Since I've already said so much about my hair here, I may as well add the hair-epilogue as well.
One day last week at around 9 pm I made my decision to come home. The next day, I went and got my bangs cut in a leaf-shape. I have no picture right now, but it looks really cute (if I say so myself). My brother likes it too, and mentioned it unbidden not five minutes after meeting me at the airport. That's more than enough approval for me.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Epilogue
The final post I had planned to let everyone know I was leaving Korea, never happened. Now I have not only left Korea, I have traveled to the US for a 3-week visit, begun my life in Indonesia, and abruptly ended my life in Indonesia when a serious tropical illness broke my resolve to continue in what had proved to be a challenging and difficult, if sometimes rewarding, existence. The reward was mainly in what I learned about myself and in the courageous, beautiful friends and students I met there. For more about the difficulties, see Erica Indonesiensis blog--I may get around to writing more there someday.
But about Korea. It amazes me how a place where I initially expected to be so unhappy became somewhere I felt so joyful and fulfilled on a daily basis. When I left, I had scores of students whom I cared about and many wonderful friends as well. (There were over 130 contacts in my cell phone.) I was fulfilled in my work and my hobbies (mainly studying Korean language and playing in a traditional drum group). I felt at home and happy.
While in Indonesia, I was homesick for home, but I also found myself homesick for Korea. This has not happened to me much in my life; I typically leave a place and kind of move on, don't think about it a lot. I think it says something about the hard time I was having, but it also says a lot about how fulfilled I was in Korea. I do think about going back there; I have no idea if I actually will. For the moment, it is thrilling and satisfying to be in Connecticut, while the leaves are turning, smelling and seeing and hearing all the familiar signals of my childhood as I walk this land I love. It is time now for me to heal and rest and pause, collecting myself as the plants and animals do in the winter before deciding upon a new direction.
Is Korean Heather over, or is this intermission? Stay tuned...but don't hold your breath. :)
Much love to you, if you are still reading this.
Keep in touch at hdemunn () gmail () com.
But about Korea. It amazes me how a place where I initially expected to be so unhappy became somewhere I felt so joyful and fulfilled on a daily basis. When I left, I had scores of students whom I cared about and many wonderful friends as well. (There were over 130 contacts in my cell phone.) I was fulfilled in my work and my hobbies (mainly studying Korean language and playing in a traditional drum group). I felt at home and happy.
While in Indonesia, I was homesick for home, but I also found myself homesick for Korea. This has not happened to me much in my life; I typically leave a place and kind of move on, don't think about it a lot. I think it says something about the hard time I was having, but it also says a lot about how fulfilled I was in Korea. I do think about going back there; I have no idea if I actually will. For the moment, it is thrilling and satisfying to be in Connecticut, while the leaves are turning, smelling and seeing and hearing all the familiar signals of my childhood as I walk this land I love. It is time now for me to heal and rest and pause, collecting myself as the plants and animals do in the winter before deciding upon a new direction.
Is Korean Heather over, or is this intermission? Stay tuned...but don't hold your breath. :)
Much love to you, if you are still reading this.
Keep in touch at hdemunn () gmail () com.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Song of thanks
Last weekend was one long stream of consciousness poem of existence. After the evening I described in my last post, I went home with a full heart and an invitation to join some of the musicians on the following day at 1 pm in the Hanhakchon, the reproduction of a traditional housing complex on campus. When I arrived I found out I was gate crashing a wedding. My new friends were dressed in their dance uniforms and their cowhide drums were getting damp in the rain. After the ceremony was complete and family portraits taken,
the musicians did a fine set of songs which made up for in enthusiasm anything it lacked in finesse. They were really quite good.
When the bride emerged from the house, she climbed into a wooden box called a kama and was carried by three or four men by long poles threaded through it somehow (to prevent her escape??) trailed by a dozen rowdy musicians clanging and banging, her husband, dancing behind in his sumptuous red embroidered robe, and Grandmother, having the time of her life in her traditional hanbok, dancing and waving to everyone with a little handkerchief.
The kama stopped outside of another building, where the poles were unthreaded and the music and dancing continued until the bride had safely climbed out (think: clown car for one) and been helped up the steps and through the door. I can only imagine that some real bridal processions of the past must have lasted much longer, from the woman's father's home to her new husband's.
My new friends clustered together and swept me up with them to the banquet hall, really the same cafeteria where I eat every day, but it had been rented out for the wedding--and what a feast! A beautiful buffet including lots of vegetables. Note to myself: crash more weddings!
While we ate, I was introduced to a Canadian woman who has been in Korea for only 3 weeks. She was fun and wide-eyed, interested in everything, excited about her new home. It was fun to remember how I'd felt when I first arrived 9 months ago.
Sleepy in the rainy afternoon weather, I went home for a nap, then dressed up and hopped a subway to meet some friends downtown. This was one of the only times I've been out "drinking" in Korea, such a popular activity here, and was also my first visit to a dyke bar. Looking less bar than coffee shop, it was a small, low-key place with low tables and floor seating on red cushions, kind of boudoir decor, but tastefully so. There were also a house dog and cat which were charming to have around. I drank the mildest fruit punch, before they added extra bottles of soju (potato vodka). It was an entirely pleasant experience.
The next morning I woke around 9, a nice lazy hour, and went swimming. Hurrying back home, I packed my bag to go early and set up for music practice. The drumming was lots of fun this week--we've actually started some interesting rhythms and sequences that take my whole focus, after weeks of more repetitive drills. I left drum practice quite high and hopped on a bus, where I met a fellow drummer and we introduced ourselves. She turned out to be a very interesting person, a Korean teacher with hobbies like classical painting and traditional music. She invited me impulsively to visit her family's "weekend farm", which turns out to be a community garden plot located outside the city in a green and peaceful place. Ahhhhh! That was me sighing as I stepped out of the car.
Her kids were both really neat people, and I enjoyed the time with the whole family, thinning lettuce and chatting in slow, patient Korean-English patchworks. The daughter, age 14 and the best English speaker among them, asked if I liked her haircut. I said I did, and it was the honest truth. (I didn't tell her it reminded me of some of the women at the bar the night before.) She told me she loved it, but her father hated it. She also said she wanted to go to Japan, but her dad hadn't let her go so far as Seoul yet, something she envied me for.
Between rounds of harvesting, I drank a prepackaged milkshake which was out of this world. How can something taste so perfectly like summer? Then I got a call from my close friend in Switzerland and chatted looking out over the gardens and watching the sun fade from the greens. Afterwards, we all went for raw fish and side dishes. I waved goodbye, filling my bike basket with bags of tiny, earthy lettuce leaves, and rolled home under streetlights, counting my blessings--beyond imagining, unbidden, and perfect.
the musicians did a fine set of songs which made up for in enthusiasm anything it lacked in finesse. They were really quite good.
When the bride emerged from the house, she climbed into a wooden box called a kama and was carried by three or four men by long poles threaded through it somehow (to prevent her escape??) trailed by a dozen rowdy musicians clanging and banging, her husband, dancing behind in his sumptuous red embroidered robe, and Grandmother, having the time of her life in her traditional hanbok, dancing and waving to everyone with a little handkerchief.
The kama stopped outside of another building, where the poles were unthreaded and the music and dancing continued until the bride had safely climbed out (think: clown car for one) and been helped up the steps and through the door. I can only imagine that some real bridal processions of the past must have lasted much longer, from the woman's father's home to her new husband's.
My new friends clustered together and swept me up with them to the banquet hall, really the same cafeteria where I eat every day, but it had been rented out for the wedding--and what a feast! A beautiful buffet including lots of vegetables. Note to myself: crash more weddings!
While we ate, I was introduced to a Canadian woman who has been in Korea for only 3 weeks. She was fun and wide-eyed, interested in everything, excited about her new home. It was fun to remember how I'd felt when I first arrived 9 months ago.
Sleepy in the rainy afternoon weather, I went home for a nap, then dressed up and hopped a subway to meet some friends downtown. This was one of the only times I've been out "drinking" in Korea, such a popular activity here, and was also my first visit to a dyke bar. Looking less bar than coffee shop, it was a small, low-key place with low tables and floor seating on red cushions, kind of boudoir decor, but tastefully so. There were also a house dog and cat which were charming to have around. I drank the mildest fruit punch, before they added extra bottles of soju (potato vodka). It was an entirely pleasant experience.
The next morning I woke around 9, a nice lazy hour, and went swimming. Hurrying back home, I packed my bag to go early and set up for music practice. The drumming was lots of fun this week--we've actually started some interesting rhythms and sequences that take my whole focus, after weeks of more repetitive drills. I left drum practice quite high and hopped on a bus, where I met a fellow drummer and we introduced ourselves. She turned out to be a very interesting person, a Korean teacher with hobbies like classical painting and traditional music. She invited me impulsively to visit her family's "weekend farm", which turns out to be a community garden plot located outside the city in a green and peaceful place. Ahhhhh! That was me sighing as I stepped out of the car.
Her kids were both really neat people, and I enjoyed the time with the whole family, thinning lettuce and chatting in slow, patient Korean-English patchworks. The daughter, age 14 and the best English speaker among them, asked if I liked her haircut. I said I did, and it was the honest truth. (I didn't tell her it reminded me of some of the women at the bar the night before.) She told me she loved it, but her father hated it. She also said she wanted to go to Japan, but her dad hadn't let her go so far as Seoul yet, something she envied me for.
Between rounds of harvesting, I drank a prepackaged milkshake which was out of this world. How can something taste so perfectly like summer? Then I got a call from my close friend in Switzerland and chatted looking out over the gardens and watching the sun fade from the greens. Afterwards, we all went for raw fish and side dishes. I waved goodbye, filling my bike basket with bags of tiny, earthy lettuce leaves, and rolled home under streetlights, counting my blessings--beyond imagining, unbidden, and perfect.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Hail May, full of grace.
May is my vote for the best month in Korea so far. Not only has the weather been superb, there are three extra holidays (2 three-day weekends plus a special holiday just for my university) as well as endless field days and special events happening outdoors on campus. Tonight, again, as I left my building after class, I heard the familiar sounds of Korean folk instruments, but this sounded better than your usual rehearsal. Excited, I quickened my steps across the road. Sure enough, there were a group of musicians dancing and performing in the parking lot on my way home. I spotted one of my club members and he came over and made some friendly and incoherent comments, acting more familiar with me than usual--from which I concluded he was happily drunk, and also that he sincerely likes and cares about me, which is nice to know. The dancing and playing ended and my friend disappeared, but not before others of the performers had welcomed me and invited me to go drink with them afterwards.
The dancing wrapped up quickly (I literally think I caught the last 5 minutes) and then I helped break down their tent and carry everything upstairs into the club's meeting room where I've often practiced drumming before. Two dozen people arranged themselves in a circle on the padded floor where a ring of newspaper had been spread with food: slices of meat which I was later told was pressed pig head, hot green peppers and raw garlic to dip in fermented bean and hot chili paste, Korean sushi rolls, some delicious potato pancakes, Asian pear, various crunchy snacks, and of course plenty of several kinds of alcohol: beer, potato vodka, and rice wine.
I was greeted with great care and attention and seated at a place of honor, I think, at one end of the newspaper oval. One student who was confident in his English came over to sit next to me, and slowly others got bold and introduced themselves.
A Korean party is a totally different animal from a North American party. There is a structure to the event that follows naturally from the social hierarchy. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. You don't wander around much; you sit, though it's okay to move and join a different part of the group. Younger ones scurry around making sure older ones have what they need. When we were all assembled, people stood in groups of three or four to do formal self-introductions and bow. Alcohol was not drunk until everyone's glass had been poured and we had toasted. Each time someone left the party, at least some of the group stood and said goodbye. Usually conversation was broken into clusters around the circle, but at times we were all attentive to the oldest member, an old student who had begun school in 1985 and who carried the collective memory of the group. When, during such a moment, one of the students mistakenly quoted my age as 22 instead of 32*, penance was promptly demanded by the whole group in the form of a song. He good-naturedly apologized (age is of the utmost importance in Korea) and sang for us.
The music was the high point of the evening for me (with the college boys all thinking I was 22 coming in a close second). After we had eaten and drunk plenty, the elder asked me whether I was interested in folk music. Was I! He then suggested that the group would sing Arirang for me, and I should sing an American folk song in return. I eagerly agreed. Arirang was beautiful, and (unexpectedly, to me) everyone joined hands in a circle for this. Then I sang Amazing Grace, and they graciously requested an encore, which sounded more like "Ankle! Ankle!" I also got to hear a few more beautiful Korean folk songs and some awesome drumming from the best group members.
At one point I was shown a photo album from 1995. "I don't know who these people are," the student next to me confessed. "This is our heritage," he explained, reverently closing the album after the last page and replacing it with care. The pictures on those pages were full of life--field trips, mask dances, rehearsals, candids of a beloved teacher talking to students on a bus. The people looked somehow wilder and more freely creative than most I meet here. I could see why he treasured such a legacy.
*I am 31 by standard reckoning. My Korean age is 32 because I was one year old when I was born and I turned 2 on my first New Year's Day, January 1st 1978. A baby born 10 months after me at the end of December would also have been considered 2 years old on January 1st, only a few weeks after her birth.
The dancing wrapped up quickly (I literally think I caught the last 5 minutes) and then I helped break down their tent and carry everything upstairs into the club's meeting room where I've often practiced drumming before. Two dozen people arranged themselves in a circle on the padded floor where a ring of newspaper had been spread with food: slices of meat which I was later told was pressed pig head, hot green peppers and raw garlic to dip in fermented bean and hot chili paste, Korean sushi rolls, some delicious potato pancakes, Asian pear, various crunchy snacks, and of course plenty of several kinds of alcohol: beer, potato vodka, and rice wine.
I was greeted with great care and attention and seated at a place of honor, I think, at one end of the newspaper oval. One student who was confident in his English came over to sit next to me, and slowly others got bold and introduced themselves.
A Korean party is a totally different animal from a North American party. There is a structure to the event that follows naturally from the social hierarchy. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. You don't wander around much; you sit, though it's okay to move and join a different part of the group. Younger ones scurry around making sure older ones have what they need. When we were all assembled, people stood in groups of three or four to do formal self-introductions and bow. Alcohol was not drunk until everyone's glass had been poured and we had toasted. Each time someone left the party, at least some of the group stood and said goodbye. Usually conversation was broken into clusters around the circle, but at times we were all attentive to the oldest member, an old student who had begun school in 1985 and who carried the collective memory of the group. When, during such a moment, one of the students mistakenly quoted my age as 22 instead of 32*, penance was promptly demanded by the whole group in the form of a song. He good-naturedly apologized (age is of the utmost importance in Korea) and sang for us.
The music was the high point of the evening for me (with the college boys all thinking I was 22 coming in a close second). After we had eaten and drunk plenty, the elder asked me whether I was interested in folk music. Was I! He then suggested that the group would sing Arirang for me, and I should sing an American folk song in return. I eagerly agreed. Arirang was beautiful, and (unexpectedly, to me) everyone joined hands in a circle for this. Then I sang Amazing Grace, and they graciously requested an encore, which sounded more like "Ankle! Ankle!" I also got to hear a few more beautiful Korean folk songs and some awesome drumming from the best group members.
At one point I was shown a photo album from 1995. "I don't know who these people are," the student next to me confessed. "This is our heritage," he explained, reverently closing the album after the last page and replacing it with care. The pictures on those pages were full of life--field trips, mask dances, rehearsals, candids of a beloved teacher talking to students on a bus. The people looked somehow wilder and more freely creative than most I meet here. I could see why he treasured such a legacy.
*I am 31 by standard reckoning. My Korean age is 32 because I was one year old when I was born and I turned 2 on my first New Year's Day, January 1st 1978. A baby born 10 months after me at the end of December would also have been considered 2 years old on January 1st, only a few weeks after her birth.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
A Random Sunday
Last Sunday morning I woke up super late (after 9!) and lay in bed thinking about the formula to find the ratio of the diameters of two concentric circles such that one is exactly twice the area of the other. Not a hard formula...most of my time was spent doing out the square root of 2 to several decimal places in my head. Eventually I resorted to paper.
As I was busy drawing circles of diameters roughly 30 and 42 centimeters on my bathroom mirror with whiteboard markers, the phone rang. It was my friend Ssabu, the drum teacher.
"Hey! What are you doing now?"
"Uh..." (I decided not to try to explain.) "Er, nothing much. Why?"
"Good! I want you. I--I want see you. Today--sports day."
Sports day. I've witnessed enough of these recently on the sand (!) playing field near my classroom building to know that everybody's doing it. The matching T-shirts, the group cheers, hell-bent trios practicing some kind of four-legged race. "Okay. Uh, who's playing? Other clubs?"
"No other clubs. Just Maltuh." (Maltuh is our music group.) "And--many people. Anybody."
Sounded like as good an offer as I could hope for. "When does it start?"
"Now. Already--start. Meet me--11:00, international center, okay? Wear sports clothes."
Well, duh.
Half an hour later, clad in my new ponytail and pajama bottoms that I hoped looked enough like sweatpants, I jogged up to the international center, where I was met by a couple team members in a car and ferried literally 200 yards to a small basketball court out behind one of the older buildings. A couple dozen young to middle-aged people and half a dozen of their progeny were facing off wearing matching towels in garish pink and orange.
I picked my team color out of a box and went to join the fray. I liked this dodgeball game, where my job was to defend my partner, holding onto my shirttails, from getting hit by people around the perimeter of the basketball court and to try to help my own team members peg those on the opposite side. It felt kind of like dodgeball-meets-lion dancing.
By the time I excused myself for drum practice in preparation for the big July concert (which my drum teacher tried, ironically, to convince me to skip) I was a little relieved to go--not that it wasn't fun, but the schedule for the day was posted on the wall and stretched on until 6 pm. I wasn't sure I would have held up that long. As I left, I waved goodbye to the shy elementary school girls who'd been pushed into chatting with me by their parents, and successfully parried a come-on from one of the older men (which means I got everyone to laugh instead of pouting in my humiliation).
Just goes to show that when you wake up in the morning thinking about math, you never know what may happen.
As I was busy drawing circles of diameters roughly 30 and 42 centimeters on my bathroom mirror with whiteboard markers, the phone rang. It was my friend Ssabu, the drum teacher.
"Hey! What are you doing now?"
"Uh..." (I decided not to try to explain.) "Er, nothing much. Why?"
"Good! I want you. I--I want see you. Today--sports day."
Sports day. I've witnessed enough of these recently on the sand (!) playing field near my classroom building to know that everybody's doing it. The matching T-shirts, the group cheers, hell-bent trios practicing some kind of four-legged race. "Okay. Uh, who's playing? Other clubs?"
"No other clubs. Just Maltuh." (Maltuh is our music group.) "And--many people. Anybody."
Sounded like as good an offer as I could hope for. "When does it start?"
"Now. Already--start. Meet me--11:00, international center, okay? Wear sports clothes."
Well, duh.
Half an hour later, clad in my new ponytail and pajama bottoms that I hoped looked enough like sweatpants, I jogged up to the international center, where I was met by a couple team members in a car and ferried literally 200 yards to a small basketball court out behind one of the older buildings. A couple dozen young to middle-aged people and half a dozen of their progeny were facing off wearing matching towels in garish pink and orange.
By the time I excused myself for drum practice in preparation for the big July concert (which my drum teacher tried, ironically, to convince me to skip) I was a little relieved to go--not that it wasn't fun, but the schedule for the day was posted on the wall and stretched on until 6 pm. I wasn't sure I would have held up that long. As I left, I waved goodbye to the shy elementary school girls who'd been pushed into chatting with me by their parents, and successfully parried a come-on from one of the older men (which means I got everyone to laugh instead of pouting in my humiliation).
Just goes to show that when you wake up in the morning thinking about math, you never know what may happen.
The hair saga continues
Just to keep things in the proper perspective, here's another post about my hair.
I am very happy with the new length. Feels great, comfy yet (I am told) attractive. Now comes the next question:
Bangs or no bangs?
I keep having thoughts about bangs, but I'm not sure I would like them if I got them. Here are some mock ups of me with no bangs, straight bangs, and "sesame leaf" bangs. None are especially flattering photos, I realize...
Which would you pick? Leave your comments. Spare no harsh critiques in the name of friendship. I want your true opinion.
Wow. This is officially my most self-absorbed post ever. Yay! I'm becoming such a princess...
I am very happy with the new length. Feels great, comfy yet (I am told) attractive. Now comes the next question:
Bangs or no bangs?
I keep having thoughts about bangs, but I'm not sure I would like them if I got them. Here are some mock ups of me with no bangs, straight bangs, and "sesame leaf" bangs. None are especially flattering photos, I realize...
Which would you pick? Leave your comments. Spare no harsh critiques in the name of friendship. I want your true opinion.
Wow. This is officially my most self-absorbed post ever. Yay! I'm becoming such a princess...
Assignment received!
I have received information about my placement in Indonesia. For details, check my Indonesia blog.
Now time to run to English / music class. I promise to write, as soon as I get the chance, about fascinating topics such as a visit to a mountain temple, impromptu field days, homemade plastic wallets, hilarious bad English tee-shirts, and more!
Off to bang drums...
Now time to run to English / music class. I promise to write, as soon as I get the chance, about fascinating topics such as a visit to a mountain temple, impromptu field days, homemade plastic wallets, hilarious bad English tee-shirts, and more!
Off to bang drums...
Friday, May 16, 2008
Indonesia blog
I've already started a blog about Indonesia, so that I can write about my thoughts as I prepare to go there. (I know, you're wondering how someone who let this blog lie fallow for months can suddenly be so blog-happy. I don't try to understand myself.)
Anyway, here's the link:
(predictably:)
http://indonesianheather.blogspot.com/
Anyway, here's the link:
(predictably:)
http://indonesianheather.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A Totally Rad Encounter
So I was on my way home from class and I heard the familiar sound of the gengari, the high clanging gong of the four-instrument percussion combo known as samulnori. I followed the sound up the concrete staircase of the student union building to see who was playing, thinking maybe some of my music friends were behind this.
Sure enough, it was my friend Dong-U, who we call ssabu (It means sifu in Chinese, if you know what that is; it's a word for teacher, in this case, a traditional music and dance teacher) banging the small gong. Someone I didn't know was playing the large gong, and another friend of mine whom we call Heifer (because she eats so much; she's actually a tiny girl) was on changu, a lightweight, hourglass-shaped drum. I spotted them over the shoulders of a line of hip-hop dancers who looked like they were about to break into some moves.
I waved, and Dong-U came over and gave me a hug (this is super rare in Korea; since my boyfriend and I broke up, my hug quota has gotten close to zero) and said "I love you", his usual greeting. I told him I loved him too, and he invited me to watch them practice. They were short one dancer/musician: Kisser, our other friend who usually plays the other drum but was sick. After a couple minutes, I offered to jump in. There was no drum, but as I wasn't familiar with the sequence, it was probably just as well.
"The fight" is a music and dance motif common to many cultures. Samulnori is no exception: in a traditional sequence, instruments line up facing each other like two gangs and take turns moving forward to intimidate each other and backing off again. The sequence we worked on played out the "fight" between a group of samulnori players and a group of hip-hop dancers. It was, quite frankly, the raddest thing ever. I followed along the best I could banging my imaginary drum and watching these college kids pull some unbelievable moves on the rock-hard floor of the student union hallway. Then the group coalesced into one for some folk dance moves, and ended up gelling at the front of the stage in a crazy tableau.
We went through the sequence a couple of times, just long enough for me to start to feel comfortable with it. Too quickly, people were unslinging their instruments and bowing each other off with the formalities which are de rigeur, even for hip-hop dancers. I shook hands with Ssabu and asked him if I was a good Kisser.
I was so high I didn't even mind explaining the joke three times.
Sure enough, it was my friend Dong-U, who we call ssabu (It means sifu in Chinese, if you know what that is; it's a word for teacher, in this case, a traditional music and dance teacher) banging the small gong. Someone I didn't know was playing the large gong, and another friend of mine whom we call Heifer (because she eats so much; she's actually a tiny girl) was on changu, a lightweight, hourglass-shaped drum. I spotted them over the shoulders of a line of hip-hop dancers who looked like they were about to break into some moves.
I waved, and Dong-U came over and gave me a hug (this is super rare in Korea; since my boyfriend and I broke up, my hug quota has gotten close to zero) and said "I love you", his usual greeting. I told him I loved him too, and he invited me to watch them practice. They were short one dancer/musician: Kisser, our other friend who usually plays the other drum but was sick. After a couple minutes, I offered to jump in. There was no drum, but as I wasn't familiar with the sequence, it was probably just as well.
"The fight" is a music and dance motif common to many cultures. Samulnori is no exception: in a traditional sequence, instruments line up facing each other like two gangs and take turns moving forward to intimidate each other and backing off again. The sequence we worked on played out the "fight" between a group of samulnori players and a group of hip-hop dancers. It was, quite frankly, the raddest thing ever. I followed along the best I could banging my imaginary drum and watching these college kids pull some unbelievable moves on the rock-hard floor of the student union hallway. Then the group coalesced into one for some folk dance moves, and ended up gelling at the front of the stage in a crazy tableau.
We went through the sequence a couple of times, just long enough for me to start to feel comfortable with it. Too quickly, people were unslinging their instruments and bowing each other off with the formalities which are de rigeur, even for hip-hop dancers. I shook hands with Ssabu and asked him if I was a good Kisser.
I was so high I didn't even mind explaining the joke three times.
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