The Korean Word For Butterfly

by James Zerndt

  Then I see one of the kids taking something down from the window ledge. It’s a basket. Full of toys. Within seconds, every kid is on the floor scrambling for their piece of the action.

  And there’s that damn camera with its blinking red light.

  Watching.

  Judging.

  There’s something I should be doing now, but what?

  Oh, right. Teaching.

  Already the first beads of sweat have formed. I call out for them to sit back down at the table, but my voice is weak. Feeble. All I get for a response are a few casual turns of the head before the sound of Korean fills the room.

  Desperate to accomplish something that looks remotely like teaching, I go from child to child asking their name and writing it down. I’ll worry about the attendance sheet later. I already know two names. Jenny and Sunny. Though I’m not sure which is which now.

  I remember a teaching tip one of the other teachers gave me and decide to try it. In a loud (and I hope convincing) voice, I begin to count down...

  “Five!”

  “Four!”

  A few of them start for the table.

  “Three!”

  A few more move. Feeling more confident now, I drag the numbers out a little.

  All annoying—like.

  All teacher-like.

  “Twooooooooooooo!”

  It’s actually working.

  Once everyone is sitting back around the table, I begin to realize something.

  They’re trained.

  All I have to do is learn the commands. But how long does the counting spell last for? Why’s that one looking under the table? Quick, Billie. Do something. Where are those stupid flashcards?

  Then Jenny speaks up. The fearless one.

  “Where is Shannon Teacher?”

  It takes me a second to figure out who she’s talking about.

  Then I remember.

  “Oh, Shannon Teacher went back to Canada.”

  “Why?” Jenny asks, seemingly heartbroken by the news.

  “Because that’s her home,” I say, more defensively than I’d care to admit. It’s funny, but I really want them to like me. It’s important to me. Shannon Teacher who? That’s what I want them saying by the end of the day.

  Once they realize how cool I am.

  The truth about their precious Shannon Teacher is that she was sent home for getting into a drunken brawl with a cab driver. From what I understand, she came home from bar-hopping and refused to pay the cab fare. In the end, our dear Shannon Teacher was found by the police with a clump of said cab driver’s hair in her fist. Apparently this sort of thing doesn’t go over well here as she was fired the very next morning.

  Which is probably how Joe and I got hired so quickly.

  “Are you Canada?” Jenny asks, like my being from Canada might somehow make my presence more palatable.

  More Shannon Teacherish.

  “No, I’m America,” I say, which elicits a few quizzical looks from the table.

  “U.S.A.”

  Still nothing.

  I notice a string of alphabet cards pinned above the whiteboard, so I point to the appropriate letters.

  “New Wok?” one of them says.

  “Yes, yes. New York is in the U.S.A.!”

  Just as I’m about to celebrate this little victory, one of the kids starts making strange noises. At first I dismiss it as silliness, but then the little boy starts putting on a show. His hand is either a bird or an airplane, I can’t tell which. Then this bird or airplane comes crashing into his other arm, and the arm topples over while the boy does this whisper-screaming thing.

  Then I get it.

  It’s not a bird. It’s an airplane.

  He’s doing 9/11.

  The other kids, catching on before I do, have all started to crack up.

  “Yes, yes. September 11. The Twin Towers. That’s the United States.”

  “Sad. It very sad,” says the classroom’s performance artist, frowning slightly as if to communicate that he’s sorry about the whole thing. Or maybe I was reading way too much into it. That was just it though. I couldn’t very well lean over and ask him what he meant. Were you being serious just then? Did you mean to convey such a complex array of emotions there? Or was that sarcasm? Children were hard enough for me to read when they spoke the same language, let alone a different one.

  “Yes, it is sad. It’s a very sad thing,” I say weakly, the last part sounding more like a question than a statement. It’s not that I doubt the event is sad. I’m doubting whether or not these kids are capable of finding it sad. Only moments ago they’d all been laughing. What if he was being sarcastic? Maybe they all think it’s funny here. That our fat, swaggering country deserved it. It isn’t out of the realm of possibilities. I have no idea really.

  And what’s worse, now that I think about it, is that I’m not even sure the kid meant September 11 at all.

  “Where is Shannon Teacher?” somebody asks again.

  I’m beginning to realize that what they mean is actually, “We want Shannon Teacher.” I can hardly blame them. I want Shannon Teacher, too. I give up, decide to have a look around the room for the flashcards again. As I do so, I’m aware of a few of them slowly easing away from the table, creeping towards the toys. But I need flashcards. I understand flashcards.

  Flashcards = Teaching.

  The desk. There has to be something useful in the desk.

  Just as I start digging, something in the hallway makes the room go deadly quiet. A door is being repeatedly slammed, and one of the other teachers is screaming.

  “NO MORE KOREAN SPEAKING!!! WHO WANTS TO GO SEE KIM TEACHER? I WANT TO SEE A STRAIGHT LINE RIGHT NOW. FIVE, FOUR, THREE...THOMAS!”

  It’s the superhero nerd. He’s good.

  Doesn’t even need to use the two or the one.

  I find the flashcards in the teacher’s desk. My desk. There are still packages of chocolate and coffee hidden in the bottom drawers. Small reminders of Shannon Teacher’s hurried departure. The door is covered in little cut-out pictures of pigs and bright pink letters that spell out S-h-a-n-n-o-n. That’ll have to go. In fact, most everything on the walls will have to go. I’m not about to spend the next year having pink pigs undermining my authority.

  Assuming I find some.

  The flashcards go over well and fill up an entire half hour. Afterwards, when the kids see me floundering again, they try to explain their daily routine to me.

  Or, rather, Shannon Teacher’s routine.

  I’m directed to sit in a chair at one end of the room while the kids form two lines on the other side. When I say go (Jenny does this for me the first time,) they run up and the first to guess the name of the picture I’m holding wins the card. This is called, of course, The Race Game. Seems easy enough.

  After we play for a bit, the level of happiness in the room is bordering on blissful. And, more importantly, no one’s asking about What’s-Her-Face Teacher anymore.

  Maybe this teaching thing isn’t so hard after all.

  What’s all the fuss about, right?

  Right.

  Just as I come to this brilliant conclusion, some of the kids decide they’re no longer content with losing cards to the other team. Now every time I hand a card out, the loser stomps back to the end of the line. Even Alicia, the youngest and shyest of the girls, breaks down and starts crying because one of the boys said the word milk a millisecond before her.

  Which makes me realize something: I’ve never really been around crying children before and have no idea how to handle it.

  “It’s okay. It’s all right to lose,” I try to tell her but this only prompts more tears.

  I’m not even sure how much of what I’m saying they understand. By the time Alicia’s turn is up again, she’s completely given up. When I yell the word “Go!” her competitor races toward me like his life depends on it.

  Alicia just strolls.

  Staggers, more like. Suddenly she’s a zombie.
<
br />   A depressed zombie. With poop-in-the-pants issues.

  When the other kid gets the word wrong, I’m not sure what else to do but wait for Alicia. Which, apparently, is the exact wrong thing to do because it only infuriates the other team. In the end it doesn’t matter much as Alicia refuses to say the word pencil even though I’m pretty sure she knows it. Instead, she decides to sniffle her way back to her team.

  As a result of all this, the room has now turned on me.

  I am hated equally by both teams. Each convinced of my intent to swindle their cards away. A mutiny is brewing. Glances being passed between the two teams. They are no longer concerned about winning or losing. The foreigner is trying to cheat them, and it will not be tolerated. This is definitely not how Shannon Teacher ran the show.

  A coup will be thrown in her name.

  I’ll be rushed by a swarm of five-year-olds.

  I start to count again in a voice I’m sure is trembling.

  “ONE!”

  “TWO!”

  Nobody moves. It’s not working.

  “THREE!” I say louder, but nothing happens.

  Then I realize my mistake.

  I’m counting in the wrong direction.

  Some of the kids smile despite their anger.

  “Good!” I say. “Just seeing if you were listening.”

  I start over again...

  “FIVE!”

  “FOUR!”

  They’re thinking about it. Twitching a little.

  “THREE!”

  Alicia is the first to break for the table.

  God bless her timid, little heart.

  Within seconds, the others follow suit, the last bottom hitting its seat just before I make it to ONE.

  I look at the clock.

  It’s 8:47 a.m.

  Moon

  Moon places the bonsai, tray and all, into the sink and floods it with water. He’s still learning how to care for it. He spritzes the branches with water. That’s all it’ll need for the day.

  He named it Naengjeonghan.

  “Sober” in Korean.

  A big name for such a small tree, but it’s fitting.

  Moon had somehow managed to kill the bonsai his grandfather left to him in his will. His grandfather’s prized possession. A forty-three-year-old living piece of art. A hulk of a ficus with roots like bloated arms digging into the soil. But Moon had neglected it. Left it for days without water when he was off on business. Then, when he was home, watering it multiple times a day to make up for the drought.

  It was dead within 2 months.

  When his family asked about the tree, Moon lied, said his apartment was broken into and somebody had stolen it. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but at the time it seemed like a perfectly good explanation.

  Someday he’ll give Naengjeonghan to Hyo.

  Someday he’ll give everything to Hyo.

  When the bonsai died, it was liked his grandfather had died again too. The guilt still gnaws at Moon, but he has to forgive himself. That’s what they said when he went in for treatment. That if he didn’t learn to forgive himself, he’d end up drinking again.

  There’s no way he’ll go back to that again though.

  Nothing will ever get between him and his family again.

  Moon can hardly remember the sound of grandfather’s voice now. He was a simple man. And quiet. Whenever he did speak, it was soft. And kind. Always kind. Moon remembers that.

  And the music.

  His grandfather’s gayageum and the mat he used to sit on to play. Moon would sit mesmerized as his grandfather’s hands fluttered over the strings like he was painting a picture for Moon. And, in a way, he was. Lightly plucking at the strings, his hand momentarily hovering before pulling more sounds from the ancient instrument, this was how his grandfather talked.

  It was his grandfather.

  And Moon somehow understood this as a child.

  But if the gayageum was his grandfather, then what was Moon? He never played music before. There was never any time. And his father had refused instruments in the house. Moon never knew why this was. Maybe because he resented his own father’s love for music? Or maybe because he didn’t understand what his father was trying to say through the music?

  Whatever the reason, Moon was a man without an instrument.

  Without a voice.

  He places the bonsai on the window sill, the only place in the apartment that gets any decent sunlight, and sits down to write Hyo his weekly letter.

  He never sends them. There’s the fact that Hyo can’t read yet, but he also doesn’t trust that his wife will save them for Hyo. Instead, Moon dates and seals them, neatly bundles each one, and tucks it into a drawer. If anything ever happens to Moon, at least Hyo will have something. And, later, if Hyo wants to read them, Moon will hand them over. It won’t be easy though. Moon knows that. The letters are like a sort of exorcism for him. He puts everything into them, all the darkness and sadness and regret that sweeps over him at times.

  There’s nowhere else for him to put it. And even if he never actually gives them to Hyo, it helps somehow.

  Like spitting a few of the pebbles out...

  June 18th, 2002

  Dear Hyo,

  A couple of nights ago I dropped you off at your mother’s and you pointed up into the night sky and said, “Appa.” It was only one word, but it nearly broke your appa’s heart. Did your mother teach you that? That the moon is my name in English? Does she tell you about me? I hope so. I have no way of really knowing.

  Anyway, it was the most you’ve spoken to me in a long time, and I doubt I’ll ever forget it. I wonder, though, if you’ll remember it? Probably not. I don’t remember much from my own childhood. I was just thinking about my grandfather though and watching him play music. We take things for granted, Hyo. You will, too, someday. It’s hard not to. There’s so much in life. So many things going on that if you try to keep them all, I suppose a person would explode. But try to make room for memories of your family. Someday they’ll mean more to you than you can imagine.

  So, yes, remember the moon.

  Hopefully it’ll always be there to remind you of me.

  What else? I want you to know how much I love your mother. I know I’ve probably said it before, but it’s important that you know this. She is a wonderful woman. Far more wonderful than I ever deserved. And your father forgot that for awhile. I don’t know how, but he did. Alcohol can make you forget a great many things. Which, I suppose, is why people drink so much. All I really know is that at some point, the drink starting making all the decisions.

  Did I ever tell you what happened on our first date at the aquarium? Probably, but I’m going to tell you again. Your mother wanted to watch the sharks, so we went to watch the sharks. Why sharks? When I asked your mother, she said, “There’s something safe about it here. Like I’m back in the womb.”

  I knew right then, Hyo. I think I might have known even before that, when I first saw her at the bus stop. But I knew, right down to the ends of my toes, that she was the one for me. I knew I’d never know what she was going to say, and I liked that about her. No, I loved that about her. And it’s still true today. Your mother is a mystery to me. A wonderful, beautiful mystery.

  That day she wouldn’t let me talk to her for an hour, not until she had finished studying. So I learned a lot about sharks. I read every plaque in that place. Did you know that after a shark feeds, the meal can stay in their stomachs for three months or longer? I’ve forgotten everything else I read but not that for some reason. Maybe I wish I could do the same, then I wouldn’t have to worry about what to eat all the time.

  Anyway, I miss you.

  I am still the same man that hurt you that night. But I’m also a different man. I’m more Moon now. If that makes any sense. The anger is gone. I hated you at times. That’s not easy for me to admit. What kind of person hates his own baby? Well, I did. I resented you. And I didn’t understand you. I tried and tried and tried, but I s
imply couldn’t. More than anything in the world I wanted you to be able to speak, so you could tell me what was wrong. So I’d be able to help you. But you couldn’t tell me. All you could do was cry and scream. And the worst part about all of this is that now that you can speak, you won’t. I’m not sure if that has anything to do with what happened that night, or if it’s because I’m not at home anymore, but please, Hyo, please speak.

  I know what I’m talking about here.

  If you hold things in, you will disappear.

  Love, The Moon

  P.S. I’ve decided to learn how to play the guitar. Wouldn’t that be cool? Maybe someday I’ll be good enough to teach you.

  Yun-ji

  When she was little, Yun-ji liked to pretend their television set controlled what the entire country was watching. She’d watch almost all of a movie, right up until the part where they revealed who the killer was and then change the channel. Or she’d keep flipping back and forth through channels just to be a stinker.

  She’d like to do that now.

  Change the channel before the World Cup was over.

  It wasn’t right. All these people going crazy over it, dropping everything to watch the games, to cheer Korea into the semi-finals. So what if they were winning? It was just a game. A game children played.

  But nobody was thinking about children.

  Just the day before she’d watched a bus driver almost run into a crowd of people because he was busy craning his head out the window trying to see the score. His bus had gone up on the curb, but everybody just shook their heads and laughed.

  Why couldn’t they see how similar it was to what happened to those two little girls? Why wasn’t anybody else thinking about it when it was all Yun-ji seemed able to do?

  If she had the magic remote, she’d make them pay attention. But that was just pretend, something for children. And Yun-ji wasn’t a child anymore. She’d proven that the other night.

  How could she have been so reckless though? So stupid?

  Sure, she’d been drunk but that was no excuse. Hadn’t she seen him put the condom on? Would he have lied to her? No, he wouldn’t have. Shaun wasn’t like that. Something else must have happened.