A Curly Korean Complex

The moment I had been dreading had arrived. What was usually a mundane part of the day I’d sleep through was now a moment of palpable tension. The inquisitor was making her way down the list and was approaching… 

“Oscar Scr-binder?” the 4th-grade substitute teacher’s voice boomed. I heard my friends snickering because she butchered the pronunciation of my last name, Scribner, which strangers have a propensity to do. I felt my face turn a scarlet red.

“Excuse me, it’s actually pronounced Scribner,” I said softly. I’ll never forget that incredulous look she gave when I, a Korean-American, claimed that surname.

“You’re Oscar Scribner?” she asked, skeptically.

“That’s me,” I gave a wry smile. 

This was not a novel phenomenon. If anything, her skepticism seemed like a natural reaction. Scribner was not a Korean name, and it wasn’t even an Asian name. But even though her reaction was natural, her jagged skepticism still cut deep. It reminded me that my appearance didn’t befit my name, it reminded me of what I was. 

Dissonant Selves

I’m not biracial, but my father, a Korean boy, was adopted by White American parents when he was 3. In an odd series of events, he ended up with my mother, an immigrant from Korea. My mom calls my dad a banana because he’s “yellow on the outside and white on the inside.” Which is true, there are probably K-Pop-obsessed girls who are better versed in Korean than he is. 

I’ve always felt more connected to my father’s side. I rarely saw my mother’s side of the family, while I saw my WASP cousins every winter break on a scenic island called Bainbridge, outside of Seattle. My closer relationship with my father’s family and traditions translated over to my cultural community as well. There were times when I felt like I was White, really because I had no concept of what it meant to be Korean besides food and my mother’s occasional rants in a language that seemed foreign to me. 

It didn’t help that I seldom interacted with the Korean or even Asian community. I went to schools that were less than 1% Asian. I lived in Harlem, a predominantly Black and Latino neighborhood. Even though my mother would try to get me involved, she was very busy with work, and things like Korean churches were out in Queens. You’d have a better chance of finding a unicorn than a Korean in Harlem. My most Korean experience was going to H Mart, an Asian supermarket chain. And I was comfortable with that, I felt like there was no tangible benefit to being more Korean.

It also didn’t help that I didn’t conform to Korean standards of beauty since I have curly hair, which is all the rage now with Asian boys, but back then it just affirmed my detachment from Korean culture. 

There were times I felt guilty about my lack of connection to Korea. I rarely saw my maternal grandmother and the few times I did, my lackluster Korean made me too embarrassed to talk. I picked up some Korean over time to communicate with her, but I rarely spoke the language elsewhere. 

I also had communication problems with my mother. She was so busy with work and much of our time was spent arguing about how I never cleaned my room or about my bad pronunciation of  Korean. She once spent over an hour lecturing me about my pronunciation of the word “ear” in Korean. 

I did love Korean food. But while I never experienced the banal “Eww, what is that?” reaction in the school cafeteria that seems to plague every story about Asian Americans, I still felt self-conscious about bringing pungent-smelling Korean food into school. I decided to just suffer through the nasty school lunch instead.

Then, when 7th grade ended, everything began to change.

Bain-Bridges Burned

My heart throbbed with excitement. It was the start of summer break, the end of my 7th-grade year. Although I made friends, I was socially cooked the whole year. All the little jokes and stares because of COVID-19 starting in China even though I’m Korean, the “North or South Korean” questions, all the…whatever, it didn’t matter now. Because I was going to Bainbridge to see my cousins. 

As I packed, I heard a voice ring out, “Oscar, come sit down!” It was my mom, no doubt here to discuss the trip. I rushed out, nearly tripping over the mound of clothes that had accumulated on the floor of my room. 

“We’re going to Korea!” she announced.

“Korea!? What about Bainbridge?” This could not be happening. It was a violation of our yearly tradition; I didn’t care for most traditions, but this was sacrosanct.

“Oscar, we’ve saved up a lot of money for this trip. We go to Seattle every year; don’t you think it’s time we finally go to Korea?” My mom gave me her characteristic assertive smile. “Also, it’s about time we go see your 할머니 (grandmother).”

“Bu-” I stifled my comment after seeing the stern expression on my mother’s face. God, why do I have to go to Korea? I don’t want to speak Korean, and…I’ve never been! I knew my mother hadn’t been in years, and it felt rude to whine, which she hated, so I nodded my head softly. I also knew that my mom must have saved up a lot since she used to complain about the extortionate prices for Airbnbs and flights to Korea whenever she traveled on her own.

A few days later, as we left the airport in Seoul, my mother was practically dragging me. I still desperately wanted to go to Bainbridge Island. As I tramped around, I saw foreigners from a wide assortment of countries, all wide-eyed and ecstatic. I noticed one family dressed up in BTS shirts, running around grinning. I glared at them with a scornful look but also felt a pang of guilt that they loved Korean culture so much while I wanted to be elsewhere. I remembered my mother’s disappointed expression from all the times I had refused to go to K-Pop concerts with her and my sister or refused to watch K-dramas. 

It felt odd to be one among many, and not the racial outlier I had been for most of my life.

When we walked toward the Airbnb, I noticed how the bright lighting of the Seoul skyline seemed to illuminate the jet-black sky. There was electricity in the air: people were out enjoying the weekend. I saw an endless pool of Koreans, all speaking lively and smiling. It felt odd to be one among many, and not the racial outlier I had been for most of my life. 

Beauteous Monstrosities

“Wake up, Oscar.” I opened my eyes groggily, my body still sore from our flight.

“What is it, Mom?” I asked in a haze, not wanting to leave the comfort of the bed. 

“We’re making 만두. (Dumplings)” 

“Can’t this wait?” I groaned, rolling around.

“Your 할머니 (grandmother) is here.” 

I hastily got up and headed out, “지환아!” she called out to me, and I hugged her. 

“Your 할아버지 (grandfather) would be so happy if he could see you here,” my mother sighed. “He looked so much like you!” 

Hearing that really hurt; I had never once talked to my Korean grandfather. He passed before I had the chance to go to Korea. Even though I never knew him, knowing I would never meet him caught my heart ablaze with guilt. Still, I felt glad to be in Korea now, to be able to see my 할머니. 

For countless hours, I sat at the table, running my hands through the goopy material. My shoulders ached from the repetitive action of leaning over the table, rolling out the floury skin, and shaping the malleable substance. 

I uttered a fatigued sigh. I had just gotten through an exhausting trip just to be subjected to the tedium of doing this stupid, archaic tradition. After finishing yet another dumpling, I grimaced as I stared at my menagerie of contorted abominations that were supposed to be dumplings. 

“Oscar, what are you doing?” my mother laughed.

I lifted my head to see the elegant dumplings that my mother and grandmother created. When it was time to cook, I eyed my contorted monstrosities with contempt and hastily placed them in the pot beneath the perfect dumplings everyone else had made. 

At the dinner table, I waited to look at the disaster I created, but when my plate was placed down, a delicious aroma filled the air. It reminded me of my grandmother’s 떡만두국 (dumpling soup) that she had made the last time she visited us in NYC. It had the same rich, indescribable smell. Suddenly, all the tedium seemed worth it, and their appearance was secondary, so I rushed to eat. It was fantastically rich and there was a soupy explosion within each bite. Soon enough I ate them all. 

I hadn’t eaten Korean food like this in forever. All year I had only eaten drab ham and cheese sandwiches at school. My eyes watered from the bursts of flavors and from the simple pleasure of eating Korean food unadulterated by other’s words and stares. I felt a mixture of pride and appreciation, pride in the food I had made, and an appreciation for my culture.

A “Korean” Haircut

A couple of weeks passed, and my mom took us to a new place every day with ceaseless enthusiasm, which I soon began to share. I had grown closer to my mother and grandma over the trip. I was also speaking Korean with them. 

 One day, we were trotting down the narrow streets of Seoul when my mother stopped in front of a gleaming hair salon door. “Let’s go in!” she said. 

“What are we doing here?” I asked skeptically,  

“You need a Korean haircut,” my mother insisted. She then went to the stylist and whispered in rapid-fire Korean. The stylist nodded. I looked around the room, and pondered how in the last couple of weeks I had flipped from rejecting Korean culture to embracing it: I dressed like a Korean, ate Korean food, enjoyed Korean culture, made Korean friends, and even listened to K-Pop even though I didn’t really like it. I was brought out of my thoughts by the hairdresser telling me to come wash my hair. 

45 minutes later, I stared at my new reflection in the mirror. “What the he-” 

“You like it?” my mother gave a light smile.

The reflection showed a bespeckled Korean who had artificially straight hair. He was indistinguishable from any other Korean. He was the epitome of Koreaness; here he was in his totality. I felt a semblance of happiness; it was as though I had completed my embrace of Koreaness, but at the same time when I locked eyes with the Korean archetype that was my reflection, I couldn’t help feeling like he looked incomplete. 

A Stuyvesant Change

When I came back to America for 8th grade, things slowly changed. I began to practice Korean. My mother and I also got very close, she had quit her job during the pandemic and we spent more time together after Korea. I made an Asian friend, which in the past I had avoided. I brought Korean food for lunch. I began to talk about Korean culture very openly to people, who were surprisingly intrigued. 

At the same time, my hair began curling out. At the end of the year, it was a familiar mess again. During this time, I realized that, while I was Korean, I was also still American. These fragments of identity could coexist.

I set my sights on Stuyvesant, a prestigious high school with a large Korean-American community. The academics were great, but having a chance to make a concrete connection with the Korean community was another attraction. 

On the first day at Stuy, I was nervous. Even though I wanted to try to build a connection with the Korean community, I was unsure how. Usually, conversing wasn’t difficult, but my experience with young Asian Americans was limited. A torrent of thoughts flew through my head, and I expected my conversations to be difficult and artificial. 

A raven-haired Asian kid caught my eye outside geometry class. He wore distinctive Korean-looking glasses: high-quality, circular with a rigid, metallic frame. I felt awkward, I didn’t want to assume he was Korean. 

I can do this; I mean, why the hell not? 

“Hey, what’s your name?” I sputtered out. 

The metallic frame of the boy’s glasses seemed to glare at me, I felt a sense of regret as I saw an odd expression foment on his face. 

“Brandon! What’s yours?” he smiled amiably.

“Oscar. Are you Korean?” I asked nervously 

His face lit up “Korean American,” he corrected, “but yes” he laughed 

The regret washed away, and the conversation became easy.

Having finished my freshman year at Stuyvesant, I have strengthened my bond with the Korean community. I went on trips with the Korean Student Association and formed connections with other Korean students. While we bonded over a myriad of interests, from track meets to late-night study sessions, there was a unique aspect to my friendships. We all navigated the space between two cultures.