by Jim Corbett

The day I learned the Korean question, 'Ul mae yo?'
will be forever engraved in my memory.

One Sunday afternoon in April, Sunmi and I decided to
stroll along Haeundae Beach.  Although it was very
windy and cool, walkers, joggers and sightseers lined
the beach.  As we were waiting for the light to
change, a man standing on the opposite corner wearing
an oversized winter hat caught my attention. His poor
posture indicated that he was physically challenged
and he kept screaming to pedestrians and motorists.

"What's he holding?" I asked Sunmi.

Sunmi responded, "I can't see because of traffic. Oh!
That's baung khwaja. He must be selling it."

Baung khwaja, a popular Korean snack, is a round, flat
cookie about the size of a saucer consisting of puffed
rice and a little sugar. Since it is really light,
vendors sell big bags of baung khwaja. The name comes
from the onamatopoeia 'baung' which is the sound you
hear when a cookie pops out of the cooker. Khwaja
means cookie.

We crossed the street to get a closer look. "What does
that sign say?" I asked.

Sunmi glanced at the words, "They are raising money
for people with special needs."

Although he seemed unable to control his motor skills
and his posture was awkward, the man on the corner
persistently petitioned pedestrians and motorists to
buy baung khwaja in support of his cause. My heart
marveled at his determination. It was windy, his voice
was straining from all the yelling, exhaust fumes
filled his lungs and to be honest,  everyone kept
passing by him.  Nevertheless, he kept going and
going.

We also walked by until I stopped and turned to Sunmi.
"You know, honey. That man is doing what any other
person in his situation would be doing. Don't you
think so?"

"Sure", she responded. "People sell food on
intersections all the time."

"Right", I exclaimed! "But have you noticed that
nobody has stopped to ask the price of a bag of baung
khwaja? We always see people eating and selling these
cookies here but nobody is buying any from that man. I
don't think people want to approach him."

She raised her index finger to her chin, "Sure.
Everyone is afraid of those who are different."

Being a foreigner in a monocultural country, I have
experienced many negative reactions when people see
me. Since we are an international couple, Sunmi and I
often receive long, cold stares in public places like
subways and restaurants. In attempts to display
kindness, strangers often say hello or tap me on the
shoulder.  Once, an elderly drunken man attacked me
simply because I am a foreigner. In the case of this
man trying to sell baung khwaja, people were
responding to his difference by avoiding him.

"Well", I said taking a deep breath. "Aren't we all
different? Isn't every individual unique?"

Sunmi looked puzzled, "So what are you saying?"

"I am saying that we should treat this man the same
way we would want to be treated".  I paused
momentarily, "We should not pretend he doesn't exist
simply because of his appearance. I am saying that we
should buy cookies from him just as quickly as we
would from any other vendor around here. Let's go."

"Ul mae yo?" Sunmi asked but there was no response.

"You had better speak loudly, honey", I suggested. "He
can't hear over traffic."

"UL MAE YO?" Sunmi bellowed drawing the man's
attention.

When the man turned around, the sight of a foreigner
surprised him so he gave me a double look. "Iichan Won
imnida", he replied.

"2000 Won?", I responded. "Lets get two. Du gei
cheusaeyo."

After taking four thousand won, he smiled, removed his
hat and bowed to me.  

"Komatsumida", he said.

The cookies were 2000 Won but the lesson from that
event is priceless. So many times, Sunmi has
repeatedly told me that misunderstandings about not
right and wrong; they are  about differences. The man
selling baung khwaja, like you and I, was unique. What
was this experience really worth? The answer is a
lesson in positive living.