I Wanna Be The Minority

“This is it.  There’s really no turning back now,” I thought to myself as I waited at the Seoul Airport gate where I would board my flight to Yanji.  Looking around I noticed something that has become quite familiar in the week since: I was the only white person sitting in the gate.  While I couldn’t (and still can’t) tell if the people were Chinese or Korean; I could tell all of the ethnicities they were not and they could tell that I certainly did not belong.

I was sitting there minding my own business, watching a child toddle around the gate, when I saw one of the airline workers walk up to the door behind her and unlock it or something.  Now I have probably been on fifty something flights in my life and seen airline attendants move on and off the plane many times and never thought anything of it.

Apparently I should have.

As if on cue almost all of the two hundred people that were sitting around me bolted to their feet with bags in hand and swiftly moved to the area right in front of the desk as if they were trying to get into Club Fever on Halloween.  As I sat there pondering to myself what the super secret hidden signal must have been that meant we passengers needed to move to the plane as fast as we could, something even more remarkable happened.  The passengers somehow formed themselves into a perfectly single file line.

It was like somebody put an enormous funnel in front of the desk because the amorphous mob suddenly shifted into a line.  People moved back to take spaces, some shuffled between others, and every person meshed into the line.  What is amazing is that nobody seemed to say, “screw it, I’m going to the back” and walk out of the mob to the back of the line.  The mob straightened out and winnowed down until all of the people were standing single file and curved out into the greater terminal. 

Not since opening night of Die Another Day at Northbrook Court have I seen a more ridiculous line.  Because the flight attendants were nowhere to be seen, I decided that it would be best to stay in my seat and wait for the line situation to work itself out.   Several minutes later the airline people arrived and started hastily checking people into the flight. 

Eventually, when the line subsided, I gingerly walked to the end of the line where I became the last person to enter the plane.  Being the last person on the plane gave me the opportunity to see the faces of everybody else on the plane as I walked to my seat.  Not only did all of their faces look distinctively different than my own, but despite the language barrier I could clearly see that many of these people were thinking the same thing: What is he doing here?

***

I’m flying high above North Korea (or around North Korea) on a plane full of Chinese and Korean people, and we’re all about to die (well, not really, I’ve just always wanted to mimic that awesome quote from Almost Famous and this seemed like one of the best chances I would get). 

Midway through my flight from Seoul to Yanji, the flight attendants walked down the aisle and handed every person a Chinese entry card.  If you’ve ever flown internationally before, you know that this is the card where you have to declare things that you are bringing into the country, and/or give information about your current state of health and things like that.  It is a pretty easy card to fill out, except I always get caught up on the part where they ask where you are staying:

“Uhh, my friend's flat,” I tried to tell the customs agent in London.

“Umm, a hostel,” I attempted to say in Paris.

“Uhhh, a shitty hotel,” a said to the person in the Bahamas.

Usually (well, the three other times I’ve travelled internationally) not knowing the address of my destination is the most difficult part of filling out this card and getting through customs.  In Yanji, however, this was barely at the top of my list of problems.

You see, the card that was handed to me was written in Chinese. 

Realizing there was writing on the other side, I quickly flipped it over to find . . . Korean.* I sat there in my aisle seat staring at the page wondering: 1) Was there another person on this airplane with me that spoke a lick of English?  Hell, I could even get by if they knew Spanish, but that was even more unlikely.  2) Would there even be any people at the Yanji “International” Airport that spoke English in case I have an issue? 3) What are the chances that I actually make it back to America in 10-11 months alive and without any deadly diseases (i.e. SWINE FLU)?

I continued to stare at the page for several minutes until a flight attendant walked up to me and handed me the card in English.  I guess she noticed my staring and realized what that was all about.

***

While I was waiting for my bags at the international gate of the Yanji Airport, I glanced out the exit and noticed a crowd of people waiting behind a railing.  It was a small set of double doors so it didn’t really look like much, but after retrieving my bags and going thru my final checkpoint I walked through the doors to find that there was a crowd of literally several hundred people waiting in the terminal for the people coming off the plane. 

I had been one of the first people out and as I pushed my luggage cart out of the door I noticed the people become noticeably quieter.  Most of the people were looking at me in wonder probably thinking to themselves: What is he doing here?  I could have sworn I heard a person say, “American?” but that might have just been my imagination.

Pushing my cart full of luggage, I moved past the railings that were acting as a barrier between the crowd of people and the exit of the gate.  Somebody was supposed to meet me there, but I didn’t know what to do or where to meet them.  I saw an exit through the crowd of people and decided that the best bet was just to walk to the exit and get my bearings once I was outside.  I had almost made it to the door when a person came up to me and said, “Robert, Robert.”

This was Fr. Paul Hwang, one of the principals of our school (it’s complicated, and I can’t really elaborate on it for reasons I can’t really elaborate on).  He led me to a car in the parking lot and we were on our way to the school where he and some others lived. 

***

It’s been a week since I first arrived and already there have been many instances of people taking notice of me (as well as my roommate) just because we are white.  We were eating in a restaurant when a young child was apparently standing behind me and staring at me for several minutes . . . getting on a crowded bus to go to school with people staring at us . . . getting groceries . . . walking through a market . . . walking to our apartment. 

At Notre Dame, people might have known who I was if somebody explained it to them.  On my trips to school over the summer I was always introduced to people as the guy who writes "Things Notre Dame Students Like" (and then later be criticized by the introducers for having a big ego).  This was cool because it validated what I was doing and made it worth continuing—and still does.  Here in China I will never be the guy who writes "Things Notre Dame Students Like," or even "The 17^th Grade."  Here in China I have enough trouble being just Bob as I have enough difficulties being seen as more than just that white guy who can’t speak Chinese to many of the people I come across, and that’s what makes this different.  After 22 years I am finally the minority. 

*Note: At this point in my trip I had already figured out how to tell the difference between Chinese and Korean, which I thought was a pretty good start considering that 24 hours earlier I was in the O’Hare International terminal trying to determine if it would be sketchy or not if I bought a Playboy magazine (this story will be explained later, I promise).