Tag: intern blog

The first thing that jumped out at me when I met her was her physical weakness. Her hands felt small, thinned with age, soft, and leathery when I took them in mine. She was in a wheelchair, and she wore a patterned pink shirt that fit loosely on her tiny frame. 

“You came all this way to see me?” She asked.

“Yes,” we responded, “we flew from America to see you.” She looked us directly in the eyes and said, pointing to herself, 

“Okay. Well look at me. This is what I look like.” I knelt beside her wheelchair and was suddenly struck, not by her frailty but by her strength. She turned her head to face me.

“Who are you?” She asked, with an expression of fierceness on her face. Her forcefulness terrified me, despite her being not at all physically imposing. I became afraid that she was going to scold me and I, unable to speak Korean, would not know how to respond. 

“What are you doing in my house?” I imagined her yelling. 

“He’s your great-grandson. Chongkeo’s child.” My relatives told her, and instead of scolding me, she reached out her hand. I didn’t understand what was happening at first, but I soon realized she was reaching for my hand, and so I took her hand in mine. My great-grandmother, or jeungjo-halmeoni, is 104 years old, struggling with Alzheimer’s disease. She has lived through the Japanese occupation of Korea, World War 2, the Korean War, and the brutal suppression of the Gwangju uprising. She has watched the birth of two Korean nations and the rapid industrialization of one. She gave birth to six sons and a daughter. She endured the loss of one son in his infancy and her house to her husband’s gambling addiction. She watched her firstborn son move across the world to South America and then New York for a better life, and she waited for him to come back to be with her in his 70s. With all of that taken into account, her hands seem small but forceful, her shoulders not diminished but broad, and her hair, gray and curly, appears more like woven strands of iron. 

She reminds me of a white pine tree I saw at Jogyesa, a Buddhist temple in Seoul. Brought to the temple by Chinese missionaries 500 years ago, the tree outlasted the Joseon dynasty and survived the Later Jin, Qing, and Japanese invasions of Korea. It saw through the end of the Japanese occupation, during which Jogyesa had served as a hotbed of resistance against Japanese attempts to crush Korean Buddhism. The pine is not a super tall tree, standing at around 10 meters, nor does it have any flowers. However, its branches are broad, its needles are thin, but forceful, and its shocking white bark resembles iron.

Five-year-old me was addicted to Barbie. I watched the movies. I memorized the songs. I pranced around my basement in full fairy-princess costume, twirling a wand and going on imaginary girl-power adventures. I collected dolls– mostly blonde with shimmery pink dresses, or brunettes with light eyes and kind smiles, but there was one doll that always stood out to me the most.

Today, my mother taught me how to make doenjang jjigae. I had asked her to show me, since I’m moving into an apartment-style at school in August and I won’t have a meal plan. Besides, I’m not sure if a life without jjigae is a life at all. I sat at the wooden island in our little kitchen as she boiled the broth, added the meat, the vegetables. The doenjang paste.

I have monolids. Mono as in “one”. One-lid. No crease.

Eye-shape seems to be a resurrectable conversation topic with my Asian friends. Which of us have been “blessed by the heavens above” with that little fold in their eyelid– which of us “unfortunate souls” have been cursed to bear the weight of hooded eyes.

I had never really attempted to express what it means to be Korean American in words until this internship. I feel like I’ve always taken my Korean American identity for granted. It has always been this intangible idea floating in the back of my mind, a mingle of different moments– the sensation of tasting my grandmother’s fresh kimchi, writing my Korean name, Korean words woven into English sentences.

This morning at work, I was contemplating what I should write about for my second blog, something I actually have passion for, something I genuinely want to share with this community.

My Korean name is Park Ji-Eun, 박지은. My grandparents picked it out when I was born: Ji for “wisdom”, Eun for “grace of God”. It is a name chosen with love, with purpose.

When I was applying to colleges, I had a lot of adults heaping advice on me–how to find the best study abroad programs, the best campus life, the best professors, the best undergrad programs. Also– to find Koreans.

Hi! I’m Cara, a Production and Social Media college intern. Welcome to my first official blog! This is my Korean American Story. I am 19 years old, immensely proud to be Korean American, and incredibly passionate about sharing our experiences and stories.

Hi, I’m Emma and I am a rising sophomore at SUNY Binghamton. I’m undeclared, but I want to double major in Art History and English.

Hello! My name is Cara! I am a rising sophomore at Vanderbilt University studying Human and Organizational Development and Economics.