Thank you Halmuni and Harabuji

The summer before middle school, I visited Korea for the first time. I was looking forward to connecting with my Korean roots as I immersed myself in the culture. I remember going to a street market excitedly. I was at a food stand when the vendor asked, “한국말 알아요?”. Do you speak Korean?

Even though I was with another Korean friend, he looked only at me, as if he could see right through me. He started speaking in English and it felt like a pierce to my heart. Couldn’t he just speak to me in Korean? Did I not look the part?

The very first Koreans came to America in the 1880s when the US and Korea established diplomatic relations. Yu Gil-jun was one of them—he was the first Korean student to arrive in the US. I wonder how he felt stepping into a new country where no one looked like him. I wonder what he would think of a Korean American girl like me, playing the opposite role. What would he think of me, visiting Korea for the first time, a country full of people who look like me, but still feeling like a stranger? Would he laugh at the irony?

One of my favorite New Year’s traditions is making dumplings with my grandma. Each year, my cousins and I crowd around her to watch the process. Plop! There goes a spoonful of homemade filling in the center! She dips her finger in a shallow bowl of water next, then paints a circle around the wrapper’s edge. This is like glue. Lastly, she artfully folds the dumpling in her hands, pinching it to create the perfect shape. By the end of the night, my family’s table is covered in dumplings.

But the best part isn’t making them—it’s eating them. Eating a mandu, or dumpling, feels like a warm hug. The sweet flour dough, slightly chewy, dissolves in my mouth, revealing mouth-watering meat and veggies. With each inhale, my nose fills with the comforting smell of food and family and tradition.

The Korean church is a large part of the Korean immigrant story. In the 1880s, missionaries converted many Koreans to Christianity, giving them opportunities to come to America. For many Korean Americans who felt alienated in an unfamiliar country, the Korean church became a safe haven through which they could connect with people from home. Just like the dumplings are for me, the church is a taste of comfort, a taste of home.

In fact, my grandparents became Christians soon after coming to America when they discovered a Korean church. Now, decades later, they remain faithful Christians. Because of them, my mom was brought up in the faith as well and now me.

A few years ago, I was in the car with my mom and grandma on the way to pick up food in New Jersey’s K-town. I had actually tagged along in hopes of spending time with my grandmother. My interest in Korean culture was budding at this point, and though I wanted to talk to her, I was still shy about admitting it.

“Halmuni? Grandma?” I built up the courage. “What was it like growing up in Korea?”

She 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.”

My grandparents came to the US in the last period of Korean immigration to America, which started in 1965. Korea at the time was riddled with issues—high unemployment rate, political uncertainty, and a military dictatorship. Additionally, the US government had just put an end to racial quotas, so many more families were coming over. This group of immigrants differed from previous ones in that they were coming voluntarily, rather than as laborers, war victims, or political refugees, like previous Korean immigrants to the US.

I can’t imagine how scary and hard it must have been for my grandparents to leave Korea in hopes of starting a new life in the US. Today, I’m so grateful for my life in America, but when I think about my grandparents, there’s a part of my heart that aches for what they left behind. I think this is what drives me to continue to seek Korean culture, even as I live in the States. I want to keep the Korean part of my identity alive to honor the sacrifice my grandparents made by coming to the US, to appreciate the beautiful country they left behind.