I <3 my language partners.
I never thought that I would have much to say to two guys who are almost 10 years younger than me, but oddly enough I do.
Having a truly equitable language partner relationship that works effectively for both parties is tricky. It requires a close match not only in terms of skill and ability, but also motivation and personality. Unfortunately, due to my downright shitty beginner knowledge of Korean, our conversations are considerably more lopsided than I would like. We definitely speak much more in English than in Korean, although we are trying to speak in Korean practically the whole time, if that makes any sense.
Despite the imbalance in our skill level, things usually go really well. My language partners are a hoot, despite (and sometimes because of) the language barrier — and yes, I appear quite hilarious to them as well. I help them with that ever-tricky l-r thing, and they never tire of helping me distinguish between ㄱ, ㄲ, and ㅋ. I explain to them why they can’t refer to their male friends as their “boyfriends,” and that they have to say “guy friends” or “male friends” instead. They tell me why I need to be very, very careful when saying the word for “eighteen” (you won’t find that little bit o’ wisdom in a textbook!).
They call me 누나 (nuna, or “older sister”), and I love how Korean that makes me feel.
I ask them what their military service was like, what they want to do after they graduate from college (college tends to end later for Korean males due to the aforementioned military service), and about their girlfriends. They ask me about my job, about LB, and about life in America. They are impressed that I listen to “their” music and watch “their” movies, and so we talk about things like the 박재범/2PM scandal and 엽기적인 그녀. We really do manage to have a good time.
And yet occasionally, usually when they are talking about their families or what it was like growing up in Korea, I get these HUGE! MASSIVE! specks of dust (dust, I tell you, DUST!!!) in my eyes that make them red and drippy and I have to excuse myself for a moment to go to the ladies’ 화장실.
Intact Korean families will do that to me every time.
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Alone in the restroom, I try and do the kind of deep breathing that is usually not advisable in public restrooms. I press a damp paper towel to my eyes and remind myself that I do have gains alongside my losses. That both my gains and my losses are real — deliciously real, achingly real, but real nonetheless.
That although they are real, they cannot be weighed or counted or pitted against each other.
And then I go back to my waiting language partner, who by now is surely wondering about the dangerous air quality here in America, and…
…we talk some more.
