My Heart and Seoul
My family emigrated from South Korea to the U.S. when I was 3-years old, so I grew up feeling like I had one American foot and one Korean foot, sometimes never going in the same direction. I grew up in a time when Korean cuisine, K-Pop and K-Dramas weren’t global sensations; when Asian hate was prevalent but not as vocal. For years, I alternately felt like a great pretender or a traitor, denying my Korean heritage in an effort to fit in and be “more American.” It wasn’t until I was in my early 20s that I went back to South Korea, for the first time since I left, in order to rediscover my heritage, my family, and my identity.
I lived and worked in Seoul for over 7 years and Seoul is still a mystery to me; with its modern aesthetics standing side by side with traditional architecture. From its seemingly progressive society to strict adherence to socio-cultural rules, Seoul was a dichotomy, full of contradictions. The city is crowded and frenetic; sidewalks are often used as an optional car lane. Everyone looks beautiful; and depending where you are on the street, your olfactory glands are stunned by the smell of delicious foods sold by street vendors or ramen-laden vomit left behind by party goers from the night before.
In the summer, downtown Seoul is shrouded in tear gas as Korean law enforcement breaks up protestors using non-violent means. I learned to always carry a cotton handkerchief and a small bottle of water to cover my face and wash out my eyes. In the fall, there is a glorious sense of renewal as people walk through the city parks to watch the leaves turn. People prepare for Chuseok, a 3-day holiday to celebrate the harvest on the lunar calendar; women cook for days to make special holiday meals and small cakes, and dress in beautiful Hanboks to visit their families. In the spring, for just a few days, Korea is covered in the pink paradise of cherry blossoms. It’s mesmerizing to walk through the streets under a rain of pastel petals.
Seoul is a friendly city for tourists and foreigners are most welcome; sign posts are in English and Korean. Many people in Seoul know English as their second language, though they’re shy to use it. Even though I kept my Korean language skills, when I’m in Seoul, they can always tell by my “accent” that I’m Gyopo, a Korean who grew up in another country. Culturally, it’s a label that denotes that an ethnic Korean has lived outside of Korea; but it can also be quite isolating, too, to be labeled “foreign.” Since most of my family are still in Seoul, and while I might be a Gyopo, I wasn’t considered an outsider and I’m always amazed by the open generosity of my family whenever I visit.
I long to go back to Seoul to see my family and friends, especially in a post-Pandemic world, and to experience being part of a culturally homogenous community again. I no longer feel so divided and I’m proud to be both Korean and American, whether I’m here in the U.S. or back in Seoul, sitting on the floor with my women relatives, making kimchi and talking about politics or laughing over my “American” pronunciation of Korean words. My love for Korea and the U.S. is always inside me, no matter where I live and call home.
Thank you to Squeeze the Avocado for tagging me on this lovely prompt!
