Finding my footing again, beyond face value
Musings from a week of intergenerational conversations in Southern California
Two years have passed since I started this blog/newsletter after my first year in Belfast, where I interned with the organization Healing Through Remembering (HTR). In some ways, this summer feels like a compressed version, as I spent last month back in Belfast (reflection about my experience here) where I was able to share with members of HTR’s Stories Network about how Letters to My Hometown has grown from the seeds of a passion project. It feels like things are coming full circle, yet instead of coming back to exactly where we began, they are spiraling upwards.
I just got back to New Jersey after spending a full week in Southern California with four amazing team members from KoreanAmericanStory.org – HJ, Youngsun, Janice, and Cedric – as we recorded intergenerational conversations with four Korean American families with connections to North Korea who welcomed us and all our camera equipment into their homes with open hearts and cut fruit. The last time I was in California for this project, it was the most difficult part of my journey – physically, mentally, and emotionally – as I struggled to carry the weight of painful memories and multitask my way through unfamiliar terrain (on public transportation).
This time around, I felt an overwhelming sense of being together – le chéile in Irish, which reminded me of what former US Ambassador to South Korea Kathy Stephens used to say as a toast: 같은 가치로 같이 갑시다 (let’s go together with the same values). Since starting to work with Divided Families USA in 2016, I have been blessed to work with amazing people (some of whom I was able to reunite with on this trip). While many have moved on to start families of their own and work on other projects, I have doubled down – now as a full-time pursuit as a PhD student, along with my positionality as the grandchild of a divided family member and representative of DFUSA. After feeling a bit like a lone wolf for a while and questioning whether it’s worth continuing the work, I feel like I have found in these kindred spirits a renewed sense of purpose and vision about the mission of this project: to heal broken relationships that stem from the legacies of violence and division on the Korean Peninsula through the practice of story telling and listening.
We were also able to reunite with Jennifer (whose support and belief in this project has made it possible) and Sue (who has been supporting participants in how to have trauma-informed conversations with Korean American elders), who let us dwell us in the shade of their presence (as the Irish saying goes). Though it was an intensive week with long days, I felt like I was able to live out my personal mantras (to lead with love; take it slow; and it can be fun) in the ordinary and extraordinary moments thanks to such an amazing team.
Anyways, while we have more interviews left on the East Coast this month, I wanted to reflect a wee bit on what is lingering from interviews with the four families in Southern California.
What does it mean to “care” in the Korean American context?
First, it was remarkable that in all four instances, it was the middle-aged daughters who reached out about wanting to participate and have their elderly parents’ stories recorded. While their backgrounds differed – from supporting acting careers to writing historical fiction novels – it was clear that they shared a desire to not only pass on their parents’ memories to their own children, but also to have genuine conversations with their parents. While I won’t go into the details of the stories here, I can say I am inspired and encouraged by the courage that these four women had to engage their parents in challenging conversations about the past, present, and future of their family. I think I am more aware now not only of who is present in the room, but also who is absent – in other words, what is it about these women that has led them to sit down with their parent(s), (even compared to some of their own siblings)?
One of the interviewees mentioned how there’s not a direct or easy translation in Korean for the word “care,” which is what I would use to describe what the family members in each interview had for each other. Is it 걱정 (to worry)? Or 돌보다 (to look after)? Or even something like 관심/상관 (關心/相關), which suggests a level of interest? I think the closest term would be 신경 (神經) 쓰다， which literally translates to “to use one’s nerves” – a very visceral image for something that can seem as mundane as wondering if someone has eaten. This reminds me of what Stephen Colbert said in a recent interview with Father James Martin, where he draws from a scene in the film Lady Bird in quoting, “don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention”? While I knew that elderly Korean Americans (the “first generation”) had a lot of wisdom to offer from my interviews two years ago, what really moved me this time was the care, attention, and love that their children have devoted. While I know that these interviews are neither the beginning nor the end of a process of healing, reconciliation, or transformation, I trust that they can serve as anchors for deeper conversations in the future.
The stories that our faces and our feet hold
In a Zoom session with participants on trauma-informed conversations, Sue and her colleagues - Korean American mental health professionals - had introduced the Korean notion of “얼” (eol) or the “spirit/soul” of a person or people as a counterpoint to the sorrow/trauma of “한” (han). Sue’s husband, Hyun, later explained to me that the word for “face” in Korean, 얼굴 (eol-gul), originates in the character “eol” and the word 꼴 (kkol, or shape). In other words, someone’s face is supposed to be the shape of their soul or spirit. What does it mean when all that’s left of someone is a photo or memory of their face, frozen in time?
Many children and grandchildren have described their elders (especially men) as “stoic,” or not expressing much emotion. On this trip, I had a serendipitous encounter with Mr. Byun (whose interview from two years ago you can find here) at an event honoring Korean War veterans. During our interview, Mr. Byun hadn’t even mentioned the fact that he was a veteran of the Korean War, nor did I see him express much emotion when talking about being separated from his wife and daughter in the North. Yet as he bid me farewell saying that he had to go pick up his wife (I hadn’t realized he had remarried in the States either), I wondered, what stories are beneath those wrinkles – stories that are beyond words?
Perhaps the most striking image that stayed with me is of the feet of one of the interviewees (a 90-year old retired pastor), as he was recounting the story of crossing the frozen Taedong River in Pyongyang with his mother. Later, his 9-year-old grandson was edging him on – “faster, haji! faster!” – as he was pedaling on a stationary bike. I thought of the feet of so many other elders – including my own grandparents – which have carried them as they fled from violence, across long commutes to and from school, and eventually to their final resting place. As with the wrinkles on Mr. Byun’s face, I thought to myself, perhaps the elders needn’t – or can’t? – pass down all that their bodies and souls have experienced across growing up under Japanese colonialism, displacement during the Korean War, and having to resettle again as minorities in the United States. Is it better for their feet (and those of their grandchildren) to rest more comfortably in plush slippers?
As I prepare for the next round of interviews – this time on the East Coast – I am dwelling on this image of faces and feet. I am reminded of what is written on the entrance to the Buddhist Church of San Francisco – “please remove your ‘shoes.’”
The character for sect or clan 宗 is pronounced like ‘shoe’ in Japanese - and the irony of citing this for a Korean American project is not lost on me). While taking off my shoes when entering a Korean/Asian home is something I have often taken for granted, I realize there is something symbolic and special about taking off one’s shoes and putting on slippers when entering one’s home for these conversations. How can we cultivate slipper-clad spaces where there is mutual sharing and listening, rather than Cold War-era shoe-thumping diatribes?
I’ll close with a poem that I wrote on the flight back from Orange County (I realize this is the first time I am sharing my own poetry here, so please indulge me, especially if you’ve made it this far!)
Lessons from the Desert
The orange hue of golden hour arrives
onto the sun-kissed canyons, long scorched
by the searing flames of silence.
The foggy lens of a visiting crew
appearing from the free-way
neutralizes the blinding beams
of a long absence
and reveals a blank slate of presence.
We are invited to take off our dusty shoes
offered cushioned slippers to soften
our soles, hardened from the journey here
but once we start walking around for some time
we find our footing in the labyrinth of love.
Each step we take together –
whether facing the ghosts of the past at last –
are whispers of care
spoken and unspoken
they fire through our nerve endings
carrying us in and out
of the memories of a not-so-forgotten war.