One pleasant Sunday morning at Samgakji Station in the middle of that month, I started a conversation with a slightly older black man from Nigeria (or another similar African state), who also happened to be waiting for the train for Line Six. He said he was on his way to church at Hangangjin three stops away; I told him I was headed to church at Noksapyeong. I was so excited about my upcoming trip home to Texas the following April that I told this stranger about my brother's wedding as we waited for our train to arrive. We entered the subway together when it came, chatted amiably as we rode, and then cheerily parted ways once I reached my station.
Having come to Korea just four months before this encounter--with nearly all of that time spent in Chungju, excluded from the country's most popular ex-pat hub--I was still wide-eyed whenever I glimpsed another foreigner, no matter his nationality. Naively I believed that each one of them should be my friend. So, too, was my attitude towards this man: While standing on the platform together on that day, I gave him my name and email address. Pleasantly, he reciprocated with his own. I stuffed his address in my pocket when I left him and continued on my way, intending to add it to my growing list of Korea-based contacts.
Several months later in the summertime, long after my safe return from Texas, I found that scrap of paper with the man's email address written on it as I was cleaning things in my apartment. I contemplated for a moment whether or not to keep it; after all, how were acquaintances to become friends if not for more than initial contact? The more I thought about it, however, the more I felt convicted that this wasn't a connection that I needed in my life. The LORD had given me a plethora of friends here and this man didn't need to be one of them. It was then that the fun began.
After having not seen this man for months upon months, later that summer I bumped into him again at Samgakji. Not only did he remember me, but he also remembered where I had been and asked me about my brother's wedding. If memory serves, he even asked what I had brought him from the States. Red flag number one. He then recited everything I had said to him that first meeting verbatim--my name and email address, that is. Red flag number two.
He asked if I would go to church with him that morning, which I politely declined. And then he asked for my phone number. After I refused to give it to him, he became belligerent. "I thought you were nice," he kept saying. "You were such a nice girl. What changed you?"
I continued refusing him, reminding him that I was already late for church, but he wouldn't take the hint. "I am too," he said as he followed me out of the subway car at Noksapyeong, up two flights of stairs, then up two more escalators. "You were so nice," he repeated. "I thought you were nice."
"You're not gonna be nice?" he asked as we reached the last escalator and the exit to fresh air. "I thought you were a nice girl."
"I'm sorry," I told him as he followed me off the escalator. "I really have to go."
I didn't look back as I started my walk to church, though I prayed earnestly that he wouldn't follow me. He must have hailed a cab for Hangangjin, for I didn't see him again that day. But his persistence only worsened.
At this point, the man was merely a nuisance but not a threat. The next time I saw him about a month and a half later, we were standing in the same spot where we had met: just to the right of the stairs leading to Line Four, and just in front of the door to car number six. He had forgotten my email address, he said--magically--and needed me to refresh his memory. While I was at it, could I not toss him my phone number, too?
"You're strong," he hissed when I refused his request the second time. "Something happened when you were away. You're strong," he said again. And then he leaned in for the kill: "I break you."
Excuse me?
Mercifully at that moment our train chose to arrive; however, unmercifully, he was still headed in my direction. I walked onto the metro car and grabbed one of the thick vertical poles attached to the seats, which were sparsely populated by other riders. He advanced inside the train briskly and quickly found my left side, determined to continue his interrupted demands. "I break you," he repeated. He then grabbed the wrist that was holding onto the pole.
"Here, sit down," he whispered forcefully, nearly pulling me from my vertical position. I wriggled my arm free and remained standing, decisive silence filling the distance between us. After hearing the call for my stop, I abruptly shifted my weight towards the door and grabbed a cold handlebar to its right.
An older Korean woman stood next to me as Noksapyeong came into view. "Anieyo," she leaned over and whispered to me. Her hands were shaped into an over-sized X, Korea's universal sign for no. "Anieyo," she told me again, stringing unfamiliar sounds together as a form of advice.
"Comsahamnida," I thanked her as we heard the doors slide open. Even a monolingual ajumma could see through this man's actions, I reasoned.
There to greet my view as the train slid to a stop was the one who had witnessed half the encounter, my church friend, Holly Schoep. I threw my arms around her, never more thankful to see a friendly, aggression-less face, and confessed the scenario to her as we hiked up the stairs. "The LORD has made you into a strong woman," she proclaimed. "I'm proud of you for standing up to him."
Another month or two lapsed before my next encounter, this one just as eerie as the ones previous to it. I noticed him standing at the base of Samgakji's stairs as I breathlessly jogged down them. Avoiding him, I rapidly turned right when I reached the bottom and headed several rail car doors further on. I must have caught his attention, for as soon as the train arrived and I stepped onto it, there he was behind me.
I quickly crossed the width of the car to its right side and lowered my head toward my book. Following me, he tried conversing pleasantly at my elbow, but I didn't take my eyes from the page. He then followed me back across the train as I turned to face its left doors.
While I was still trying to read my book, he bent toward my right ear. "Next time I get your phone number, okay..."
This time I did look up. "Excuse me," I curtly declared and walked off the train.
I started trying to hide my identity at Samgakji as soon as the weather began to cool. Just before Line Four arrived at the station, I would quickly pull my hair into my hat, zip my jacket all the way up to my nose, and pull my circular scarf as far up my face as would permit me to see. It was impossible to fully disguise my hair, skin, or eyes in a land of monochromatic body tones, I knew--but perhaps my techniques would throw him off enough not to notice me.
As I repeated this stunt each Sunday, I would think about the things I couldn't hide: I always brought the same turquoise-blue travel bag to church, which never seemed to blend in. Plus, I was still reading the same book he had caught me with the last time. In the end, I thought perhaps disguising myself wouldn't do much good. Since it had been months since I had seen him last, maybe my Samgakji troubles were finally over.
This past Sunday proved a different story. As I stood at the side handlebar of the rail car's left doors, I caught a glimpse of a black man seated one section from me on the car's opposite side. That's him, I panicked. So he does ride the same train as me! Carefully I extricated myself from my post and slid through the double door leading to the next car. I looked down at the book I had forgotten to read just as a familiar voice reached my right elbow.
"Jenny," he called to me--with a name so intimate I let only my closet friends use. "I've been doing some traveling, too. It's such a long time. How are you?"
I had intended this to be a one-sided conversation and didn't glance up from my book. After several seconds' awkward pause, I finally thin-lipped, "I'm fine."
"Are you meditating?" he smoothly inquired.
Again, I was curt. "No, I'm reading."
As I said this, the train coasted to a jerky stop and opened onto Samgakji's platform. "Excuse me," I announced as I took my leave. He refused to take his.
I bolted for the arched opening from the platform to the corridor, feeling the weight of his steps as his shoes nipped at my heels. I half-walked, half ran to the other side of the passage, willing myself to calm down. Deliberately, I crossed to the right side of the vast hall, hoping I'd escape his pursuit if I hid myself inside a moving walkway. Yet Sunday was the one day these were turned off. I heard his heels click the metal slats of the non-moving horizontal escalator as we continued.
Bounding down the stairs at the end of the hall, his footfalls matched mine in intensity and speed. Clearly, this was a chase. I rounded the corner at the bottom, thinking I had time enough to hide, and stopped behind a large structural column a few meters past the stairwell. Through the glass reflection, I could clearly see him approaching my position from the front side.
"I recover your email," he smiled confidently at me as I tried slowing my breath. "I email you tonight. Is that okay?"
"No, it's not," I grimaced.
"May I see your book?"
"No!" I barked, surprising myself at my intensity. And then I looked him square in the eye. "You may not."
Though he was still smiling, inside I knew he felt defeated. Without another word, he shrugged half-heartedly and skulked away.
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