Art By: Chan Fang
Untitled; Charcoal
English 250W
Spring 2001/Primavera
The most interesting topic covered in class was the examination of local stories
in the book, Growing Up Local: an Anthology of Poetry and Prose From Hawaii.
The most self-relevant prose were the works of Nora 0kja Keller, "A Bite
of Kimchee" and "Comfort Woman." This essay will focus on the
similarities between Keller and myself, and the personal revelation received
from her prose.
Squish, crunch, squish - are the usual sounds heard when one eats a mouth watering
lump of kimchee. The almost putrid smell most times offends those who are not
accustomed to the Korean delicacy. Every family has their own methodology and
ingredients for making kimchee. So distinct is the smell that one can tell
if he/she is in the wrong house just by smelling the kimchee in the refrigerator.
The significance of this olfactory sweetness is its link to the Korean culture.
In almost every culture, food plays a major role in its identity. This concept
is proven over and over in Hawaii. Tourists from Japan mostly eat Japanese
food although they have a plethora of choices. Koreans who are visiting are
directed to the best Korean restaurants in Honolulu by their travel agents.
Visitors from the United States and other European countries like to find a
good steak and potatoes restaurant with maybe a local twist. This craving indicates
that although we may be in a foreign land, familiar food may help us to feel
at home.
"
I smelled like garlic, like kimchee, like home" (297). Living at home
for almost all my life, I took for granted the great food and love provided
by my mother.
Now that I usually stay at my boyfriend's home, the thought of returning home
to eat is relished. The smell of kimchee reminds me of times of comfort, safety,
and being well fed. At times it takes me back to a little kitchen in Seoul
with my family and neighbors that all shared common interests and common language.
To some, kimchee is just hot pickled cabbage. Like Keller, it is my link to
my culture, family, and past. "Kimchee is an easily consumable representation
of culture, digested and integrated by the body" (298).
Almost ten years have passed since my family moved from Korea to Hawaii. Within
that time, it seems that my mother and I have grown distant because of my assimilation
into the American culture. Upon reading "Comfort Woman," my mind
reflected on the current relationship between my mother and I. If for some
godforsaken reason my mother had passed away, how would I write a eulogy? Broken
stories raced through my mind, yet none of them I could completely confirm
or remember as actual truth. It was apparent that I had squandered the opportunities
when mom said, "What do you know about your grandfather and grandmother?" My
usual reply would be, "Tell me later, I got to go pick up my friends.
Next time okay?" Then just last week it hit me. What if there wasn't a
next time? What if my chance of knowing about my mother's history passed? What
would I tell my children? It would be horrible to have the same experience
as Keller. "I have recorded so many deaths that the formula is templated
in my brain: name, age, date of death, survivors, services. And yet, when it
came time for me to write my own mother's obituary, as I held a copy of her
death certificate in my hand, I found that I did not have the facts for even
a the most basic, skeletal obituary" (54).
For four days I buried my head in picture books and journals of my mother's
family. My eyes scanned the dull black and white pictures for any facial similarities
between the old and new generations. Some of the clothes worn by past generations
were valued as gold to the younger ones. Hand written journals greatly improved
over two generations through higher education and status. The sticky pages
seemed to be saturated with the sweat and tears of grandmother, who worked
days and nights to support her family.
All that rumbling around in the storage room caused my older brother to take
an interest. He shared stories that he heard of mom as a child, many of which
were quite funny. Somehow I began to realize that my clumsiness was definitely
from my mother. Later over dinner, big brother and mom shared an interesting
story of grandma. During the Korean War she escaped from North Korea to South
Korea via an old farming trail. Most of her personal belongings were carried
in a sack made of soft tree branches. When she and her family finally reached
Seoul, great grandmother was severely ill. She passed away a few days after
their arrival.
As big brother and mother took turns speaking, the room seemed to move in slow
motion. The experience was surreal. I could not recall a time when the three
of us shared stories about oma's (mother's) past. Our glasses were empty and
plates clean when the clock in living room chimed. We had so much fun that
we didn't realize it was already eleven at night. As oma and I put the dishes
away, I tried to imagine her young and beautiful. I wondered if she went through
similar problems that I am currently experiencing. In this one short evening
of conversation, oma shared more with us about her past than ever before.
That night as I set my alarm clock, I remembered the words of Keller's mother. "It
was a hard time but a happy time" (59). Feelings of gratitude and love
filled my chest for the sacrifices that my family made to give me the life
I have now. Most of the people of Hawaii are from immigrant families looking
for more lucrative and salubrious environments. The journey's made by our ancestors
are often overlooked by our personal selfishness. Oma once ate only ramen for
two weeks so she could afford to buy me a dress for school.
Stories told by our parents, whether plausible or not, whether told once or
a hundred times, are worth hearing. Like kimchee or food, it links us to past
and completes the puzzle of our origins. Moreover, stories have fusion like
qualities that enforce immediate family ties. That night when we spoke over
dinner, the view of my mother changed exponentially. I no longer saw a washed
up wanna-be mom, but a selfless care giver who supported my brother and I through
all our hardships.
The greatest lesson learned from the readings of Keller is the importance of
the family unit. In life, there are many trials and tribulations that one will
go through. Yet, if one has the love and support of a family, or in my case
a mother, those obstacles are a lot more manageable. The adage of, "If
we do not learn from history, we are condemned to repeat it", rings true
in families. We all should take the time to understand and learn from our predecessors.
Although the variables may be different, the experiences shared by the old
and the young are often similar.
The smell of the breakfast oma made on Sunday awoke me just before my alarm
clock went off. As we ate together, I tried to gather the courage to say something
with the effect that I love her. Most Koreans will never say that to their
parents or family members. Time passed and I finally had to hit the road to
attend a study group session. Oma ran outside with a few notes that I had left
on the table. I stopped the car, got out, and gave oma a tight hug. Komawa
oma! Thank you mom! The hug lasted longer than usual, and oma felt that something
was different. She held me tight and then said sharply, "Go study!" I
tried to let my hair cover my watery eyes as I let go and jumped in the car.
The car reversed and in front of it stood the beginnings of a mother and daughter
reunion.
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