I am here to teach. Sansengnim, my students call me when they forget the number one rule: “Aniyo Hangug-eo.” I say this to their wide-eyed, upturned faces. “No Korean. Yeong-eo. Only English.” And then they are silent.

They must not speak Korean, otherwise they will never learn, my supervisor explains. And their mothers are fierce. English is hope. English is the future. You can’t get into an international school if you don’t know English. You can’t get a job if you don’t know English.

So I give my kindergarteners English names: Moon Shi Eu, you are Emma. Ahn Jong Hyun, Joshua. We practice. My name is Sally; Jenifer; Daniel; Michael. How are you? I am happy, teacher. I am sad.

Three months, and I wonder at these tenacious people. Wonder, as the only English speakers in this town are my supervisor, who I don’t trust, and the local veterinarian, who buys me beer and looks for a place to stay at night when the roads are icy.

I wonder at the ajumma, hunched over the stench of silkworm larvae in a bright red bowl. I would like to sit with her over tea. I would ask her about her girlhood, her past, her present. A story unlike anything I’ve encountered, no doubt. But she looks at me and laughs at my larvae revulsion. She is harsh and loud, and she is nothing like a grandmother who drinks tea.

The haraboji in the park, reading my palm and telling my future in rapid Korean, doesn’t stop when I tell him, “Mulayo. I don’t know. Aniyo Hangug-eo.” I hope he knows I am not telling him off as I tell off my students. His wrinkled fingers trace the lines in my hands. He nods, he replies, he continues his conversation with himself. I watch him hold my hand and tell his story.

And then there is the new Korea, a blight to the old. Her concrete, metal and shining glass, broken pavement and suspended cranes, are ugly to my untrained eye. I had expected rice fields and straw hats. Her faces blur on the street, one coming and then another before I have processed the last. Younger faces with wider eyes and flashy clothing.

But I cherish the moments in the subway. The vehicle of motion somehow stops the maddening, indifferent pace. The doors close. In the rush to the next space, we are all suspended. The squeaks, clangs, and whoosh of the tracks break the silence. Their eyes are curious, but quick. I am not as shy, or as tactful. I am emboldened by my inability to communicate. I stare. I make up stories in my head.

Five months of stilted Korean lessons, traveling to Seoul and my patient tutor, who hides her smiles at my pronunciation. She smiles as I work through the hanguel alphabet; smiles as she would smile at a child. She knows it is futile; that a year of lessons will serve me some and others little. But I don’t know this yet. I am proud of my ability to translate the characters. I practice reading the signs and the unfamiliar words as I go home. 화장실. Hwajangsil. 관광 안내소. Gwan gwang annaeso.

I must speak perfectly to be understood. The subtle differences between the “f” and the “p” sound, the “r” and the “l,” the “g” and “k,” are beyond my abilities, and my listeners do not have a forgiving ear. Flagging a taxi has becomes a lesson in pronunciation. I want to go to Gangnam. Kangnam. Kangnum? Lotte Mart. Rot-ay Mart-uh.

Seven months, and my students can speak my language. I learn about Korea through them. Their broken stories are told in broken English that they’ve learned from me. But they will forget. They will not practice, and soon they’ll forget, my supervisor tells me. It is a game of a business transaction.

It is not much longer before I erupt, surprising myself more than my supervisor. I would never do this at home. It is small and petty, but it is not. I want to be heard. I am frustrated, I am justified, and I am too successful. The Korean teachers avoid my gaze. My supervisor’s face is red and still when he tells me I have much to learn. It would be five — no — twenty years, he says, before I could understand such things.

Eleven months. New teachers are here, and I am handing out advice. They must know the correct bus stops, the cheapest supermarket, and the best place to buy English books. They must always carry tissue for the hwajanshil. They must know how to order and what to order at the restaurant where we sit on the floor and use the metal chopsticks.

I am leaving. “Teacher will get in an airplane and go to Meegug,” I explain, breaking more than one rule. I spread my arms like a bird, although they understand now. It is important that they understand. “I am SAD!” Sally says, pulling a face and wiping her eyes. Sally is annoying. And Daniel is oblivious. Oh please, don’t let Daniel be oblivious. I button their jackets and stuff their bags with their art projects as they leave. When I return later, I will throw the unsuccessful ones in the garbage and wipe the board. I will leave the rest for the new teachers. I have nothing more.

The barista is efficient, polite, unassuming, when I order coffee at the airport. I hand over my card, with both hands — the Korean way. She doesn’t know this interaction is my last. She returns with my coffee, returns my smile.