Strangers on a Train

In my life, I’m really quite lucky to be able to say that I haven’t had very many people hate me just for being me. At least as far as I know. At any rate, I usually have to do something stupid first. And, quite often, I do, so anyone who wants one has only to wait a little while to find a good reason to wish I weren’t around. Today, however, my greatest, most pervasive, and completely unalterable fault was simply being not Korean.

Mind you, it’s not that I take great offence at having people dislike me – like I said, there are reasons enough, some of which I’ll even agree with. And it’s not that I can’t understand why people here might object to Westerners in general and Americans in particular on principle alone – we have a complicated enough history to accommodate all sorts of thorny and problematic feelings. So, when someone finally comes to the end of his tether and decides to vent his frustration and anger at me and mine, I suppose what really stings is having to feel so conspicuously small and off balance, and being able to do nothing about it except wait for the end, all the while just hoping I’m not doing anything that will make it worse.

So. I rode the subway today.

Typically, riding the subway is not an occurrence of much note. There are maps and timetables to read, seats to fight for and little strappy handles to hold – all innocuous enough, despite how attractive I’ve made the subway sound so far. So when I and a couple of other foreign professors decided to go to Songtan to search for a few bits of this and that, we loaded up our T-Money cards with subway fare and set out, practicing the days of the week in Korean (which I’ve forgotten again) while we waited for our train. As we waited, we ran into a former student of one of our number and, as a result, also had some lively non-days-of-the-week-related conversation.

The train came and all four of us boarded, found spots to stand in the full train and commenced to waiting again – this time for our stop. There was some brief dispute as to how many stops we needed to pass before we reached our destination, but I’m glad to say it was settled amicably, and the dueling pistols that I’m sure you know I carry with me at all times (just in case) were unneeded.

Professor and former pupil stood together and chatted and the other two of us stood a few paces away, doing some chatting of our own. All seemed well, but I’m afraid Trouble was brewing in River City. (Oh yes, we’ve got trouble. Trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with P and that stands for . . . Probably Slightly Inebriated And Therefore Emboldened Old Man, actually.) Anyway, it wasn’t long before we started hearing “Hello! Hello!” bellowed at us from across the middle aisle by an old fellow in what seemed to be military dress of some sort, though I could be mistaken, followed by something sharp and fast in Korean. My fellow traveler responded to the Hello and tried briefly to understand, but I knew just from the tone of his voice that no good could come of it and we mostly did our best not to notice as he continued to yell and gesticulate.

Unfortunately, after a bit, simply yelling from his seat lost the allure that I assume it had at the beginning, so he stood up and came close to us so he could yell and point forcefully with greater impact. It was at this point that I think he really began to build up a head of steam. When the student who was with us eventually noticed the old man’s yelling, he came over and spoke to the man, sweetly trying to calm him and shield us poor, confused foreigners from the brunt of the vitriol ricocheting off the walls of the subway car, but there was a limit to what he could accomplish there.

By now, the rest of the people in the car were paying rather a lot of attention to us – we were providing quite a little show – and, though they frowned and shook their heads at the man, he was a determined fella with a need for self-expression that could not be quelled. Today was Parents’ Day, after all, and elders should be allowed to do as they please, up to and including shouting at strangers on the subway. Gradually, a few other Koreans drifted silently nearer to where we were and stood close by. It may have just been coincidence or curiosity, but it felt like a kindness, a show of some small measure of support. I hope that’s what it was.

Every so often our old man would wander away, only to return with renewed vigor to say something he’d apparently forgotten to say before. It was during one of these gaps that our friendly student explained to us that on the grounds of fervent nationalism, the old man objected to our presence in his country. If his volume, boldness, or verbosity were anything to measure by, he objected greatly. And I didn’t have to understand Korean to understand that, in his eyes, we didn’t belong here. At all.

It seemed like a much longer train ride than it actually was.

Before he got off at his stop, the old man came close one last time to shake our hands in turn, say something in Korean that still sounded pretty cross, and then “thank you,” though I couldn’t tell you why. He wasn’t sincere, but I shook his hand and bowed my head to him anyway – it doesn’t do any good to be rude, after all. And then he left.

As I watched him step out and the doors close behind him, as the train jolted again into dispassionate and implacable motion, I wondered.

I wondered if my conduct had been what it ought to have been, or if I could have somehow made it better, or if I somehow made it worse. I wondered what would have happened if we hadn’t had a Korean friend with us, as it happened, by chance. I wondered if I can ever do anything more than just be sorry when this happens and let it all wash over me. I wondered if he yells at all foreigners or if we were special.

Make no mistake, nearly every Korean I’ve met or had even fleeting contact with in these last months has smiled big and been kind and patient with me, so much so that it was all the more startling today on the train for the simple strangeness of such an occurrence. But, no matter how kind someone may be, people lump other people into groups, units and categories that help us label and account for our world and those in it. So here, Westerners especially become a single very visible unit and the sins of one become the sins of us all, whether those sins be fresh or decades old, real or only perceived.

Coming from a place that so values the sanctity of the individual – sometimes to excess – it’s hard to get used to or feel good about being seen as simply a nameless but guilty Foreigner who must shoulder the weight of the responsibility for foreign and military policies across the Western world. I’m not naïve enough to be shocked at being viewed that way, but I can tell you without hesitation that my shoulders aren’t strong enough for such responsibility. And I don’t think they ever will be, even if I do manage to get used to the occasional outburst from someone who’s feeling particularly uninhibited at a given moment.

Maybe next time the party offended by my existence will know some English and I can tell the joke about gorillas and their big nose holes and, since it’s such a hilarious joke, we’ll all laugh so hard that all umbrage will be forgotten and we’ll go have ice cream and donuts together. And if I can learn the joke in Korean also, I’ll be prepared for anything.

Next time.

On the way back home I kept my head down and read a newspaper. Nothing happened.