English Lessons

by Andrea Lucado

  Going-aways are for going around the table and sharing what you love about your friend. Wrapping up mementos of the city your friend is leaving. Printing off a photo of the two of you together and having it framed. The strangers in this room had probably written cards full of sentimental language that recalled the good times they had had together and listed all the things they were going to miss about him. They had probably sealed the envelope and written Gabriel’s name on the outside. The letters were sitting in their bags and pockets right now, waiting to be revealed at the perfect sentimental moment. Going-away parties are meaningful and special, so they should involve the special and meaningful people in that person’s life. They should involve longer-than-normal hugging and making promises about visiting and keeping in touch.

  I had no plans to visit Gabriel after he moved back home to France, and the words “meaningful” and “special” did not define the nature of our relationship. “Friendly acquaintance I ride my bike with sometimes” was more like it.

  Gosh, I hardly knew the guy and was suddenly so aware of it now, at his going-away party. I looked around the table at the others, at the friends who had cards in their bags and were experiencing legitimate feelings of sadness, and I wondered, Can they tell I’m not meaningful and special to Gabriel? Are they wondering who I am and why I’m here, as I am? Should I pretend to know him better than I do? Make up some memories of times we had together to share during the sharing portion of the evening? Should I just leave? Immediately?

  Most parties are come-and-go, but at good-bye parties the point is to stay until the end, right? So you can actually say good-bye?

  I lowered myself hesitantly into a seat at the end of the long table, contemplating my departure. I kept my coat locked in my arms and my purse on my shoulder. My eyes continued to adjust to the darkness in the room, and then, unexpectedly, the person sitting to my left leaned over and introduced himself.

  “What?” I said, startled. The pub was noisy, and it sounded like he said, “Hi, my name is Jesus.”

  “Did you say your name is Jesus?” I asked him.

  “No.” He laughed in a way that hinted this was not the first time someone had mistaken his real name for Jesus. “My name is Jisu. As in the letter G and the name Sue.”

  “Oh, okay. Nice to meet you, G-e-e S-u-e,” I said slowly, overarticulating. “I’m Andrea.” I was still clutching my coat. I had not removed my purse. I wondered if “G-e-e S-u-e” was a meaningful and special person in Gabriel’s life, and I wondered if he could tell from my unease that I was not.

  “So,” I said casually, “how do you know Gabriel?”

  “I met him at the church I go to, St. Aldate’s.” This surprised me. I had never seen “Gee Sue” at St. Aldate’s. I would have remembered.

  “I go to St. Aldate’s too! Gabriel and I always ride our bikes home together on Sunday nights.” I said this with confidence, trying to justify my presence at the party. Trying to prove I was Gabriel’s friend and not an imposter. That we did know each other, sort of.

  “I do not know Gabriel very well, actually,” admitted Jisu. “I only moved to Oxford a few months ago.”

  I looked at Jisu when he said this. He smiled, and when he did, his eyes scrunched until they disappeared. He looked very kind.

  “I don’t know Gabriel all that well either,” I admitted back, relieved to have found another at the party like me. Only he was willing to be honest while I was trying to cover it up and fit in as best as possible. I liked Jisu’s candor. It made me want to be candid too.

  In contrast to some of the cold first meetings I had had with the British, Jisu was warm. Even in the dark lighting of that back room, with the fireless fireplace, I could sense an openness to him, a welcoming spirit. He looked right at me when I spoke.

  Maybe I won’t leave just yet, I thought. Maybe I’ll give Gabriel’s going-away party a chance.

  I wanted to know more about this Jisu, his name and where he came from. When I asked, he settled in and straightened up with a deep breath, as if a PowerPoint presentation were about to appear behind him and a podium was going to rise up out of the floor. The answer to “Where are you from?” required some sort of speech.

  Hands folded on the table in front of him, he began, “I am from Austria. But my parents are from South Korea and immigrated to Austria before I was born. So by nationality I am Austrian, and by blood I am Korean.”

  “That’s an interesting combination. You hardly have an accent. I actually thought you were American when you introduced yourself.”

  “That is because I lived in Austin, Texas, for one year as an exchange student, and I lived in other places too, so my accent is improving.”

  “You lived in Austin?! I’m from San Antonio!” Other people at the table turned toward us, and I shrank back in my seat.

  “We were neighbors,” said Jisu. “And now, we meet here, in Oxford.”

  “Of all places.”

  “Of all places,” he repeated.

  My eyes had finally adjusted to the light, and I could see that Jisu was handsome. He had a good jaw, and his teeth were so straight and white. Exactly how we Americans like them.

  “Where else have you lived?” I asked, choosing one of about one hundred questions I already had for him.

  “Before Oxford, I was in Israel and Syria as a UN peacekeeper. I had a better tan than I do now.” There was that kind-eyed smile. “I also traveled in Mexico after I lived in Austin, so I learned some Spanish.” If you’ve been keeping count, so far we know Jisu speaks four languages. “I will begin French classes soon for my job. I need to relearn the French I knew in school.” Four and a half.

  Is this guy for real? I thought. Four and a half languages, a stint in Israel and Syria as a peacekeeper, a foreign-exchange student in America, a road trip through Mexico. He was twenty-seven years old. I was speaking with someone who knew a lot more about the world than I did, but he didn’t brag about it, his worldliness. He was humble about his experiences, his travels, and his knowledge. I got the feeling he was even more accomplished than he was letting on.

  “Have you found it easy to adjust to British life?” Jisu asked me.

  “No, I feel out of place here a lot. I feel like I try too hard, with British people especially. I feel like I’m too much or something. Like too loud. And I’m not. Where I come from, people consider me pretty quiet and reserved.”

  “Yes, I like Americans for this,” he laughed. “You are more open. I remember that. It would be difficult to live here if you are not from Europe. It is difficult for me, and I am from Europe.”

  We took sips of our drinks. The moment was refreshing. When you’re in a new place, it’s amazing how many consecutive days you can go without feeling or acting like yourself. You’re trying hard to be who people need you to be, to make a good impression, to make friends. You don’t even know how exhausted you are until you finally sit down beside someone familiar, or someone who at least feels familiar. It melts the exterior off you, allowing your body and limbs to move about freely again.

  I remember the details of the room that night, the lighting, Jisu’s pullover sweater and his smile, but I don’t remember speaking to anyone else at the table. I know there were others there; I just can’t remember who. I’m not even sure where Gabriel was sitting. Or maybe he was in a different room? After Jisu introduced himself to me, the purpose of the evening quickly shifted from saying good-bye to Gabriel to saying hello to this new person, this new friend.

  It’s interesting to think back on the first time you met a dear friend. What was it that pulled you toward that person? What was the nature of that first impression? What made it good? Why do we move toward some people so naturally and away from others? I don’t know what it was exactly with Jisu. His smile, the mention of my home state of Texas, the complexity of his nationality. The sexy detail that he could speak French. Perhaps it was the ridiculously intimate ambience in that dark back room, where it felt like the ceiling woul
d give way any minute and the unlit fireplace haunted my peripheral vision.

  What is it ever, though, when you meet someone you already feel connected to? You know this is your first time meeting, but somehow you already know each other. It’s clear. It’s obvious, and it’s comfortable. Small talk turns to real talk quickly, and it feels like you should already have inside jokes.

  That type of connection. It’s an understanding between you and him, and your eyes tell each other, It’s safe here. You already know me. It’s safe.

  That was Jisu at The Eagle and Child, one night just before Thanksgiving. A stranger sat across from me and a stranger sat to my right, but to my left was an old new friend. A friend of Korean blood and Austrian origin, who spoke four-and-a-half languages and knew parts of the world in a way I did not.

  After the festivities in the bar died down, we all filed out onto the sidewalk to say good-bye to Gabriel. Because, even though I had forgotten for a moment, it was his going-away party.

  Jisu and I continued to talk standing under a streetlight that cast the pavement in a deep yellow glow. Under this light, I confirmed Jisu’s attractiveness, and I noticed his height. He was tall—this was important—a smidge taller than me and well built.

  He talked a little about his deep appreciation for Jewish culture and messianic practices. He was a rare breed in Oxford that we liked to call a “nonstudent.” He had a job. He worked for a charity that helped inspire leadership skills in underprivileged youth. I assumed this job would be temporary because I know the wanderer type, and I could tell, not only from what he told me but also from how he looked, that he was the wanderer type. He didn’t have dreads or a tattered backpack or anything. He was pretty clean cut, actually, but there was something in his eyes or maybe it was the way he thought for a long time before he spoke. Whatever it was, something let me in on what he was saying beneath the surface of his words and his stories: “I am a wanderer. I don’t belong to any one place. I won’t stay here for long, or anywhere for long. There’s too much to see elsewhere and everywhere.” When the world calls wanderers to leave, they always respond to the call, and it is best to let them go.

  “What will you do for the Thanksgiving holiday?” he asked me.

  “I think I’m going to go to a gathering at Wycliffe. I know some other Americans there who are putting on a big lunch that day.” Wycliffe Hall is Oxford’s evangelical theological college, and there are always a good handful of Americans studying there.

  I paused after I said this. I thought about extending an invitation to Jisu, but I didn’t. Don’t force your American holidays on everybody, I told myself.

  Instead, I turned to look for Gabriel, remembering once again that this was his party. I spotted him farther down the pavement in the middle of long, drawn-out hugs and conversations with some of the strangers. It was late and cold. I could have left without his noticing, but I was waiting around so we could cycle home together, one last time. He had promised me we would.

  I was also maybe waiting around to see what my new friend was doing next.

  Gabriel saw me looking and waved at me and Jisu excitedly, like Tigger. “We’re going to another bar!” he said, sort of bouncing and pointing to the fellow French friends around him. His real friends.

  I looked back at Jisu. He was zipping his coat and looking ready to leave. He did not seem particularly invested in spending the entire evening with Gabriel, our friend we had both known for several weeks now. This made me not invested either.

  I walked toward Gabriel and shrugged my shoulders. “I think I’ll just head home.” Gabriel’s expression turned pouty for half a second. Then he hugged me quickly and rushed off, trotting toward city center to catch up with the others.

  I watched him go. Good-bye, my French cycling buddy. I guess I’ll be riding home alone now.

  I walked back to where Jisu was mounting his bike and bidding farewell to someone. He turned toward me, and I said good-bye. It was nice to meet you. I feel like you’re my best friend. Please be in touch with me like you said you would.

  I didn’t say all that, but I thought it. I had a feeling we would be in touch. Because it felt like we had been in touch for a long time already.

  Jisu promised to reach out, smiled, and said good night. The promise did not feel empty, and the good-bye did not feel final. He rode away from me, and I watched him go as his bike skipped in and out of the dim yellow puddles of light.

  Meeting Jisu was, as I had suspected, the beginning of something meaningful. After The Eagle and Child, we sent Facebook messages back and forth about how rare it was to be able to speak so freely with someone you’d only just met. He said he had “learned and shared” a surprising amount. I agreed.

  A week later we met up to attend a Christmas party at St. Aldate’s. We had both been invited, and we both didn’t know anybody else who was going. Pioneering a new place with a friend on your arm makes you twice as brave as you would be alone. Jisu was the perfect brave companion for me in Oxford.

  We rode our bikes together to the restaurant where the party was and walked in, side by side. One of the worship leaders at church introduced himself, and after chatting for a while he asked, “So how long have you two been together?”

  My eyes went wide and I was too embarrassed to look directly at Jisu.

  “Oh, we’re not together,” I said quickly. “I just met him last week.” And then I nervously laughed, and the worship leader apologized and changed the subject.

  When Jisu and I left the party that night, we didn’t say anything about it.

  Our friendship formed with ease. Part of my draw to him—jawline and French aside—was the way he knew and loved God. It was different and maybe deeper than the way I knew God. Perhaps this happens when you are raised a Christian in the middle of Europe, a largely post-Christian society. This is why Jisu was a reprieve for me in the confusing city of Oxford and academia. He was a kind person to sit beside who shared my beliefs but perhaps believed them more than I did.

  Every once in a while, my school friends and I liked to throw wine and cheese parties. They weren’t really parties in the typical sense of the word. We would gather at Sophie’s and her boyfriend’s apartment. Mac and Ben were usually there and some other friends from school. We sat on the floor in the living room and gorged ourselves on crackers smeared generously with Brie. We passed around bottles of red and white, and I drank and scooped handfuls of nuts, pretending I knew what everybody was talking about when the conversation turned heady and academic. Pretending I liked red wine. (By the end of that year, I would have a love affair with the stuff, but not yet.) I nodded, crunched, and sipped. And sipped and sipped. After a few glasses, the conversation often turned to religion.

  I remember one night standing in the kitchen waiting for my Brie to come out of the oven when I heard the others talking in the living room. “Religion is a nice thought for some people,” someone said. “It makes them feel better. That’s nice for them. It’s comforting.”

  “Yeah, I agree…,” said everyone.

  My face went hot, and I said nothing. I looked at the timer on the stove and hoped no one would remember I was the one religious representative of the group. I loved God, the Being they said it was “nice” to believe in.

  Sometimes the conversation grew hostile. A couple of the guys, staunch in their atheism, prodded Christianity with harsh voices and words. Jokes I didn’t like but sometimes laughed at anyway.

  I was never very happy with my behavior during our wine and cheese parties. I should have been demoted from my religious representative role, but they kept me there, in spite of my silence, in spite of my laughter.

  A lot of my memories of those first months in Oxford are cast in a dark light. Having been plucked out of southern America and then dropped there, I was startled by the contrast. One place had a church on every corner, and the other place had a church on every corner, but the churches were centuries old, and the pews inside were typically empty. A
s the home of Oxford Oxford and some of the most brilliant academic minds in the world, it is the type of place where people don’t need religion. And I could sense this, the lack of need for God. It felt dark and sad, but it also made sense. Religion is merely comforting? Yes, it is comforting. Is that what we Christians are doing, comforting ourselves? Maybe. I liked believing in a Being who was taking care of me and guiding me, who had things under control, who would make everything work out in the end. In this sense, it was easier to believe in God than to not believe in him, which made me wonder if faith really was for the weaker species, as my friends said, as if we were somehow less evolved than the others who had learned to live without this teddy-bear God. It really is logical when you think about it, and my understanding of this logic and how quickly I was able to jump over to logic’s side scared me.

  So many nights in Oxford, especially the wine and cheese nights, I felt like none of the details of my faith were getting clearer. Instead, they were getting fuzzier. Nights turned restless with the questions and the thoughts.

  I had gone through that brief season of doubt in high school, but this was different. That time, I felt distant from God. This time, I doubted his very existence, and the doubt was getting into my bones. I could feel it, like a cold numbness resistant to thaw.

  My journal entries grew increasingly depressing during this time. I wrote this on December 29:

  I’ve never wanted or wished for ignorance, but right now I see the necessity of ignorance, in that it is bliss. Because if I were ignorant right now, ignorant to the fact that most people in this world don’t believe Jesus was God incarnate, ignorant to the realization that atheists can live happily and find joy and love without any concept of God, I wouldn’t be having a constant apologetics debate in my head. It’s seriously what it feels like. My believing side defending itself to my unbelieving side. I just don’t know anymore, and I’m not sure how much longer I can live with uncertainty. Still everything comes back to God, but I’ve watched myself consider the alternative so much I’m becoming harder and harder….I still cry out to God. I’m not giving up. I refuse to give up, but the questions, oh the questions are tough and numerous. So tough I fear writing them even here. I wish I was fourteen again, finally getting to know God and the Bible on my own, changing for God, becoming passionate about upholding my faith. Now it’s much larger. It’s choosing to believe in something. I don’t want to slip away, but I don’t know how to prevent that when my hand is grasping ice, melting and slick.