I
begged
my
mom to pack me
American food for
lunch every day. I wanted
perfectly prepared meals with sliced
green apples in a brown bag and a cute note on the nap-
kin. Almost every day from elementary school to high
school graduation I ate either turkey and Swiss or peanut
butter and jelly sandwiches. I prayed that she didn’t run
out of time in the morning and resort to slapping sticky
white rice with bulgogi beef into a container because on
days like this, I knew I would be eating alone.
In the cafeteria, my peers would crowd around me
and point at my main meal of the school day. They would
sometimes pick it up and pass it around, bring it up to
their faces for inspection, and eventually toss it back to
me, calling it smelly and weird. These moments never
ended. Even in high school someone glared at my piero-
gies and yelled across the table, “Ew, what is that? You
brought dumplings to school?!”
I dealt with this pain and discomfort by stubbornly
convincing myself I didn’t like Korean food. I stopped
eating with my family at dinner, instead making my own
pasta and taking it up to my room. I didn’t accept any of
the homemade dishes my grandma made, and let my sis-
ter eat it all. I didn’t go out to eat at Korean restaurants,
afraid that people would be able to smell the kimchi on
my jacket afterwards. Before friends came over, I walked
through my kitchen and hid anything Korean in the cabi-
nets for the perfect facade. My disillusioned self believed
and desperately hoped that if I just rejected everything
Korean, including food, I would one day wake up white
and life would be simple and easy.
Then I went to college and started
having late night cravings for my
mom’s kkori gomtang” (oxtail
soup). When I was up late study-
ing for an exam, I couldn’t
stand the idea of eating even
one more microwavable mac
and cheese. I missed study-
ing at home, where my
mom would come into my
room with a plate of Asian
pears perfectly skinned,
cut and arranged into a
circle. I missed my fam-
ily, a place of belonging
and familiar food.
In college, I stopped
caring about what I ate
in front of other people.
As soon as the option of
Korean food was gone, I des-
perately craved it. I started to
understand what my parents
had meant when they said Korean
food had so much more flavor and
variety. I realized I had been in on
this secret the whole time — the secret
concoction of tasty yet healthy food, a com-
position of ingredients and tastes unique to the
Korean people. I explained to friends that Korean
food was more than just barbecue — Buddha bowls are
a rip off of bibimbop, you can get poke bowls for half the
price at the Korean grocery store, and soju has always
been extremely popular — just not in America. I had been
part of this secret club, but by the time I finally let myself
enjoy it, when I could finally breathe, it was too late. I was
in college, hundreds of miles away from home and from
my mom’s food.
I craved Korean food so much that I started mixing
together random ingredients and reminders of my child-
hood. Hidden on a shelf at Kroger, I found a small carton
of gochujang (red chili paste). I mixed that with micro-
wavable sticky white rice and gim (dried seaweed) from
Amazon Pantry. I close my eyes and savor the very slight
taste of childhood in this pathetic mélange of ingredi-
ents. As I stand in the kitchen hoping that the bowl in
my hands will turn into something much tastier, I am
sad that I can’t have the food of my upbringing, and I am
regretful that I rejected it when it was available to me. I
am ashamed that I denied my family and my culture. I am
also confused on as to why I ever thought Doritos tasted
better than Korean shrimp crackers.
When I am homesick or stressed, more than anything
I want my grandma’s home cooked meals with fresh pro-
duce straight from her garden — the truest form of farm
to table. I miss the Korean grocery store where the nice
employees would give me extra samples of the fish cakes
and my dad would let me buy Korean chips against my
mom’s rules. Non-Koreans probably don’t know the relief
of smelling ramen with fresh scallions and poached egg
cooking in the kitchen instead of hot cocoa after play-
ing in the snow. Nights in meant baked yams that were
so sweet and delicious they didn’t need marshmallows or
any other toppings found in the candy aisle. Nights out
meant driving 45 minutes to go to our favorite soondubu
jjigae (spicy soft tofu stew) restaurant and laughing for
hours on end.
I reminisce about shaved ice with red bean paste and
an assortment of toppings after playing in the backyard.
Even when I was sweating and overheated, I used to swat
my dad’s hand away and insist on spinning the ice shav-
ing machine by myself. Then when we ate buldak (fire
chicken), I would grab him for help as I both cried and
laughed from the spiciness. My family would coach me
through the pain, as learning to handle extremely spicy
food is a sign of being a true Korean.
These were the times when no one ridiculed me and
made me feel different for what I ate because I was only
surrounded by my family. I never had to explain myself to
anyone because my family understood me, inside and out.
It was only when I started elementary school and opened
doors to people outside my home that I suddenly felt so
vulnerable and abnormal. I didn’t understand what I had
done wrong for people to outcast me, and dealt with the
frustration and loneliness in a futile way.
When I left home and got sick for the first time in col-
lege, I fully realized that no one would ever love me as
much my family does. While I was doubled over, they
weren’t there to bring homemade rice porridge to my
bed. Back home, someone used to always bring it on a
tray, set with a glass of water and the exact amount of
medicine I would need for the rest of the night. As the
years went by and the decorations on my walls changed
from Jonas Brothers posters to a Michigan flag, my fam-
ily was always the first to take care of me. The rice por-
ridge was all I wanted when I was sick and that’s still all
I want.
For now, I have random Korean snacks and recipes I
try to compile, even with no Korean grocery store nearby,
and I am trying to make up for lost time and memories by
learning, asking and participating every time I am home.
Now when I go home, my mom picks me up from the
airport and we go straight to a Korean restaurant. I sit
with her and my grandma, the three generations making
dumplings together. I drive to my grandma’s house and
ask her about her childhood in Korea as I eat the japchae
(glass noodles) she makes for me. I am trying to watch
Korean movies without subtitles so I can re-learn the
language. I am still trying to apologize for the times I was
too embarrassed of my Asian identity to walk next to my
parents in public.
I am apologizing for a lot, but I am also trying to learn.
The one thing I know for sure is that I will never again
say no to the food my family offers me. To reject their
food is to reject their love, and I have spent too many
years already selfishly doing just that.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019 // The Statement
2B
BY MICHELLE KIM, STATEMENT COLUMNIST
No more pasta, please
Managing Statement Editor
Andrea Pérez Balderrama
Deputy Editors
Matthew Harmon
Shannon Ors
Designers
Liz Bigham
Kate Glad
Copy Editors
Miriam Francisco
Madeline Turner
Photo Editor
Annie Klusendorf
Editor in Chief
Maya Goldman
Managing Editor
Finntan Storer
statement
THE MICHIGAN DAILY | FEBRUARY 13, 2019
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL