With the clock winding down, it is time to roll it back. I will start with the first semester’s worth of newsletters this week (No. 1 to 24), and return with reflections from after halftime next Sunday.

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At its inception, fear of the unknown was what fueled the weekly newsletter format; a concern that without constant reflection, I would find myself lost in the weekly forest of classes and the mundane day-to-day like ankle-deep quicksand. Moreover, their content mirrored insecurities over uncertainties that I carried with me on the plane ride over from the States.

After the initial adjustment period of acclimating to 8am kimchi, the primary problem was unraveling a sense of self-identity in a country that culturally frowns down upon personal independence.

Even while constantly pondering my own goals during orientation, I was often critical of us—the motley bunch of Fulbright foreigners that had invaded the small Korean town, giving “shuffling ajusshi’s and ajumma’s the extra obstacles of snapchatting and instagramming twenty-somethings on their clean and quiet sidewalks, and more than a few Korean curse words have been muddled under [their] breaths” (Another Rainstorm || No. 1).

“I, me you—personal pronouns overused by us Fulbrighters this week,” (Placement || No. 2) I wrote, even as most of my down hours were spent wondering whether I could “constantly challenge myself to improve that extra 1% every time” during the grant year (Ceilings and Plateaus || No. 3).

With this contradictory mindset, I planned my first practice lesson, which discussed the concept of the American Dream with a group of Korean middle and high schoolers. “But what if the dream – the one your parents, every parent, all of society – isn’t what you want?” I typed after the lesson. “Do I give the students my definition of success and my own dreams? Is that arrogant given my position as a foreigner? Is that my job given my position as a Fulbright ambassador?” (Dreams || No. 4).

In hindsight, I think these observations were more a reflection of my desire to fit a solution to whatever problems I perceived from the beginning, rather than suspending judgment until I had more data points to refer to. Even moments where I was concerned about students with learning disabilities (The Ignored || No. 8) or the ramifications of an entire English curriculum devoted to a single written test (Teacher Tester Paper Proctor || No. 9), a borderline patronizing attitude persisted.

This coincided with rudimentary yet emotionally intense deliberations on my personal identity in relation to my Korean heritage and how easily I could have been a part of the society I was now a foreigner in. “How are we—I, my family—[in America], while the rest of the family is not?” I wondered at regular intervals (Butterflies || No. 11). Other moments found me waxing more abstractly—“But what makes me American? Is it the food I eat? The language I speak? The vague idea of a foreign culture that I represent? Or is it simply the passport that I carry, or maybe the educational system that molded me or the non-Korean friends I have? But I am also distinctly Korean-looking in Jeonju. I am American. I am also Korean.” (Onwards || No. 6).

But my conception of being Korean quickly narrowed from an affinity towards all Koreans to a tenuous connection with my extended family. Behind all this was my late-passed grandfather, who was “happily protecting me, from above” according to one of my second-aunts (Legacy || No. 5). His journey to America on a Fulbright Fellowship in the 1960s was the guiding motivation for my journey in 2017, forming a formidable shield against any self-doubts I had early on about whether this fellowship was worth my time.

My story, in a sense, was and is still the continuation of his. “You aren’t a brain, a body, or even a memory, but a book,” I wrote to myself. “The story continues, and you may even flip back a few pages to cross something out or write in the margin every once in awhile. Life events are chapters, graduations section headers, turning points are…turning points” (Continuity || No. 15). With this confirmation of the purpose behind my writing (and further unwrapped in Writing, One Year Later || No. 45), I pleaded with myself not to be “The frog that forgets its troubles as a tadpole,” as the Korean adage goes. But up until mid-October 2017, two months into the grant year, these were nothing more than raw thoughts and ideas, lacking in substance that would justify my writing as being anything more than a personal journal.

Lack of focus in the classroom and in pursuing personal goals reflected this rough patch. “Awareness isn’t the destination—it’s a checkpoint,” I wrote in Imbalance || No. 16. A signpost for what though?

I probably should have been able to guess that family would be at the core of the next steps forward. By this point, I had seen the extended family a few times and was fully aware of the significance. “It’s safe to say that there’s less than a handful of times that’s going to happen for this branch of the family,” I predicted. “It’s an almost out-of-body experience sometimes, knowing that this is your family, but still, no one here is closer than second aunt or second cousin. Going further, there’s dozens of these family branches if you go further up the tree; yet only one in America.”

“Yet as I open the pages of this family book—now in my bag for between-class reading at work—it’s me who can’t read it,” I half reflected, half lamented. “It’s a simple reminder that the rest of the family isn’t out of place; it’s me, the Korean-American from across the ocean, that’s the black sheep” (Reunions || No. 13). This reinvigorated understanding of myself as an outsider began to alter my perspective. I was not there to assimilate. My presence as an outsider revealed the opportunity to document these experiences with one foot on the peninsula, one foot back in America. That was where my niche was and where I would become comfortable operating.

This angle was crucial for the writing of the long feature Homecoming || No. 18, which I later submitted to Fulbright Korea’s Infusion Magazine. Two parts reflection, one part experience, Homecoming documented the practice of ancestral worship that was beginning to die out in the country as the nation continued to industrialize and modernize. “There’s not many families left that do this,” I quoted a distant uncle telling me. “We are one of the last.”

What the West might call subservient and submissive—the act of bowing to mountain spirits and centuries-dead ancestors—was humbling and awe-inspiring. When asked why the tradition was fading away, an elder responded, “These days, young people don’t feel like they owe their ancestors debt—debt is the right word, isn’t it?” On that day, I felt indebted to the choices my ancestors made that created my reality.

The day also brought me face-to-face with the contradictions embedded within my heritage as a Korean and my upbringing as an American: “To invalidate the old way of life would be to deny the validity of six centuries of ancestors; to attack it for its modern faults would be to forfeit a key piece of knowledge and understanding of our family’s history. And so I took my first steps out of the car at the base of the mountain, pushing aside conflicting thoughts for the time being. This is not the time for looking back, even as we stepped into the past” (Homecoming || No. 18).

In a way, a single trip up a nondescript mountainside was the start of learning how to accept the contradictions and complicatedness within the intangible concept of the word ‘identity.’ While I may not be any closer to having resolved all the questions that have arisen, the first semester helped me to become more comfortable with the unknown. Like a child walking through the dark—first terrified, then fearful, then calm.

Returning to Jeonju and the week-to-week humdrum of teaching with a modified sense of purpose, I began to see my students with more patience cultural differences with a healthier detachment and fascination (Students of Korea || No. 22). Any cultural differences I sensed were a product of my subjective perspective, not an intended assault on me personally (Overlooked Cultural Differences || No. 23). In the classroom, the semester culminated with final exams and a realization on my part that I was no savior to these students—I was simply there to learn and lead by example (Who Should I be Teaching? || No. 24). Grant year halfway completed, I boarded a plane back to LA for Christmas break with the sensation of having made serious inroads towards completing my initial goals. Simultaneously, however, I also could see how complacency could become the new enemy when I returned.