The intangible weight of the words grew heavier in my head and my stomach churned as the crumbs of the moldy piece of bread from lunch were entangling a maze within my diaphragm. When I initially tasted the bread, it had been a mixture of salt and sweetness, but the aftertaste was like bitter chocolate. Trying to shift my focus from my down turned stomach, I stared at my chipped red nails as I held onto the cold metal railing. After repeated movements of altering my hand one lift-up and a slide-over the handle, I could not help but reiterate the lines “Bryan, would you like to join my family for Thanksgiving?” in my head as I waited for the school bell to ring its typical, high-pitched sound.
It was later that day that my parents informed me they had invited Bryan’s family to our annual Thanksgiving dinner because I hadn’t had the guts to. I could feel my blood vessels dilating under my skin and my stomach felt sicker as though a scientist had taken a knife and drawn a horizontal line, an incision, straight across my abdomen. Would my mother’s marinated beef, sweet syrupy pancakes, and fermented vegetables appear appealing to Bryan? What would he think of the Korean language? Did he even have the remotest idea when it came to using chopsticks?
My mother had prepared truly exquisite meals consisting of green onion, soy sauce, red pepper, ginger, garlic, wine, and other ingredients. At the center of the table was kimchi, a stimulating appetizer highly seasoned with pepper and garlic that filled the air with a foul odor. To the left, there was a soup that appeared to be thicker than soup but thinner than porridge with fish stock, hot pepper flakes, and demented slices of tofu swirling around and sinking to the bottom. There were also Korean pancakes, the ones that look like the American type, but taste as though they’ve originated from an alien planet. They consisted of ground mung beans sprouts shaped like skateboard wheels and there were chopped bits from a slimy rock cod with slit eyes that had been fried. The whole pancake was drenched in “maple syrup,” or ahem, the hot crimson sauce.
Dinner was an appalling, atrocious event. My younger brother sucked on his chopsticks and used his fingers to drench the pancakes in soy sauce. He swirled his finger in the sauce bowl until my mother ruthlessly slapped his knee. Bryan continued to stare at his plate and would not avert his eyes even when my mother introduced kimchi jigae, a traditionally popular korean dish. I continued to gulp jugs of water until my mother dropped a chewy brownish pink piece of squid on my empty dish. Bryan stared as I slowly chewed the squid dunked in hot sauce and I couldn’t help but fall into greater mounds of despair.
While Bryan’s family put on their clothes and my family rushed them out the front door, I began to pile the dirty dishes on one end of the table. I could hear footsteps approaching the kitchen door as I ambled towards the dishwasher.
My mother exclaimed, “You must embrace your Korean heritage! Although you are growing up in America, your heritage and lineage lies in the Korean culture. Your only shame lies in the inner realm of being shameful.”
It wasn’t until twenty years that I truly comprehended my mother’s lesson. -It was arduous to integrate such stories into my personal life as I grew from childhood to womanhood. There is a story in Korea about a woman who ultimately drowned. With her wet hair hanging and skin bloated, she became known as the drowned one. I was terrified that I would become the ghost if I failed to acknowledge my culture and my very existence. Being ashamed of my own culture is tantamount to rejecting my sense of self.