꼬마 번역사 (Little Translator)
Because my family often moved from the United States to South Korea, and vice versa, I grew up as a child who hated travelling. Throughout my entire childhood, I attended five different kindergarten and elementary schools: two in the United States and three in South Korea. Never settling in one school, I did not have enough time to connect with my classmates and to make them into my friends. By the time I was about eight years old, I already expected to lose the new relationships I would establish with my classmates. In exchange of the potential friends I lost, I did get to become multilingual—speaking both English and Korean. In addition, I cannot deny the inevitable truth that I do have some fond memories and experiences with my momentary classmates. One of these great memories took place in Davis, California in the winter of 2004.
Even before arriving at Davis, my parents decided that our family was going to stay in the town for only two months. Despite this short period of time, my parents insisted that my two brothers and I attend school in order for us to get a taste of American education. My parents enrolled me into the 3rd grade in Pioneer Elementary School. At first, I was scared. I haven’t spoken English for three years before arriving in California. However, soon, my fear was alleviated by the warm welcome I received from the class on the first day. For the first month or so, I received the most attention I have ever gotten in my life because I was the new kid. Regardless of my skill level and shyness, they invited me to play kickball, computer games, card games and other activities with them. During lunch, there was always a huge crowd around me, and my classmates did not hesitate to ask me questions: Where are you from?; What’s school like in Korea?; What’s your favorite color? I was glad—at the moment—that I was different because my foreign identity helped me receive great attention, and sparked curiosity within my classmates.
However, curiosity reached its expiration date. After a month elapsed, Bobby, a new student, enrolled into our class. Unlike me, Bobby was athletic, funny, outgoing, and sociable. Slowly, Bobby began stealing my “friends” away from me with his charisma and charm. By the next week, instead of playing games with my classmates, I found myself either watching them play or talking with my teacher. I began reminiscing my former elementary school back in South Korea.
In my previous school, socializing with my classmates was easier. The teacher would often be extremely mean or cruel, giving punishments—making us hold our chairs over our heads, getting our hands whipped by a ruler—to the entire class for minor issues. Our way bonding was to talking behind the teacher’s back, and even pulling pranks on her. My Korean classmates and I were united under a common vision, the ultimate goal to defeat the witch. However, in the United States, that was simply impossible. There was no witch and no punishments. The disease of hatred seemed to have been eradicated within the school. The teacher didn’t care if I made mistakes, and the classmates seemed to be extremely happy with their teacher. Where was I supposed to release my frustration? Where was I to fill this gap left by the loneliness?
One day, the teacher taught a lesson on names.
“So kids, we are going to learn how to spell and write our own names today,” explained the teacher. My classmates all went around and wrote their names on the board. Sarah. . . Michael . . . Bobby . . . Some managed to spell their names correctly, while others did not. Amee . . . Alex . . . Joe . . . Brain . . .Soon it was my turn to write my name. I walked up to the blackboard, paused for a few seconds, and I proceeded to write my English name. J…O…N…A…T…H…A…N. After I was done writing my name, I continued to write on the board. 박 . . . 현. . . 영 . . .
“Oh, what’d you write there, Jonathan?” asked my teacher.
“That’s my Korean name,” I responded. Then I turned around and translated a couple of other names on the board into Korean. 사라 . . . 마이클 . . . 보비 . . . Sarah, Michael and Bobby were amazed; for the first time in their lives, they saw their names in another language, a whole new set of characters. Soon, other classmates in the room huddled around the blackboard, and asked for their names to be translated. 에이미 . . . 알렉스 . . . 조 . . . 브라이언. . . I continued translating names, and by the time I finished, school had been already over for about ten minutes, and parents began to come and pickup their kids.
“Wow, what language is that?” parents would ask.
“That’s really cool, Jonathan!” another would say to me.
Soon, my mother arrived, too, and I left with her.
Looking back from the present, I realized that it simply does not matter whether I came from a different cultural background. Although many people believe that similarities are what connect and bond people together, our differences can perform the exactly same task. In addition, though having a different cultural background gave me struggles, it gave me unique experiences that I otherwise would not have experienced just like the one that happened in the winter of 2004. That is why I am proud to be a Korean-American.
Even before arriving at Davis, my parents decided that our family was going to stay in the town for only two months. Despite this short period of time, my parents insisted that my two brothers and I attend school in order for us to get a taste of American education. My parents enrolled me into the 3rd grade in Pioneer Elementary School. At first, I was scared. I haven’t spoken English for three years before arriving in California. However, soon, my fear was alleviated by the warm welcome I received from the class on the first day. For the first month or so, I received the most attention I have ever gotten in my life because I was the new kid. Regardless of my skill level and shyness, they invited me to play kickball, computer games, card games and other activities with them. During lunch, there was always a huge crowd around me, and my classmates did not hesitate to ask me questions: Where are you from?; What’s school like in Korea?; What’s your favorite color? I was glad—at the moment—that I was different because my foreign identity helped me receive great attention, and sparked curiosity within my classmates.
However, curiosity reached its expiration date. After a month elapsed, Bobby, a new student, enrolled into our class. Unlike me, Bobby was athletic, funny, outgoing, and sociable. Slowly, Bobby began stealing my “friends” away from me with his charisma and charm. By the next week, instead of playing games with my classmates, I found myself either watching them play or talking with my teacher. I began reminiscing my former elementary school back in South Korea.
In my previous school, socializing with my classmates was easier. The teacher would often be extremely mean or cruel, giving punishments—making us hold our chairs over our heads, getting our hands whipped by a ruler—to the entire class for minor issues. Our way bonding was to talking behind the teacher’s back, and even pulling pranks on her. My Korean classmates and I were united under a common vision, the ultimate goal to defeat the witch. However, in the United States, that was simply impossible. There was no witch and no punishments. The disease of hatred seemed to have been eradicated within the school. The teacher didn’t care if I made mistakes, and the classmates seemed to be extremely happy with their teacher. Where was I supposed to release my frustration? Where was I to fill this gap left by the loneliness?
One day, the teacher taught a lesson on names.
“So kids, we are going to learn how to spell and write our own names today,” explained the teacher. My classmates all went around and wrote their names on the board. Sarah. . . Michael . . . Bobby . . . Some managed to spell their names correctly, while others did not. Amee . . . Alex . . . Joe . . . Brain . . .Soon it was my turn to write my name. I walked up to the blackboard, paused for a few seconds, and I proceeded to write my English name. J…O…N…A…T…H…A…N. After I was done writing my name, I continued to write on the board. 박 . . . 현. . . 영 . . .
“Oh, what’d you write there, Jonathan?” asked my teacher.
“That’s my Korean name,” I responded. Then I turned around and translated a couple of other names on the board into Korean. 사라 . . . 마이클 . . . 보비 . . . Sarah, Michael and Bobby were amazed; for the first time in their lives, they saw their names in another language, a whole new set of characters. Soon, other classmates in the room huddled around the blackboard, and asked for their names to be translated. 에이미 . . . 알렉스 . . . 조 . . . 브라이언. . . I continued translating names, and by the time I finished, school had been already over for about ten minutes, and parents began to come and pickup their kids.
“Wow, what language is that?” parents would ask.
“That’s really cool, Jonathan!” another would say to me.
Soon, my mother arrived, too, and I left with her.
Looking back from the present, I realized that it simply does not matter whether I came from a different cultural background. Although many people believe that similarities are what connect and bond people together, our differences can perform the exactly same task. In addition, though having a different cultural background gave me struggles, it gave me unique experiences that I otherwise would not have experienced just like the one that happened in the winter of 2004. That is why I am proud to be a Korean-American.