Every year, the ocean pulls itself to either side so that mothers can be reunited with their children. So, that is where we waited, Yi-Jin and I—on Jindo Island. Hundreds of years ago, the small island across from Jindo, called Modo Island, became overrun with tigers that viciously attacked the villagers. Everyone fled to Jindo, leaving the tigers to resort to cannibalism and eventually starve to death.
My bus driver, Pete, wore his hair longer than any adult male I knew, except for my dad, back when he was an honest to God hippy. I have a photograph of my father as a young man, his copper hair cresting his belt buckle, about four inches longer than Pete’s.
Oh god, I never quite know how to introduce myself.
As is chronic to infrastructure, my identity sits at a crossroads. Or, at least, crossroads are the default for our self-definition, the traditionalist’s approach: “I’m the red pin on the map;” “I’m the intersection of 114 and Broadway;” “I’m the first house off the exit.”
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