Returning to Korea After Fifteen Years
Last fall, one evening when I'd just finished the dishes and was about to crack open a beer and start on Netflix, Mom called me on KakaoTalk. Myungwoo was getting married in February, she said. Could I come to Korea for the wedding?
I didn't even know he had a girlfriend. The last time I talked to him—when he and Mom visited us in Virginia that summer—he'd told me he was worried he'd never find someone to marry. He wouldn't say why. I told him not to worry. If he was meant to find someone, she'd show up at the right time. Just don't force it, I said. If you do, it might backfire. And now, before the year was even over, he'd not only found someone but was already planning to tie the knot. I was happy for him. I told Mom I'd be there.
After thirty years of life in Korea, all I had were two suitcases, seven hundred dollars, and Nyangi, my beloved cat.
"What's up? Everything okay with your family?" Mark asked when I walked into the living room. He always wanted to know what Mom and I talked about. Maybe because I always walked away when she calls—I didn't want to make anyone sit through a conversation in a language they don't understand. I thought I was being polite. Mark thought I was being secretive.
"Myungwoo's getting married in February," I said. "Which means I need to fly to Korea for the wedding."
"That's great. I'm so happy to hear that," he said, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "Do you want me to come with you? We could go together."
"No, you don't need to," I said. "Just watch the girls while I'm gone."
I'd rather have him stay home and help Hannah and Savannah—thirteen and ten—with school. For me, his primary responsibility was being a gentle, reliable father to my daughters, before anything else. Not being a dutiful son-in-law.
I left Korea on a chilly Wednesday morning in December 2003, right after I married Mark, my second husband. After thirty years of life in Korea, all I had were two suitcases, seven hundred dollars, and Nyangi, my beloved cat. During the flight, she didn't make a sound—like she knew she had to cooperate with me on this daring escape from Korea, like she had when I was on a train escaping my ex-husband less than two years earlier. A guy I should never have married.
When I land at Incheon International Airport, I believe everything will be alright. But my body doesn't.
But that was a long time ago. People change, especially when they get old. Or so I'd been told. My family must have changed too—we're all a lot older now, must be a lot more patient, mellower.
Or was it that people don't change?
Either way, I should be alright. At least I got older.
When I land at Incheon International Airport, I believe everything will be alright. But my body doesn’t. It gets tense at the sight of my parents waiting at the airport, spotting me as I walk through the arrival gate. They call out my name and wave their arms. With big smiles. I smile back, walking toward them, scrambling for the right greetings to say and appropriate actions to take. Am I going to say aloud Umma, Appa, I missed you so much!? Or just a simple hello? Am I going to hug them? Or will I stand a foot or two away while exchanging hellos and how-are-yous?
I can't give them a hug. That would require physical touch.
"Hi, Umma, Appa, how are you?" Luckily, I manage to say it with warmth in my voice and a smile on my face. But I can't give them a hug. That would require physical touch.
Following my parents to the bus terminal, I notice my father looks older than his early seventies. He's grown scrawny, most of his muscle mass gone. For a short guy—barely five feet tall—he'd been muscular. I still remember his tight biceps, thick calves, lean belly. Now his hair is almost gone, though he'd never had much to begin with. People used to tell me I looked just like him. Broad forehead, flat nose, round face, stout build.
My mom, in her late sixties now, doesn't look fit either. Her limbs are too thin compared to her plump torso. She's told me people worry she might snap like a dried twig because of her skinny legs. But she's taller than my father—five three to his five feet—a mismatch I used to be embarrassed by. Walking behind them, observing their physical traits—naturally changed by age, but mostly the same—I remember how much I hated that they were the opposite of other parents. Physically and mentally.
We take an airport bus to Jongno, where my brother lives alone in an officetel—a Korean term for a high-rise that could be either an office or residence. My parents are staying there while preparing for his wedding. After an hour-long ride, we get off at our stop and Mom points to a building across the street. Eighteenth floor, she says.
In the elevator, my jaw drops when she tells me the key deposit for his place—as much as what Zillow would list my Virginia house for, if not more. My brother, eleven years younger than me, is doing very well. Mom's heartfelt prayer for him ever since his birth clearly paid off.
When we enter, he isn't there—still at work. I put my two suitcases against the wall in the living room, past the entryway, so they won't be in the way. As soon as I take off my jacket and use the bathroom, Mom asks if I'd like to go out for food. I say yes. From Googling the neighborhood before the trip, I'd learned the area has tons of nice restaurants—cheap and traditional enough to ease my craving for Korean food.
We walk to a small restaurant just around the corner. Mom says she's been a few times and liked it. A waitress guides us to a table and hands us menus, their glossy pages filled with mouthwatering photos. Any photo of Korean food is mouthwatering to me, but one particularly catches my eye—hongeo samhap, fermented skate dish served with steamed pork belly and a heap of fresh, scarlet-red kimchi. I've never tried it.
One sharp exhale through her nose, shattering the fragile layer of warmth and affection—the feeling of being a family, a normal family—we'd had since the airport.
"How about this? I've always wanted to try it." I turn the menu toward my parents across the table. They both nod. Sure, they say. Instantly I remember I need makgeolli too—the smooth, milky rice wine that pairs perfectly with the pungent dish. Or so I'd heard on YouTube.
"Can I order makgeolli too?" I ask, thrilled, like a child in a candy store.
My father's eyes widen with excitement—another kid in a candy store. "Sounds good."
"Do you have to have it?" Mom asks, her smile replaced by narrowed eyes.
I know why. She's anxious about my father's drinking and the long history it carries—late-night fights, running to neighbors for shelter, the embarrassment and wailing it brought on our family. He stays quiet, relying on me to convince his wife to let him drink. Too guilty, I reckon, to ask himself.
"Umma, I heard samhap goes best with makgeolli," I say, hoping to take advantage of my status as a guest from far away. "Appa and I will share just one bottle between us." I want to assure her a full-blown drinking session isn't my intention. "Please?"
"What do I care?" She looks away, and I hear one sharp exhale through her nose, shattering the fragile layer of warmth and affection—the feeling of being a family, a normal family—we'd had since the airport.
When the waitress brings the beautifully arranged samhap and a bottle of makgeolli to our table, I open the bottle and pour some of the ivory-hued liquid into my father's bowl, then mine. I consider raising my bowl for a toast but think better of it.
We sit there, eating and drinking in silence.
That night, I slept on my brother's floor. By morning, I'd be booking a hotel.
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