The doorbell rang, and I opened the door a little apprehensively because I wasn’t expecting anyone. To my surprise, there stood two middle-aged Korean women, one holding a stack of papers while the other hung back with a thick book in her hands.
“—————! ————, ——, —-. ————-” The first woman spouted a very lively string of Korean, and I have no idea what she was saying.
“Umm, sorry, I don’t speak Korean.”.
“———–. ——–, —, ———-, ——–” She kept going, as if she didn’t believe me. Or she hadn’t heard me. One or the other.
“I’m sorry, I’m Chinese, not Korean.” It was around this point that I noticed that the thick book was a Bible, and the other religious material in her arms.
She finally pauses, and asks me, “Where are your parents?”
Oh, so I guess only adults need saving? Or only adults can comprehend religious topics? And double-Oh, I guess I don’t look like an adult. But I didn’t say these things, and smiled instead, and told her that they’re out right now. She handed me an English zine about the miracle of life, and a Chinese tract and tells me specifically that the Chinese one “is for your parents”. As if my parents didn’t know English, and I didn’t know Chinese. Hmm.
I give them props for courage, though all the stereotyping left me feeling a bit put out. The next pair that comes will be on the receiving end of a flurry of a made-up language, Chinglish-style.