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Nevertheless, in about 10 minutes, we were all assembled at the entrance of the supermarket. The nong-gi bearers stood in a semicircle behind Scott, the sang swe. Following him were the other kkwaeng-gari players, then the jing, jang-go, and finally the buk players. Scott looked around and said softly with a smile, “This is the last one” and then spoke loudly and authoritatively, “ Soolyoung soo!” signaling the beginning of the performance. We responded, “ Yae-ee!” as loudly as we could.
Somehow, we mustered up the energy to bang on our instruments with enthusiasm and joy. After the rousing drum roll of ilchae, we settled into a march into the supermarket with the slower, more complicated samchae. Led by the nong-gi bearers, Scott wove through the aisles, dancing, spinning, and skipping from side to side, and we followed him in his path. Some of the shoppers tried to dodge us, some stopped to watch, and others cupped their ears with grimaces. Yuna slipped out of the line to dance with some children and encouraged them to join the line. When we reached the entrance again, an elderly woman who operated the snack shop sallied out dancing from behind the counter with a handful of $20 bills. We formed a circle around her and played and danced with her as she spun and waved her arms slipping bills into our clothes and instruments. Some of the nong-gi bearers put down their flags and joined her in the middle. The other ladies in the back kitchen took off their kimchi-soaked gloves and joined in the celebration. It was an unexpected meeting of generations as women in their 50s and 60s danced around with men and women in their 20s and 30s to pungmul music. At that moment, pungmul was like bhangra, bridging multiple generations in celebrating through music.
When we finally danced out into the parking lot, the sun was almost completely set, and we could barely make out the white minbok sleeves and pants. In between dodging the parked cars and mall traffic, we jumped around dancing and playing for another half an hour. The nong-gi fluttered around in the breeze as the bearers skipped in a circle around the drummers. As we wove around each other, playfully banging on each other’s instruments, waving our arms and yelling “ Eolssigo!” and “ Jotah!”, I felt something that could only be described as shinmyung, the feeling of communal joy.