there are only two types of korean women: church and jail

the long history of the chaotic korean woman

Pulpo Tostada

The LA stop of my book tour last November was at the Gyopo office (Gyopo is an organization that helps the Korean American arts community in case you don’t want to click the link).

An hour before the book reading, I got out of the lyft and I was standing in front of a dilapidated seemingly-abandoned Koreatown strip mall. I walked around the corner, searching for what I imagined in my mind to be an office building fancy enough to house a powerful nonprofit HQ. There was nothing behind the strip mall besides a makeshift parking area sectioned off by haphazardly placed cinderblocks- clearly the work of a thrifty ajusshi. I was severely hungover, sweating through the one dress I brought on tour, a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses sitting crooked on my face, my only defense against the searing laser beam that is the 1pm California sun. The sunlight in California feels hot but also frigid to me- like the burn of frostbite. It feels crisp.

I got distracted when I saw a food truck covered in large colorful photos of ceviche. I had the ‘I’m friggin starving’ strain of hangover instead of the more common ‘I’m gonna fuckin barf’ varietal so I decided to get an octopus tostada and a sparkling water in a glass bottle. As I approached, the old Mexican woman working in the truck gave me a terrified look. She continued to stare afraid without reaction as I said, “Hi can I get one octopus tostada and a sparkling water?” I realized she didn’t speak English. “내~ 풀포 토스타다 와 아구와 미나랄 주새요. (Ne- Pulpo tostada wa aqua minaral juseyeo.)” I said in Korean. Then I said, “죄송합니다. (I’m sorry.)” while bowing apologetically. She nodded in relieved understanding.

When I encounter someone who doesn’t speak English, my brain automatically starts speaking Korean to them before I know what I’m doing. I think because it is my first language and the only other language I know, my brain thinks, “Well, if they don’t know English then they must speak Korean.”

Not only that, but I become Korean. Anyone who is multilingual or code switches knows that to go between the two is almost like flipping to a different brain completely. Not only am I speaking Korean, my octave goes up, my volume goes down and my entire body changes. I move differently, smaller. I bow after every sentence, I avert eye contact, I give things with both hands, I receive things with both hands.

So here I was bowing and handing a little old Mexican lady money with both hands while apologizing to her in Korean. I left her a $5 tip and she thanked me too hard and that made me feel like shit. Like I was a bitch for showing off that I had an extra $5. I felt like shit that she was thankful to me.

Switching to the Korean part of my brain not only makes me physically become Korean, I start to think Koreanly.

Since I was thinking Koreanly, while waiting for my tostada, I started crying. I assumed her life sucked ass and she was poor, which made me feel guilty that I had a better life while my 어른님 (elder) was suffering and had the humiliation of serving me. In my American brain, I would never think this way because it is condescending and patronizing and quite frankly white savior/white guilt racism. However, my Korean brain doesn’t think this way. My Korean brain wants to honor and save all of my elders and feels it is my fault that I didn’t work hard enough to protect them from discomfort. The most painful thing, and the biggest reason I cried was because of the look she gave me when she was apologizing for not understanding English. She was embarrassed and scared.

You see in Korea, there is a cultural concept called nunchi which means to know how to behave before someone has to explain it to you. Koreans think of it as extremely rude to cause someone else humiliation, especially if they are old. It was my fault for being too stupid not to know to speak Spanish to her. I should’ve anticipated that she would not know English. I brought shame to my elder, and I should’ve known better before the harm was done.

My American brain has no concept of this. Feeling ashamed for making others feel ashamed. My American brain thinks since I know English, everyone else should know English. But my Korean brain was formed before my American brain and this is where I reverted to: a place before, where I knew the fear of not knowing English. I knew how Americans treated me before I learned, and the fear of interacting with them. Not knowing if this American would be cruel or understanding. I knew why that old woman looked scared. I had once been scared in the same way. Americans were so mean to her. For what? Working hard? For trying? Tears were streaming down my face almost faster than I could wipe them away from under the shades. I couldn’t have her see me crying.

My Korean brain said, “Oh what? You’re the fucking victim? She’s the one who has a shitty life and YOU’RE sad? Fucking main character disease. Imagine how much more embarrassed she’s going to be knowing that her working her job is making you cry? Selfish bitch.”

Then my mom chimed in inside my head saying, “Why did you speak English to that grandma? Isn’t it obvious she probably only speaks Spanish? Her life is so fucking hard and you have to rub it in her face and make her feel stupid? Why didn’t you think of that before you ordered?”

Her humiliation and fear was MY fault. If anyone should be sorry it was me, and I WAS sorry. Then she thanked me. For what?

I’m a bad Korean.

All this shit was happening in my head while that poor old Mexican woman was just doing her job. Barely noticing probably.