Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts

Monday, August 15, 2011

Lexicon


Drove (adv)
1. Profoundly stupid. i.e, “You feel hella drove.”

Jenky (adj.)
1. Describes something unsafe or unclean in condition.

Hoop dee (n)
1. A car that is jenky on the outside, but outfitted with a large engine and stereo inside.

Straight up (interjection)
1. A phrase expressing the truth of a statement. “You straight dropped mortar in my mouth. I’m gonna buck you, straight up.”
Synonyms: Flat down, real talk, chunk
Antonyms:
trifling, trippin, goosin, playin
This summer I am working as a construction crew leader at an urban youth job-training program. I work with a team of fifteen teenagers teaching tuckpointing houses for widows and elderly people in the community. The job is, as my kids would say, “Hella tight.” Working with teenagers in the inner city comes with its own new vocabulary, and I am studying street slang like an etymologist.

“So, Gankin,” I say to T-West, “I heard you say that yesterday. Does that mean someone stole something from you, or somebody lied to you? I wrote the word down along with some possible meanings.”

“Miss Renee, you straight silly. Hil-ar-i-ous.”

“But what does it mean?”

“Uh… it’s like cheating.”

Some words have surprisingly sophisticated meanings. I asked my kids if “Buck” meant to beat-up someone. 

A conference between D. T-west and J, happened:

D. “It’s punching someone.”

Me. “No, doesn’t it mean like to mug someone?”

T. “No, it’s means you punch someone once. But really hard… How do I explain this?”

J. “It means you give someone one punch.” (Here he jabbed his fist out once quickly) “And that punch is powerful enough to knock them out.”

Me. “Thanks, I’ll write that down.”

T-West. “Renee, you straight silly.”

-Renee B.



Monday, February 14, 2011

Vloggin'

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Words and More Words

Tonight I stayed up really late with my friend brilliant friend Heesung talking about the differences between the English and Korean languages, the way that culture shapes language, and the difficulty of translating from one language to another. During the conversation Heesung taught me a couple of phrases in Korean that had no direct translation into English. Two of them, “Een-yun”(인 연) and “Han” (한), I want to tell my blogosphere about, because I was so excited to learn them. Basically, while Heesung talked to me, I frantically scribbled messy notes in green marker all over a blank piece of paper I had brought from my room. I wanted to learn everything well enough to be able to retell it accurately. Unfortunately, as much as I tried, my notes are not as complete as I wish, so my explanation may sound a little vague. However, I will do my best to tell you about what I learned, and I hope that you share some of the enthusiasm that I caught staying up late tonight and having my understanding of the world enriched through new words.

(인 연)“Een yun” is a word of Chinese etymology, where the two syllables “een” and “yun” mean a direct force or power that leads to a certain result, and an indirect force or power the leads to a certain result. Een-yun is a concept word that is based off this principle that some people have invisible strings tying them together. If you have this invisible string (인 연 een yun) tying you to another person, it means that you will meet them again. The term could be translated into English as “fate” or “destiny,” but the meaning in Korea is more nuanced than those terms. To help me understand the phrase, Heesung gave me some examples of ways that it could be used in Korean speech.

“We've tied een yun”-- A person would say this when leaving a person that they believed they were meant to meet again.

“We've cut een yun”—A person would say this to someone they believe they will never see again.

“Our een yun was tied before our lives began”--this one gave me a thrill of romance to learn, because it's the idea that two people were destined before time to meet one another.

Heesung also told me about a Korean novel Man Nam (만남, means The Meeting), about two people who keep meeting under crazy, bizarre circumstances. The protagonists of the novel keep meeting even when it seems impossible that they should ever meet again. Anyway, the novelist described them as having “five hundred years of een yun,” an een-yun powerful enough to keep drawing them together even when it seems impossible under normal circumstances. When Heesung tied the meaning of the word to this epic story, I was so moved and excited I shook in my seat. I laughed happily. I said out loud, “five hundred years of een yun,” and repeated it softly, “five hundred years of een yun.”

The other word that Heesung taught me about was “han” (한). Han is such a complicated word to understand that Heesung told me about it first by telling us the story of a move called Sopyonje (서 편제), and a style of singing called pansori (판 소 리). Pansori singing is a kind of singing where a female singer sings a story out loud. Pansori songs usually last several hours and take a lot of training to be able to sing. They are very long, and the singer has to memorize the whole thing. She also has to sing with the highest part of her voice. Heesung said Pansori singers described the say they sing as, “choking the vocal chords,” or even, “bleeding inside your throat.” The painful imagery of what it takes to be a Pansori singer is perhaps indicative of the intuitive grasp on sorrow that a pansori singer needs to have-- to sing pansori, you must have han.
The movie Sopyonje tells the story of an orphan girl who is raised by a pansori master. The master's one desire for her is that she can become a great pansori singer, but she can't learn because when she sings her voice lacks han. The pansori master takes the girl to a remote village and feeds her poisoned food that causes her to become blind, and then abandons her. The girl spends years and years wandering from village to village trying to find the master who is like a father to her, and the only way she can know to find him is to sing pansori. One day, when she is a grown woman, she is taken before a town magistrate and asked to sing for him, because she sings the most beautiful pansori ever heard. The magistrate is actually the very same master who poisoned her years before, but after she sings, he does not reveal his identity because to do so would take away the girl's han and she would not be able to sing pansori anymore. Heesung said if you closed your eyes and imagined what life was like for that girl, the emotions of abandonment and betrayal, sorrow and ultimate longing, then you would understand what han is.

If the idea of han you get from the story of Sopyonje is confusing, the dictionary definition is more so. Han is such a nuanced idea that the dictionary that Heesung used to tell it to me had at least four different ways of describing han. “Han is a grudge, han is sadness, han is the feeling an innocent person has when blamed for something they didn't do, han is the feeling of something hard located in your heart, han is wanting something badly and never getting it.”

I mentioned earlier that pansori singers described singing with han as “bleeding in your throat.” Koreans use many visceral descriptions of han that link the metaphysical concept of han into the physical reaction of the body. “Han is deeply absorbed into our bones,” and “Han is like an embrace to the heart,” are two such descriptions. Other descriptions are even more metaphorical, “Like a room that gets so hot and humid that water droplets appear on the walls, so han forms in the walls of the heart;” “Like frost that grows on a window pane, so han forms in your heart.”

The wonderful thing about han though, is that it's impermament. If one achievess the thing they long for, one's han is resolved. Heesung told me a Korean might say, “I've fulfilled my wish, so even if I die today, I have no han.”

Ever since I've had this talk with Heesung, the words and their meanings have been rolling through my head. I think.... I think that Korea and I have een yun. That when I say good-bye it won't be forever. I think that because even at the thought of leaving, I feel a pang in my heart, a slow sadness that grows heavier each moment. In short, once I go back to America, I think I'll have a han in my heart that will grow and grow until the day when I can come back. So maybe, when I leave I won't say good-bye. I'll say the last thing that Heesung said to me when he left, “See you again.”

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Why I hate taking pictures

I hate taking pictures. I really do. People back home keep telling me, "Renee, please take lots of pictures," and I do, to acquiesce them. Still, I am very grudging and unhappy about it, and every time I take a picture, I feel unsatisfied.

The trouble with photographs is that the whole purpose of taking a picture is to capture a moment, to preserve it indelibly in your mind. But the whole act of taking a picture detracts from the moment you are trying to capture. My friend Sylva told me about visiting a fair where there was a million dollar fireworks display. "It was awe-inspiring," she told me, "To tilt your head back and to see the whole sky exploding light. All around me people were taking pictures and looking at their cameras, only to see the whole sky reduced to a two inch screen with a blur of color in the middle. While they tried to capture the moment, they never fully appreciated the moment, and the memory they were left with was one that was just a pale imitation of the moment to begin with."

I think that I've felt a similar tension when I've taken photographs here in Seoul. When I went to the palaces, I took pictures, and then gazed back on the fuzzy, pixelated, and impossibly small image and thought, "It nothing alike." Later, when I looked at the picture again, I found it uninteresting, because I could not feel the soft wind brushing against my sleeves or the feel of gravel beneath my thin-soled shoes. The pictures I took of my students were deleted upon review, because the small, unhappy images didn't laugh and breathe and creep up quietly beside me to whisper, "For you, Ru-nay tee-sher" while slipping a small gift into my hand of a flower, a piece of candy, a picture drawn onto a sticky note.

The problem with memory is it's built on impressions, not accuracy. When I was a little girl and my family moved to St. Louis, Missouri, from Chattanooga, Tennessee, the first thing my family did when we moved was to visit the big library down town. When I close my eyes, I remember feeling so full of awe and breathlessness. The walk from the back of the library to the front took what felt like forever, and I wondered if it was the biggest building in the world. I remember walking up each step of the library, marveling at the smoothness of the granite, and the way my shadow stretched across the steps in waves. When I got up to the top of the steps, my heart hammered in my skull because I could see mosaic owls tiled into small a small domed ceiling. Inside the library, I clutched my mother's hand and told her, "I feel like I'm a princess." Coming back years later, I was surprised at how my memory disconnected with reality. In my memory, I forgot the drug-addicts who sit huddled on the steps, groaning for money, the black pieces of gum permanently burned into the soft gray of the steps. The owl mosaics, while lovely, are small and dusty. Inside, there are glorious piles of books like in any library, but a modestly pretty interior that doesn't resemble a palace of any sort.

This blog took me a long time to write. I'm only expressing one area of dissent I have with taking photographs, but not acknowledging any of the merits. First of all, there are some memories, especially particularly horrible ones that cannot be left up to our fallible memories to capture. I think especially of pictures of holocaust camps, or villages burning during the Vietnam war that need to be remembered even though they, like any picture, can only capture an infinitesimally small portion of the tragedies surrounding them. Finally, even though I said that pictures aren't as good as memories, I need to say that pictures can stir up all sorts of memories for me. Sometimes all it takes is looking at a picture to be hurtled back through space and time and into that laughing moment.

I think that what my real problem is is that I am not a very good photographer. My photographs don't spark things to life for me. Fortunately for me, photographs aren't the only way to make pictures. My best medium has always been my words, and with my words I can draw images for myself so tangible that when I read them, I once again feel the soft outdoor wind, the soft whispers in my ear, and the soft step of my footsteps as I climb an ever-ascending staircase into a palace full of books.