Photographs 

By Francesca Duong 

I carefully balanced my phone against an object a few feet away from us. After clicking the button to start the ten-second self-timer, I quickly scurried back to my friends around the table. The four of us had gathered for Chuseok, with a layout of delicious homemade foods in front of us. The host had his TV playing in the background as we chatted and ate together. Even though we were all thousands of miles away from home, it felt like a family celebration.  

Snap. 

We had just finished filling our stomachs with BHC Chicken in celebration of my students’ participation in an English competition. Within a few steps out of the restaurant, we spotted a photobooth studio just down the street. It was unquestionable – we had to do it. The five of us shuffled to the Photo Signature building and packed into a booth. With our matching accessories and Sailor Moon-esque wands, we posed in organized chaos as the timer counted down. Our laughter echoed throughout the studio in our attempt to capture the wonderful memories of this day.  

Snap. 

The fall colors at the peak of Mudeung-sanwere beautiful. I stood there, at the top of Seoseokdae(서석대), wide-eyed at the national park surrounding me. The curves of the mountains were softened by trees and resembled stagnant green and yellow waves. Crystal-blue bodies of water and rock formations interspersed the rolling hills. My hand reached into my pocket to grab my iPhone and take a picture. 

Snap. Snap… Snap? 

I stared hard at my phone screen before shifting my focus to the horizon. It was as if I was staring at two different sceneries. The vibrant colors were muted, and the trees blurred together into a blob. Instead of a pale blue sky dotted with clouds, the camera turned it gray. With a sigh, I put my phone back into my pocket in defeat. This memory could not be digitized.  

I lingered at the peak for a few more minutes. As if I was cramming for a test the night before, I urged my mind to soak in the information and process it as accurately as possible. I seared the feeling of my tired muscles into my brain. I memorized the relief of breathing in clean, crisp air. The synergy of joy, accomplishment, and peace were all downloaded and filed away in my head. This moment, as well as countless other special moments this year, was one I wanted to keep forever. I did not want to forget this. I refused to forget this.  

***** 

My year in Gwangju has been filled with precious memories and experiences. Every day was a new adventure. Every day was a new chance to learn.  

Yet, as a native English teacher, my time in Gwangju is limited. There is no guarantee how long I can spend here. In retrospect, I imagine that the first time I stepped into the city, a year-long timer was set above my head. This constant reminder of my temporary presence has forced me to treat time like a precious commodity. There are only so many seconds in a day, and I need to ration the best way to spend my time.  

As I start to see bungeo-ppang(붕어빵)and eomukguk(어묵국)carts line the streets of Chungjang-ro(충장로),I know the time I have left in my wallet is short. Each day feels more and more urgent. Each day feels as if I have more to lose.  

Will I still be in Korea next year? Will I still see my students? Am I going to be moved? Although I urge myself to live in the moment and appreciate the present, it feels as if someone is constantly whispering these questions in my ear. Their curse laces each wonderful experience with a bitterness that cannot be ignored. Every fleeting moment is both happy and unhappy. I can be on top of the world while also knowing that I might never reach this same level again.  

As a result, I try to fill my camera with pictures. Pictures freeze time – even just for a second. We can be caught in mid-laughter, or in random poses making silly faces. They can remind us of the happiness we shared with people, or the beauty that we experienced.  

Yet, just like my phone camera was unable to capture the true beauty of Mudeung-san, the pictures are no substitute. They are a ghost of what was. They lack the emotional contexts surrounding each moment, and only serve as a flat, one-dimensional depiction of an experience. Emotions, instead, live in our memories. But memories are fleeting and fading. As much as I try to force a one-hundred-percent accurate imprint on my mind, it slowly disappears. Like sand, each detail falls from my hands until I am left with a fraction of what once was.  

This desperation guides me. This desperation also pains me. As I slowly await my fate to arrive in a jarring, random email, I try to succumb to the turmoil of running out of time.  

Change is coming, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.  

The Author 

As a writer, Francesca Duong strongly believes in the power of narrative as a platform for truth and discussion. She loves lengthy conversations, being involved in the community, and discovering delicious foods.