Cold Fish Head

For a while I have wanted to talk about my small group at church, but have been unsure as to exactly what I could say, knowing that just telling stories about people whom you don't know (unless, of course, you are one of those people) is so excruciatingly boring that you would likely leave your computer for far more appealing activities, such as checking the freshness dates on all of your milk products, counting the bristles in your toothbrush, or organizing all of your sweaters alphabetically.

Yet now I valiantly attempt to do this very impossible task, realizing that your finger may already be on the "close" button. Also, to preface, allow me to inform you that this involves an inside joke and thus may only be understood by a few. To aid in your understanding, I urge you to go here. Watch the video. Laugh a lot. And understand.

For nearly all of the two years that I have been in Korea, I have also been a fellowship group leader at my church. For my first couple of months here, I went with another teacher from my school to the U.S. army base, where her boyfriend led a group for some of his soldiers. After Christmas, when many of them left Korea, I decided to join a group at church. Having expressed this to Pastor Ben, he informed Krista, one of the group leaders.

After the service one day, she introduced herself, saying, "Hi Aubrey. Pastor Ben told me you wanted to join a group and would be taking over as leader when I leave."

"I will?"

This is precisely how I became a group leader, by default. Any English speaking Westerner was, at that time, a prime candidate in our church to be a fellowship group leader.

Over the course of my two years as a leader, the group dynamic has changed drastically. Besides myself, only one person remains from the original group. This is in many ways due to the transience of the English speaking community here. To quote Alice in Wonderland (and, in addition, Emily), "People come and go so quickly here."

Lately we have done quite a lot together, meeting frequently throughout the week. In a time when I have become so disillusioned and distant from the church as an organization, I am infinitely grateful for these people who have become a family to me here. They are others who grapple with the questions of living an ancient faith in a modern society.

Plus they make me laugh almost as much as my brother can.

The general group theme of late has been to quote a certain comedian, Brian Regan. It is used, like any good inside joke, to create cohesion within the group, but inadvertently ostracize those outside.

Allow me to give slightly more background information. When I was home last Christmas, my dad pulled out a CD that I had to listen to. Driving in the car, we listened with tears of hilarity in our eyes from Regan's simple yet incisive, self-deprecating humor. As a farewell present for my journey back to Korea, dad gave me the Regan DVD. Since then, I have regularly quoted Regan with my family.

After meeting Meaghan and Kevin, a married couple who more recently joined our group, I quickly discovered that they were fans, too. And so, as commonalities tend to do, it quickly became an inside joke for us, frequently shouting Regan phrases at one another. Slowly, the rest of our group began to download or watch him, too.

I felt that all this information was necessary to get to this next story. Last Friday our group met up for various activities, including ice skating (which, we were informed upon our arrival, was closing, even after we made our cute, begging faces), a game room, dinner at Won Tae's Taco place, coffee at Starbucks, and exchanging small gifts through a "stealing Santa" game.

At some point in the middle of opening and stealing presents, someone pointed our a small, triangular gift on the table, wrapped in newspaper and several layers of clear tape. On it was written, "To: Aubrey, our Shepherd. From: ?"

"Oh my gosh, someone got me a gift!" This gesture deeply touched me that one person had decided to do something so special. But I also didn't want anyone to feel usurped, so I put it aside to open later.

After all gifts were exchanged, I took out the small, carefully wrapped present, wondering what it could be. As I peeled the layers of tape off and got to the newspaper, something started to bleed through. "Oh, no," I thought. "Someone got me a Korean bean-pastry dessert as a gift; react positively. And now it's broken open." Bending forward, I squinted at the dark red mass after I carefully peeled the newspaper away. Considerations of a small token of well-being were obliterated, however, by the wall of stench that hit me. The sweet beans suddenly became organs, the pastry shell was some sort of skin.

"Wait, did someone get me a dead animal?" Time slowed as in a horror movie and creepy visions of animal sacrifice or voodoo came to mind. Whom had I recently offended?

"It's a cold fish head," came the simple reply. I looked up at Kevin quizzically, suppressing the urge to vomit as other members of the group jumped away.

"A cold fish head?" I asked weakly, nauseously. "But what...? Oh! A cold fish head!" My confusion and queasiness dissipated with the sudden realization of its meaning. This was not a sign of dislike, but one of endearment. It was an inside joke, taken to its fullest measure! I looked up, excited, quoting, "It's frozen, frozen solid. It comes with a turnip and a spork!"

Kevin had gone to great lengths to provide me with a fish head, taken directly from one of Regan's bits about receiving the worst meals on a plane. Earlier in the day, he went to one of Korea's numerous fish markets, signing that he wanted a fish. After she chopped of the head, the vendor went to throw it away. "No, no, no!" Kevin shouted. It was the fish head he wanted. No, really. The fish head. Thanks. You keep the fish.

I posted pictures on my flickr account, linked to my blog. It's proof! A real, cold fish head. And apart from the pictures, I will always have the memory that induces such a warm, nauseated feeling.