Chapter 142: The First Day of School

Chapter 142: The First Day of School

Hana started school in March. Elementary school. The first grade of the Korean six-year elementary system. The transition from the cafe’s child—the child who grew up at the counter, who cupped water, who wrote morning tasting notes, who said “Everyone blooms. Eventually” at four—to the school’s student. The transition that every child made and that this child was making with the specific, barista’s-daughter, I-have-been-educated-by-a-chalkboard-before-I-met-a-blackboard uniqueness that the cafe’s upbringing produced.

The morning of the first day was—the morning. The same morning. The 5:00 AM writing (the fourth book forming—the subject not yet known, the bloom of the next book approaching). The 5:50 walk. The 6:40 Probat. The chalkboard written. The same morning. But within the same morning—the different. The different being: Hana. Awake at 6:30 (early, by six-year-old standards). In the school uniform—the navy skirt, the white blouse, the yellow backpack that Sooyeon had purchased and that Hana had decorated with a sticker of a coffee cup (the sticker that Jiwoo had produced as a joke and that Hana had adopted as—identity).

“I’m wearing the coffee sticker to school,” Hana announced. At the kitchen table. 6:45. The morning Wrong Order cooling beside the morning tasting notebook. The notebook that Hana had been writing in for two years and that contained—730 mornings of observations. 730 mornings of “coffee smell” and “bird sound” and “not-sun-yet light” and the expanding, maturing, the-child’s-observation-is-deepening catalog of what the mornings contained.

“The coffee sticker.”

“The coffee sticker. On my backpack. So the school knows: I come from a coffee place. I come from—Bloom.”

“You come from—this apartment.”

“I come from Bloom. The apartment is where I sleep. Bloom is where I—live. Bloom is where the mornings happen. Bloom is where Mr. Bae says ‘good’ and where 할아버지 makes pour-overs and where 엄마 drinks the Wrong Order and where 아빠—” She looked at him. The six-year-old looking at the father. “Where 아빠 makes coffee.”

“아빠가 커피를 만들어요.”

“도현’s sentence. 도현’s first sentence. My brother’s first sentence is—아빠’s job description.”

“Your brother is—direct.”

“My brother is—three. Three-year-olds are direct. Six-year-olds are—” She thought. The six-year-old thinking about the difference between three and six. “Six-year-olds are more words. More words for the same thing.”

“More words for the same thing.”

“Like 아빠. 아빠 uses more words than 도현. 아빠 wrote three books to say what 도현 said in three words. 도현 said: ‘Daddy makes coffee.’ 아빠 wrote 741 pages to say—Daddy makes coffee.”

“741 pages.”

“741 pages of—more words. For the same thing.” She picked up the backpack. The yellow backpack with the coffee sticker. “The school will teach me—more words. More words for the things that the cafe taught me. The cafe taught me: the bloom, the bergamot, the attention. The school will teach me: the vocabulary. The vocabulary that the cafe’s things are called in the non-cafe world.”

“The non-cafe vocabulary.”

“The non-cafe vocabulary. The vocabulary that says ‘patience’ instead of ‘bloom.’ The vocabulary that says ‘hidden meaning’ instead of ‘bergamot.’ The vocabulary that says ‘focus’ instead of ‘관심.’ The school’s words for the cafe’s things.”

“The school’s translation.”

“The school’s translation. Of the cafe’s original. And the original is—” She pointed at the chalkboard-direction, though the cafe was four minutes’ walk away and the chalkboard was not visible from the kitchen. “The original is always louder than the translation. Line six.”

“Line six. Applied to school.”

“Applied to everything. The chalkboard applies to everything. The chalkboard is—the manual. The manual for—life. Written in coffee language.”

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Hajin walked Hana to school. The walk—not the four-minute cafe walk but the twelve-minute school walk. The school being in Yeonnam-dong, the neighborhood school, the public elementary that the district assigned and that the family had chosen because “the neighborhood school is the Bloom school—the school that is here, in this place, for the people of this place.”

The twelve-minute walk produced—the conversation. The first-day conversation. The father-daughter, I-am-walking-my-child-to-school-for-the-first-time conversation that every parent had and that this parent was having with the specific, barista’s, I-will-express-this-through-coffee quality that the cafe’s philosophy applied to every moment.

“School is—a cupping,” Hajin said. Walking. Hana’s hand in his hand. The six-year-old’s hand in the barista’s hand. The hands that held cups and goosenecks and chalk and children.

“School is a cupping?”

“School is a cupping. Twelve seats—your classroom has twelve students?”

“Twenty-eight students.”

“Twenty-eight seats. Twenty-eight people. Each person tasting—the same lesson. The same teacher. The same subject. But each person tasting—differently. Because each person’s palate is different. Each person’s attention is different. Each person’s—experience of the same thing is different.”

“Twenty-eight different experiences of the same thing.”

“Twenty-eight. The same way the cupping table’s twelve people taste the same coffee and produce twelve different tasting notes. Your tasting note will be—different from your classmates’ tasting notes. Because your attention has been trained—differently.”

“My attention has been trained by the cafe.”

“Your attention has been trained by the mornings. By the tasting notes. By the cupping. By the chalkboard. Your attention has been trained to—notice. To notice the things that other people’s attention might not notice. The things that require—patience.”

“Patience.”

“The school will require patience. The patience to sit. The patience to listen. The patience to wait—for the teacher to explain, for the lesson to unfold, for the understanding to arrive. The patience that the bloom taught you.”

“The bloom taught me patience.”

“The bloom taught you patience. And the patience will serve you at school. The patience that says: the answer is coming. Wait. The answer arrives at the temperature it requires. Not at the temperature you demand.”

“The answer arrives at its temperature.”

“Like the bergamot. The bergamot at 58 degrees. The answer at—whatever degree the answer requires. The patience to wait for the answer is—the bloom applied to the classroom.”

“The bloom applied to the classroom.”

“The bloom applied to everything. The bloom that you learned at the cafe, applied at the school. The practice that transfers from the counter to the desk. From the cup to the notebook. From the barista’s teaching to the teacher’s teaching.”

They arrived at the school. The Yeonnam-dong Elementary—the three-story, concrete-and-glass, standard Korean public school that every neighborhood contained. The school gate—open, the March morning producing the specific, first-day, parents-and-children-and-backpacks-and-nervousness energy that first days produced everywhere.

Hana looked at the school. The six-year-old looking at the building that would contain the next six years of mornings. The building that was not the cafe. The building that had blackboards instead of chalkboards and desks instead of counters and teachers instead of baristas. The building that would teach—the non-cafe vocabulary. The vocabulary that the cafe’s things were called in the world.

“아빠,” Hana said. At the gate. The hand still in the father’s hand. The moment of—the releasing. The eighth chalkboard line: the bloom holds, the cup releases. The father holding the child’s hand. The child about to release the hand. Both being—the practice.

“하나야.”

“Will the school have a bergamot?”

“The school will have—many bergamots. Many hidden things. Things that the lessons contain and that the patience reveals. The school’s bergamots will be—different from the cafe’s bergamots. The school’s bergamots will be: the moment when the math problem makes sense. The moment when the Korean character produces the word. The moment when the music produces the melody. Each moment being—the hidden thing. The thing that the lesson contained and that the patience revealed.”

“The school has hidden things.”

“Everything has hidden things. The cafe. The school. The mornings. Everything contains—the bergamot. The thing at the end that the patience produces. The school’s job is—to help you find the school’s bergamots. The same way the cafe’s job is to help the customer find the coffee’s bergamots.”

“The school is a cafe?”

“The school is—a practice space. The same way the cafe is a practice space. The school practices—learning. The cafe practices—attention. Both being: the practice of paying attention to the thing in front of you.”

“Paying attention to the thing in front of me.”

“The thing in front of you today is: the school. The teacher. The classmates. The lessons. The thing in front of you. Pay attention to the thing in front of you.”

“관심.”

“관심. The thing that the cafe teaches and that the school requires and that you—” He squeezed her hand. The squeeze that was—the holding. The bloom holding. The last moment of the holding before the releasing. “—that you already have. Because you’ve been practicing. For six years. At the cafe. At the kitchen table. In the morning tasting notes. You’ve been practicing 관심 since before you knew the word.”

“I’ve been practicing since before I knew the word.”

“Since before the word. Since the first cupping. Since the first ‘coffee smell, humming sound, not-sun-yet light.’ Since the first time you held the Sangwoo cup with both hands. Since—always. You’ve been practicing always.”

“Always.”

“Always. Same everything. Including school.”

She released his hand. The releasing—the eighth line performed. The bloom holding. The cup releasing. The six-year-old releasing the father’s hand and walking through the school gate with the yellow backpack and the coffee sticker and the 730 mornings of tasting notes in her muscle memory and the nine chalkboard lines in her vocabulary and the bergamot in her expectation.

The releasing was—the practice. The same practice that the cafe had been performing for eleven years. The practice of making the thing and releasing the thing. The cup made and released to the drinker. The student taught and released to the world. The child raised and released to—the school. The releasing that was—the love. The love that made the thing and that gave the thing away.

Hajin watched. The father watching the daughter walk into the school. The watching that was—the bloom. The bloom of the father watching the child depart. The thirty-two seconds of—watching. Waiting. The child walking further. The child entering the building. The child—gone. Into the school. Into the next practice space. Into—the world.

The father standing at the school gate. The gate that the child had walked through. The gate that was—the threshold. The threshold between the cafe’s world and the school’s world. The threshold that the child crossed with the cafe’s practice in her hands and the school’s lessons ahead of her.

“Same everything,” Hajin said. To the gate. To the school. To the six-year-old who was now inside. “Even at school. Even in the classroom. Even without the cafe. Same everything.”

He walked back. Twelve minutes. To Bloom. To the counter. To the Probat and the chalkboard and the daily that continued—with or without the daughter at the counter, with or without the children at the cupping, with or without the people who came and went and who carried the practice into their own spaces.

The daily continued.

Mr. Bae at 7:30. Cortado. “Good.”

The same morning. The morning that now included—a daughter at school. A daughter learning the non-cafe vocabulary. A daughter who would, at 3:00 PM, return from school and sit at the cafe counter and write—the school’s tasting notes. The observations of the new space. The new flavors. The new bergamots.

Same practice. Different space.

Same attention. Different subject.

Same everything.

Including the school.

Including the releasing.

Including the daughter who walked through the gate with a coffee sticker on her backpack and the bloom in her hands.

Every day.

Like this.

Always.