Woori Mart—Our Mart

Woori Mart. It’s spelled out in plain green letters. Our Mart. 

Whose “our”? The Korean community here in New Jersey?

I walk in. Immediately on my left are a few stands selling cosmetics and clothes. Glancing over, I notice a cardboard cutout of Korean star IU standing next to a bottle of refreshing green soju—a common Korean advertisement. To my right is a small food court. I decide to plow ahead first.

I’m greeted by a colorful garden of fresh produce: endless boxes of golden chamoe melons and mountains of cabbage for kimchi-making. I smile as I think of my halmuni, my grandma, buying these items; she dropped off a fresh batch of her kimchi this morning.

I walk further into the noodle section, where I find my favorites—not linguine, penne, or ravioli but somyeon, junghwamyeon, and naengmyeon, or wheat noodles and knife-cut noodles. These made my childhood, from the soups my mom made when I or one of my siblings was sick to the cold mul naengmyeon I slurped down on hot summer days. Further down are my favorite snacks: banana puffs, seaweed chips, and kkokkalcorn. My siblings and I used to put those small cone-shaped corn chips on the tips of our fingers so they looked pointy.

I finally make my way over to the frozen section at the back corner of the store, spotting my favorite honeydew-flavored Melona ice cream bars. I’m shocked to discover the other flavors: mango, coconut, ube, and banana. I grab an ube one just to try it.

Bouncing between the aisles, I practice my Korean reading and listening. This is where I can put my years of Saturday Korean school to use. I read the product names and ingredients all around me. I eavesdrop on the conversations nearby, happy when I understand the Korean. Here, I can almost pretend it’s Korea. Almost.

But all around me there are little reminders that it’s not. The speakers are playing NSYNC and Britney Spears. All of the signs in the food court have English translations. Thinking back, even the cardboard cut out looked a bit old. Plus, there’s plenty of English being spoken here.  It doesn’t match the Korea I saw when I visited a few years ago. It’s close, but not the same.

I sometimes wish I could visit again. As a third-generation Korean American, I am desperate to cling to my roots. I’m worried that I will be responsible for losing my family’s last bits of Koreanness, like the language, the food, and the stories. So in recent years, I’ve immersed myself in all things K-culture: K-pop, K-dramas, food, everything. Sometimes, I still feel so distant from my background, like when my Korean classmates are speaking in Korean and I can’t get a word in. But other times it feels like I’m slowly connecting, like when I’m able to watch and understand a Korean video without subtitles.

I look around again—at the English signs. I listen again—to the American music. But then I spot a white grandmother. She’s holding a package of cup noodles in her hand, adding it to her already overflowing cart. I see a white dad and his daughter, holding hands, ready to explore the store.

“Look dad! These are the rice cakes my friend brought to school,” the girl exclaims enthusiastically. “We have to get them!”

I smile. She must’ve had them at a birthday party; those are a go-to treat at any Korean celebration. I should tell her to get the rainbow ones that taste the best.

Then I spot the Korean ladies at the stands, chattering in Korean happily. I hear a Korean grandma, conversing with a grocery worker at the cash register.

“It’s my granddaughter’s first birthday,” she beams. “I’m making her miyeok-guk—seaweed soup.”

Yup, miyeok-guk on birthday’s is a must.

Looking all around, it’s clear I’m not in Korea. After all, there’s a reason it’s called Woori Mart. It’s not “our” as in just Koreans but “our” as in all of us—the grandma making seaweed soup, the little girl discovering rice cakes, and me, trying to discover my ethnic roots while in New Jersey.

I used to fear that I would lose my family’s Korean side, but I’ve realized that’s not the case. By reading Korean labels, by trying new Melona flavors, I’m building something new. I’m learning how beautifully complex it is to be both Korean and American at once. I don’t have to choose one over the other. I just have to keep showing up—with my cart in hand and my eyes open.