Standing Between Two Cultures

감사합니다 Thank You

Sunlight cast a warm glow on the colorful market in Korea.

“C’mon!” I called to my friend, beckoning her in my direction.

The two of us were taste-testing street food. Though she lived here, it was my first time

visiting and I was buzzing with excitement. I had been begging my parents to come here for

years. My mouth watered as the sweet scent of cinnamon filled the air. Following the smell, I

joined a few people in front of a stand where a man was handing out pastry samples. The pastries were a light shade of brown and looked intricate, as if stitched together by a seamstress. I looked on with interest as the man explained how to make them to his small audience. Though I understood the gist of what he was saying, a few of the words were unfamiliar since he was speaking in Korean. As if he knew my thoughts, he looked in my direction. Curious, I waited to see what he’d say.

“한국말 알아요?” he asked. Do you speak Korean?

I deflated, my smile wavering. All of my enthusiasm drained out of me like I was an

untied balloon. If I had been a spinning top before, steady and stable, I was suddenly teetering and unsure. How could he tell I was from the US? I looked Korean, didn’t I?

“조금만 알아요,” I sputtered. I know a little bit.

Smiling and nodding understandingly, he switched over to English, beginning to speak

with a flawless accent. My cheeks flushed pink as my ears relaxed into the familiar language,

against my will. I shuffled my feet while he continued with his explanation.

Before I knew it, the pastries were ready, though my eagerness from before had faded.

“감사-” I started to say as I slipped one off of the plate, but I stopped myself.

“Thank you,” I replied instead, switching to English.

Cousins and Dumplings

Our kitchen table was covered with ingredients: dumpling wrappers, big bowls of filling, and shallow dishes of water.

“얘들아, 여기와,” my grandma called. Come here

everyone!

I heard the pitter patter of my little cousins’ feet as they

scampered to the table. When they arrived, their eager

eyes darted around to take in the display before us.

“Follow me,” my grandma instructed.

They gathered around as she pulled a wrapper from the stack, placing it in front of her. Then, taking a spoonful of her homemade filling, she plopped it into the center.

As she gently dipped her finger into the shallow bowl of water, painting a circle around the wrapper’s edge, they leaned closer. Carefully, she molded the dumpling in her hands, pinching it to create the perfect shape. Ta da!

My cousins watched in awe.

“Woah! I want to try!” they chirped like baby birds.

My grandma smiled at their enthusiasm, the corners of her eyes crinkling with affection

as they took their seats at the table. As they began to make their own dumplings, I continued to observe them. Soon, their creations were piling up on their plates.

“Leah, look!”

My cousin called me over. Beaming with pride, he presented his “flower dumplings.” He had pressed the corners of the dough to create messy petals.

“Wow, that’s so great, Calvin! I love them!” I exclaimed.

“Why don’t you make one?” he asked, inviting me to sit beside him.

“You know what, I should!” I agreed.

Sitting down, I reached for a mold. After I scooped the filling into the middle, I created

the ring of water. It was time to fold! I handled the dumpling, trying to mimic my grandmother’s careful movements from before. When I looked at my finished work a few moments later, I laughed. It was lopsided and far from perfect, but I’d done it!

Later that night, my family gathered around our dining table to eat the dumplings. Moisture and steam brushed against my cheeks as I prepared to take my first bite. It was like a warm hug. The sweet flour dough, slightly chewy, dissolved in my mouth, revealing mouth-watering meat and veggies. Closing my eyes, I inhaled, my nose filling with the comforting smell of food and family and tradition.

Questions for 할머니

I was sitting in the back of my car. Up front, my mom and grandma were conversing in

Korean. The three of us were on our way to pick up food in Jersey’s K-town. I had tagged along in hopes of spending time with my grandmother.

Nervously, I fidgeted in my seat. My interest in Korean culture was still budding, so I

was shy when it came to asking questions. After a while, I built up some courage.

“할머니?” I called tentatively. Grandma?

“어?” she responded. Yes?

“What was it like growing up in Korea?” I asked.

My grandma paused, considering her answer.

“I grew up in the countryside with my 6 siblings,” my grandma began in Korean. “There

were nine of us: five boys, two girls, and our parents...”

The rest of the car ride was filled with my grandma’s stories from her childhood. Like a piggy bank filling up with shiny coins, my mind began to overflow with questions. Every few

seconds, I interrupted with one: 그거는 뭐에요? 진짜요? What does that mean? Really? The more I talked, the more connected I began to feel to my Korean roots.

As we pulled into the driveway back home, my grandma spoke, “Leah, it makes me so happy that you want to learn Korean.”

I smiled.

“It makes me happy too.”