Dream Come True

Meet Pippy Longstocking, my childhood heroine. She was the Strongest Girl in the World, a redhead with freckles who rode a horse instead of a bike to school. She lived alone in a large house by the beach because her father was off to sea and each night, she would gaze out at the ocean to wait for him. She always knew he'd come back for her, one day.

In sixth grade I must have checked out her book and read and reread it four times. I even watched a movie of her when it came on T.V. I was a lot like her, I felt: Though I wasn't strong, I was a redhead with freckles who liked to wear pigtails (albeit ones that never stood up on end). How much more similar could you get? Because I loved her so, I dressed up like her once in eighth grade for an alternative to Halloween party at my school called Fun-O-Mania. I didn't realize then that her hair didn't naturally stay in the updo fashion she so lovably coined--I thought all you needed was a little "muscle" to make the braids super-tight. Unlike Pippy's, my hair stayed limp the whole night and I was at a loss to figure out why.

Early this week at my school in Korea, I discovered that our activity for the month would be Crazy Hat Day--and, sad to say, I was fresh out of crazy hats. "But if you don't have a hat," one of the co-teachers affirmed, "you can wear crazy hair." Crazy hair? I thought. Now that I could pull off. But not without a little change in persona for the day. The 'do would be meaningless if I came as myself. But Pippy could be bold enough to wear it gracefully and with pride. This time, I would do it right.

"Do you know where I could find wire?" I asked James Tuesday as we were riding back home from work.

"I have some in my home," he said. He then proceeded to describe what one might use to plug in various electronics. "It's this thick or something like that," he said as he fingered the mesh pocket of the seat in front of me, a string the thickness of a small rope.

"I don't need a cord; I need wire. And I need something thinner than that." As I hadn't told anyone about my costume decision, I didn't want to ruin the surprise by letting him in on why I needed it.

The plan was to walk to Home Plus near Byeongjeom Station that night, an "everything store" much like Super-Target or HEB Plus, to shop for my outfit. I imagined finding a coil of copper at the store to match my hair and was only slightly disappointed when I discovered all I could find was stainless-steel grey. Like a blonde (gasp!), I almost wanted to say aloud, "Well, you have any other colors? Like, y' know, brown?"

I had forgotten the very nature of wire and what copper varieties are generally used for. When I came to my senses after my momentary relapse, I wasn't interested in becoming an even better conductor of electricity: Stainless steel it

was.

In addition to wire, I was in need of some long stockings more colorful than the usual kind-- and was not in the mood to buy some for cheap at the station, only to discover once home that they wouldn't go past my calf. While browsing Home Plus' selection, I found three kinds that might suffice: a demure pair of off-white knee-lengths; bright orange hose; and a pair of black no-toe tights with pink and white horizontal pinstripes. I surmised that Pippy would in turn wear all of them, and perhaps on one occasion wear them all at once. As neither my budget nor my dresser had room for extras, however, I needed to decide on one. For a good while I had my mind set on the off-white pair because I knew I'd wear them again. But Pippy isn't demure, so I nixed those. I then thought of the orange pair, since I knew Pippy's style to be that loud. In the end, I chose the pinstripes because they most mimicked her red-and-white-striped knee-highs from the good ol' days.

During snack on Crazy Hat Day, I told my students, "Teacher Jennifer isn't here today; she went on vacation. She sent me in her place. I'm Teacher Pippy Longstocking." It was doubtful that they knew who she was, but I was still eager to play the part. I had wondered who would get the joke as I carried out my transformation earlier that morning. I knew my American co-teacher, Jack, would and he was the first one I asked upon arrival. Tongue-in-cheek, he replied that I looked like "Popeye the Sailor Man." When I guffawed at his comment, he dutifully corrected himself. What came as a huge surprise was that anyone else would recognize me.

A redhead among such a black-haired populace already sticks out, but one with horizontal locks is hard to miss. As I entered school, people instantly noticed my change in hairstyle; however, they also caught my shift in identity as well. No less than four Korean teachers called me "Pippy" that morning even before I had a chance to introduce myself. Three of them asked for my picture, which nowadays is akin to asking for an autograph. They quickly confessed that they had seen the television series when it had aired so many decades ago. It appears that The Strongest Girl in the World made her shining silver screen debut in the Land of the Morning Calm, too. I realized that day how much of a cultural leveler Longstocking had really become.

The stockings I chose proved to be the magic touch that brought the outfit to life. I have begun a tentative friendship with our hagwon's cook, Teacher Jane. Though she knows as much English as I know Korean (which is a handful of unrelated words), we seem to carry a mutual respect for one another. Because of this connection, however limited or fragile, I thought she would appreciate seeing my handiwork up close. From others' reactions, it was likely she would understand even through the language barrier.

"Teacher Jane," I told her as she stood at the sink, her back to me. "Today we had Crazy Hair Day." Her eyes lit up and her lips broke into a broad grin when she spied my twisted tresses. She sputtered off something grand which I interpreted to mean joyous recognition. "Pippy," she said excitedly, calling my hair cute. Motioning down her legs with her hands, she told me in Korean (at least, as far as I surmise) that to complete the image all I needed was long stockings. I motioned back, this time in English, that indeed I had them, indicating my horizontal pinstripes. She grinned broadly again and clasped her hands. "Pippy," she finished.

I had no idea I would be so well

known as a personified children's character. As I ventured to dinner that night in a small town a short subway ride south, still in costume, I was recognized by no less than three Korean strangers. The group of us that went were passing a string of small shops en route to our restaurant of choice while a proprietress of one of the shops stood on its threshold. Someone commented offhandedly behind me, "Hey, did you hear her? She just called you Pippy." In fact I hadn't heard. But given the response from earlier, it wasn't that surprising. I relayed to the party what I had discovered that day about Pippy's now-world-renowned fame. "They can't pronounce the Longstocking," I said to my friends, "but they recognize Pippy."

Later that night, we strayed from the path back to the train station long enough to peruse the foreign food market for some American comforts. As I stood inside the tiny store, the owner gestured to my outfit and sputtered something that I thought was Korean. "She's trying to say Longstocking," another of the group chimed. I pointed to my stockings and she grinned. "Pippy," the woman said. "Yebbun, beautiful." I had never heard Pippy described as that before--it felt kind of nice to bask for a moment in the glory of someone else's fame.

Half of the group split off from the other while I payed for my things, as they were in a hurry to get back. Only my friends Tim and Jessica stayed with me as we trudged back to the station through windy, dark alleyways: They were the only ones to witness what happened next. As I noticed a car behind us, I moved out of the main portion of the street so it could pass. The vehicle, a taxi, slowed as it pulled up next to me. The driver's window was already down and he stuck his head out and tilted it towards me. "Pippy?" he smiled.

My foreign friends liked the get-up as much as the Koreans. A young woman I share the bus with, Tina, told me that morning to make sure I bent the braids upward before I walked in to class to show my students; she was sure I'd be a hit. Having accidentally run into more foreigners as I walked home, I sat down and shared why I was so adorned. One of them, a guy named Corey whom I ran into at Home Plus the night before, was proud to see that I had "pulled it off." I told them "as long as you don't mind Pippy Longstocking, I'll go with you." At the restaurant, I sat across from Tim, the organizer of the foray into Songtan. With sincerity in his voice, he confessed, "It's a good look for you." I couldn't disagree.

Today, my director echoed Tim's sentiments. She stopped me for a moment as I was leaving school this evening and wished me a good weekend. The she declared that she was "very impressed with [my] hairstyle" on Wednesday. Given all the positive reactions that I received throughout my stint as Pippy Longstocking, it's a 'do that I will certainly have to do again.

the staff of Apple Tree Dongtan:

(from left) James, Pippy (me), Anita, Michelle, Vicky, and Grace

not pictured: Jack