My life in 2015, on the cusp of turning seventeen, revolved around three core principles:
Nailing the bridge of a "Metallica" solo on my battered, second-hand Ibanez.
Achieving a "solar spin" on the rusty horizontal bar in our apartment courtyard.
Pretending I hadn't seen the "check engine" light on my future (i.e., my final exams).
My bedroom was my sanctuary. It was a chaotic map of who I was. One wall was dominated by a faded Naruto poster, where Sasuke looked perpetually disappointed in my life choices. The other wall held my guitar. My desk was a DMZ between my old laptop, a stack of exam prep books, and a half-finished drawing of a dragon.
This was where the "Korea Idea" went from a 13-year-old's pixelated daydream into an actual, terrifying plan.
It was a Tuesday. I was supposed to be studying the finer points of Ukrainian Cossack history. Instead, I was staring at the scholarship application for the Kirin Arts and Sports Academy.
"Essay Question 1: Describe your potential for global leadership and cross-cultural ambassadorship."
I snorted, leaning back in my squeaky chair. I looked at my reflection in the dark laptop screen. I saw a guy with a short mop of hair, a Bakugan t-shirt that was technically a pajama top, and zero global leadership potential. My most recent act of "cross-cultural ambassadorship" was arguing with a guy from Poland on a League of Legends forum.('AH- BOBER KURWA!' - That was my universal way of dominating every quarell)
I grabbed my guitar, placing it on my knee. It was my automatic reflex. Problem? Strum. Bored? Strum. Girl from 11-B smiled at me? Strum, and probably write a very bad, very angst-ridden song.
I plucked a few notes, the familiar E-minor chord vibrating against my ribs. Global leadership. Right. What was I going to tell them? That my personal philosophy was a weird hybrid of Uzumaki Naruto's "Never give up!" and the Winx Club's "We're the Winx!"?
(Yes, I watched Winx. Don't judge. Flora was the best, and anyone who disagrees is wrong. It was a cultural staple, okay?)
The application felt like a joke. Me? In Seoul? In a school that looked like it was pulled from a movie set?
I clicked 'Save Draft' and shut the laptop. It was time for the bar.
My real "training" didn't happen in a gym. It happened in the courtyard, on a set of metal bars painted bright yellow, now chipped and flaking to reveal a layer of rust. This was the hub. This was the 2015-era teen dream: "street workout."
Danylo was already there, hanging upside down.
"Motuz!" he grunted, flipping himself upright in a move that always made my shoulders ache just watching. "You're late. I almost beat your pull-up record."
"You wish, Dany," I said, dropping my backpack. I jumped up, my hands gripping the cold metal. The familiar calluses settled into the grooves.
This was my other language.
I pulled myself up. One. Two. Three.
Dany was my counter-balance. Where I was all restless energy and daydreams, Dany was... here. Solid. His plan was to go to the local university, study engineering, and take over his dad's car repair shop. He thought my Korea plan was hilarious.
"Seriously, man," he said, chalking his hands. "Korea? Why? You don't even like kimchi."
"I don't know if I like kimchi. I've never had kimchi," I said, dropping back to the ground. "Besides, it's not about the food. It's... the music. The culture. It's... different."
"Different how? They have horizontal bars?"
"Probably better ones. Ones that don't give you tetanus."
I launched myself into a muscle-up, feeling the familiar strain as my body rose above the bar. This was my meditation. While my fingers ached from guitar strings, my palms and back ached from this. It was a fair trade. It kept my brain quiet.
"I just don't get it," Danylo said, starting his own set of dips. "What's wrong with here? We've got the river, we've got the kvass truck in the summer, and I'm this close to getting my driver's license."
I didn't have an answer. How do you explain that you feel like your life is a movie you've already seen? How do you explain that hearing a K-pop song on the radio (a rare, freak event) felt like a signal from another planet? How do you explain that ever since LunarRabbit_04 disappeared, a part of my brain had just... stayed logged on?
"It's just a scholarship application, man," I lied, hopping off the bar. "The chances of me getting it are, like, zero."
"Should we film a video with our tricks and post it on socials? All the girls will be ours!" Danylo said while stripping off his shirt.(Everyone fillmed those kind of videos, so don't judge me!)
That night, I sat in front of the laptop. I had to make a video essay.
I looked at the Naruto poster. I looked at my guitar.
Screw it.
I hit 'record.'
"Hi," I said to the webcam. "My name is Oleksandr Motuzenko. My friends call me Alex. I'm probably not the person you're looking for."
I told them the truth. I told them I wasn't a global leader. I was a guy from Cherkasy who learned English from Naruto fansubs and Minecraft chat rooms, Korean from K-Dramas and reality shows. I told them I believed the best way to understand someone wasn't politics, but music.
I picked up my guitar. I played a complicated riff, my fingers flying.
"This is 'Believer,'" I said, though it wasn't the "Imagine Dragons" one. It was mine. "And... I also believe that the Winx Club had some of the most complex character arcs in modern animation."
I winced. "You can edit that part out. Probably."
I told them I work out on a rusty bar, but I can do a 360-degree spin. I told them I don't know how to be a "global ambassador," but I know how to be a friend. I told them about Min-seo—not by name, but about a "virtual friend" who showed me a new world.
I finished by playing a soft, melodic piece I'd written. It was full of longing, a little bit sad, but hopeful.
I hit 'stop.' I stared at the file. It was the stupidest, most honest, and most me thing I had ever done.
I attached the file. I hit 'Submit.'
I closed the laptop and fell back on my bed, staring at Sasuke. He looked... fractionally less disappointed.
A month later, an email with a subject line in perfect, crisp English landed in my inbox.
"Congratulations, Mr. Motuzenko..."