but go straight to the front door from Sejong Avenue. Okay? Mr. Roberts, don’t forget.”
Reminders from the principal were quite unnecessary because he had conjured up an image of a robot in connection with the name. There was a protest in front of the Korea Communications building, which was adjacent to the embassy. He suddenly felt guilty that he had tuned out important societal affairs because of petty personal concerns. One of the flyers thrown from the rooftop was coming at him, so he waited for it to hit the ground and picked it up. Without reading it, he shoved it into his pocket. He told the guard at the gate that he had an appointment with Mr. Roberts and was admitted upon producing identification. He had to pass through several heavy doors including revolving doors, which made him feel as though he was entering an impenetrable bunker. The hefty doors somehow made him feel intimidated and bullied. Soon after he reported the purpose of his visit at the lobby, Roberts came down, a passport proudly jutting out from his hand. It seemed ages ago that he had parted with his passport, and seeing it again brought him great relief. In his eagerness to be reunited with it, he first thanked Roberts. But what Roberts brought with him was only the passport and not the visa. Roberts whipped out an application form and said that if he filled it out right then and there, he’d try to issue a visa as soon as possible.
He took the form, but hands shaking from anger and humiliation prevented him from writing. Being farsighted, he could see only the top line in bold letters that read, “Please print or type in English in the blank spaces that appear below.”
“This form has already been submitted. Why do you need me to fill this out now? Tomorrow is Memorial Day and the embassy will be closed, and I have to leave the country by June 7th, which is the day after tomorrow. I can’t get ready for my trip expecting the visa to come through that morning. There isn’t enough time for me to stop by here before going to the airport.”
Roberts was flipping through the passport while he spoke. With innocent blue eyes, he asked, “Why are you so intent on traveling on a J-1 visa when you’re obviously pressed for time? I see here that you have valid B-1 and B-2 visas. I simply don’t understand.”
Was it because Roberts was waving the open passport while he spoke? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was deeply insulted.
“Then please let me have my passport back. I’ll figure something out, so don’t concern yourself with what visa I use.”
Roberts willingly handed him the passport and shook his hand to wish him a safe trip. He seemed relieved to be freed from further responsibility.
The principal, when told what had happened, reacted heatedly and was about to run off to Yoon Aera’s father. He held him back.
“This can’t be true, Mr. Lee. I bet you didn’t act quite right at the embassy. By that I mean you don’t always know when to appear humble and when to be proud. No doubt, you were making stiff demands.”
The principal concluded the matter by blaming him for the plans gone awry. He bore no hard feelings, however, because the principal had been the single most helpful person throughout this ordeal. He had confided in a few of his teacher or writer friends who sometimes traveled abroad on business. Of course, what he wanted from his friends was not practical advice but consolation by collectively denouncing the American embassy. But they disappointed him by taking the opportunity to brag about themselves instead: so-and-so was demeaned during the interview but I was shown respect; most people get a one-year visa at most but I was able to get a five-year one, and so on. He suffered through countless examples of insincere condolences that could be summed up as “too bad for you, but I got the royal treatment.” Fools made petty comparisons, and idiots bickered over who was better. As the biggest idiot of them all, he felt like he had fallen to rock bottom, crawling on all fours and licking the dirt off the ground. He didn’t ever want to think about it again.
Kim Hye Sook was understandably upset, almost weepy in her distress, and needed to be consoled. He then spent the night summarizing his presentation and organizing the thoughts spinning in his head, addressing the questions that were likely to have been raised. Before faxing over his work, he attached a note to Hye Sook urging her not to be discouraged by his absence and wishing her a successful conference. He was not quite ready to put matters to rest, however, or dismiss the nightmare he suffered as mere bad luck. Even an earthworm thrashes about when stepped on. After calming his nerves over the course of a few days, he wrote a letter to the organizers of the East Asian Studies conference as follows:
“After much deliberation, I am writing to share my experiences in the hopes that you’ll have an easier time inviting other speakers from overseas in the future given the nature of your seminars.”
He then explained from beginning to end all that had occurred.
“What infuriates me is what happened afterward. After nine days without any response, the U.S. embassy turned down my application because the conference date indicated on the original invitation had already passed. They wanted me to provide further evidence that the conference had been postponed. I was scheduled to leave in two days, but I could not tell if they would issue me a visa the next day even if I were to produce the necessary documentation. For all I knew, they could have made me wait another ten days before asking for something else. There never have been any standards in the American embassy’s dealings with Korean nationals requiring their services. Thus, it is quite impossible for us to make travel plans to the U.S., not knowing if it will take a day, a week, or a month to secure a visa. I’m not sure if you have any idea what it is like for a busy person like me to make international travel plans, cancel them, and repeat the whole process again all to no avail. I was not sure if I needed to buy a plane ticket until the day before I was scheduled to leave. Although I was greatly inconvenienced by the U.S. embassy’s practices, I have no means of protesting because the embassy does not accept civil complaints. That is why I am writing to you. I doubt that it is in the national interest of the U.S. to mistreat people to whom official invitations have been extended by reputable organizations. Thus, it is my wish that you will make an appeal to the U.S. embassy in Seoul on my behalf as the organizers of the conference who have requested my participation. Another matter I’d like to address is your university policy requiring a J-1 visa for conference participants. Without this requirement, I would have been able to attend on the given date without any difficulties.”
Soon, he received a reply from the organizers. Everyone regretted his absence, and the discussion of his literary work had been very enlightening, with the summaries and notes he’d sent playing a crucial role in shedding light on the topic. In addition to this formal greeting, his concerns had been addressed as follows:
“We deeply regret that our plan to have you present at the conference failed to take place due to forces beyond our control. We understand that you are frustrated and angry with the U.S. government. This experience confirms our belief that colonialism is still alive and well on the Korean peninsula.”
He hadn’t blushed in a while, but what followed burned his heart as well as his face. A copy of the letter sent to the U.S. embassy in Korea was attached. This letter of protest was signed by the organizing scholars of the conference, “The Experience of Colonialism and Modernity” sponsored by the Humanities Research Center of the university. There were also signatures of scholars from other universities.
The letter outlined the course of events from the time he was first contacted by the university to the changes that both parties had made to accommodate his travel, leading to the ultimate disappointment of his not being able to attend. With exact dates and clear explanations given, the letter provided a more comprehensive account than his own memory of what had transpired. The conclusion of the letter was as follows:
“We are angered by the American government’s abuse of power in dealing with persons of intellectual distinction in Korean society. In addition to unreasonable delays in processing paperwork, Mr. Lee Chang Gu was questioned for having ulterior motives for obtaining a J-1 visa. The staff member responsible for this kind of behavior must have assumed that he’d seek employment in the U.S. solely because that particular visa permits it. Mr. Lee was treated with the same oppressive attitude rendered toward Koreans by Americans in general, exposing our ignorance of the cultural frontrunners who shape that society. For instance, we couldn’t imagine Nadine Gordimer of South Africa being treated in the same manner. As persons in academia researching topics pertaining to East Asia, we are in constant need of sharing cultural and literary ideas with relevant countries. The quality of our written work and teaching is intimately tied to our ability to make such exchanges. Your disregard and disrespect have resulted in the deterioration of international relations and the hindrance of academic endeavors. A prominent Korean literary personage has been affronted and the participants of the conference sponsored by those of us at this university have been greatly inconvenienced. With East Asian relations becoming increasingly important in the U.S., we have lost out on an important opportunity to further our efforts. This kind of incident can lead to a bigger social issue, arousing anger and hostility among the leaders of Korean society. If that happens, it will in no way be beneficial to the U.S. As the first step in preventing future incidents like this, we ask that a formal apology and explanation be given to Mr. Chang Gu Lee. In addition, we ask that you reimburse him for the expenses incurred in applying for a visa twice and in cancelling his flight reservation. We, the members whose signatures appear below, look forward to hearing from you soon.”
He was with his wife when he read the letter. Feeling embarrassed and awkward, Lee Chang Gu blurted out, “These people think less of us than South Africans!”
His wife gave him a penetrating look and retorted, “Why, what do you have against South Africans?”
He became even more flustered and bluffed to his wife that he’d never again set foot on American soil without a formal apology from the U.S. embassy.