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

