This Is 24

If you had told me 6 months ago that I was going to spend my 24th birthday in self quarantine...I would have totally believed you, because that's just the type of world we're living in now, and that's exactly the type of thing that would happen to me.

But Katherine, you might be saying. The last time we saw you, you just got out of quarantine. What happened? To put it simply: teaching happened.

Settling into Korea has just involved simultaneously tackling several things that have high consequences if neglected: like learning how to raise a child and do your taxes in the same hour. Being trained in a job and doing said job while also trying to learn the area, learn the language, furnish an apartment, buy groceries, and operate without a domestic number or bank account are just some of the things I've been up to over these past few weeks. There is always something else to think about, and just when I think I've got the hang of things, something else happens that reminds me just how out of my element I am.

But at the same time, ever so quietly, I can sense a slow transformation. I can walk around my neighborhood without questioning every step. I am becoming attuned to the pattern of the pedestrian crosswalk signals. Fewer of my business transactions involve blank stares. Gwangju still feels a bit strange to me. But instead of feeling the intense anxiety or even dread I'd feel in my early days here, I feel an anticipation and excitement that comes from this cautious newfound comfort.

I am more grateful than ever that I'd chosen Gwangju as my home for the time being. With a population of over 1 million, it is still very much a city, but not nearly as overwhelming as a place like Seoul (which is almost 10 million, btw). Plus, Seoul has a much more dominant foreigner presence; granted, I haven't even been there yet, but I'm told in places like Itaewon, foreigners are almost as common a sight as native Koreans. In Gwangju, I am experiencing Korean life and culture in a way that I may not have if I was anywhere else. Every day is a challenge--sometimes in bad ways (read: registering your long American name in a Korean system) but mostly in good ways.

It's also taught me to appreciate the smallest of things. For instance, I never thought I would be so excited to buy a cup for my toothbrush. Or hand soap. Making my apartment my sanctuary more and more every day has made me feel like more of an adult than anything else.

But even as I settled into my life in Korea, I would get weighed down by the looming reminder that I would be spending my birthday and Christmas away from home, two occasions that have always been so family oriented for me. Yet even those woes were soothed by wonderful friends I've had the good fortune to meet over this past month--friends who seemed to have even more enthusiasm than me for these upcoming holidays. Before I really knew it, I was not alone anymore. The thought alone filled me with a sense of gratitude and happiness that can only come from meeting good, genuine people. I was feeling more confident and readier than ever to take on a weekend in Gwangju.

But as the days crept closer to December 19, the first roadblock appeared: a new 9 p.m. curfew as a result of spiking COVID cases. Now don't get me wrong--I understood the purpose of enforcing this restriction, and public health infinitely supersedes the importance of one birthday. Still, it was harder for me to imagine having a ~lively~ celebration when it would probably have to begin at the party-hard hour of 5 p.m. Then, on the morning of December 18, another setback: someone tested positive for COVID, a student I had direct contact with that week. (I later found out that outbreaks had hit multiple schools in the area what seemed like all at once. The Omicron variant really came hard and fast for us all, I tell you.)

I was slightly comforted by the fact that everyone around me knew exactly what to do. In the PCR testing line I saw both coworkers and students who I had seen less than 12 hours ago. I was also calmed by the fact that everyone at my workplace, student and teacher alike, follows standard COVID protocol in the classroom like the new normal that it is. Face masks, hand sanitizer, vaccinations. Although COVID exposure can be frightening and virtually inevitable, we had been doing all we could to protect ourselves against the virus.

However. Here comes the more complicated part. For one, as I mentioned before, I had direct contact with the student. That automatically put me at higher risk of infection and spreading it to others. Second, I had received all my vaccinations--my two doses and my booster--in the United States. Now, the Korean government has a certain, uh, apprehension toward U.S. vaccinations. Why? I don't know. I'm yet to discover a clear reason. But this meant that even though I am fully vaccinated, and even though I wound up testing negative for COVID, they were still hesitant to let me off the hook because I was a direct-contact individual not vaccinated in Korea. And so I spent my entire birthday weekend (and this current week) in quarantine.

Oh--and to top it all off, earlier last week, I had accidentally cut off the teeny tiny tip of my left ring finger. Yes, it was horrifying and bloody, but I want to emphasize that it was only a teeny bit. Contrary to what all my students believed/gestured, I did not lose the entire upper joint of my finger, even if it was wrapped up like the world's clumsiest mummy all week. Although the skin is growing back nicely, alas something has been lost that cannot be regained: "something" being .001% of my ring finger. As for how it happened, I will spare this blog and your imagination any gory details. Let's just say it was a freak accident involving some bananas, kitchen scissors, and a very reckless cutting angle.

So there I was, living out my long-standing fear of spending my birthday by myself. All I could think of was all the plans that had been completely uprooted, all the people I wouldn't get to see, how I had finally let myself get excited only to have everything brought to a standstill. It seemed like the biggest play of cosmic irony yet, the most extreme instance of what I was talking about paragraphs earlier: just when I think I've got the hang of things, something else happens to remind me that no, I do not.

But as I reflected on all the ways I've been unlucky, I was reminded of the infinitely more ways I have been lucky. I have a job that teaches me something new every day and coworkers who are so kind, friendly, and supportive. Across the ocean, I have family and friends who check in with me and are willing to defy the time gap to talk or even just to sit in silence. And here I have found friends who like to paint and walk and drink coffee with me, who show me all the best bakeries and stores, and who drop off my favorite foods at my door when I'm in quarantine.

So although I was alone on my birthday, I was not lonely. Instead I spent time thinking about the collection of wonderful people who are in my life--more time than I ever have on any previous birthday. It's remarkable to think that these individuals span different phases of my life--"eras," if you're Taylor Swift. The person they first met may have evolved into the person I am now, but they chose to stick around and go on this journey with me. And for that I will be forever grateful, especially as I am in the beginnings of a phase as monumental as this one.

Am I homesick? Definitely. My departure from the U.S. was so sudden and chaotic that I was quarantining in Korea before I knew it. I've never used FaceTime as much as I do now. Through the far-too-small screen of my phone I am watching my family celebrate the holidays and seeing my beloved Christmas tree through a new, grainy lens. I find myself looking at the time every now and then, thinking about what my loved ones are doing at that very moment on the other side of the world (usually sleeping--14 hours is a doozy).

But at the same time, I feel utterly grateful and happy to be here. I am wrapped up enough in the sheer wonder of the now that I look forward to the next day with more and more optimism. I am finally starting to embrace this independence and opportunity as a blessing instead of view it as a burden.

As I post this blog at the tail end of my second quarantine, I am once again thinking about the exciting new world out there--maybe a little less new now. And this time, I also feel that I have much to offer. After all, the world has not yet seen me at 24.