Finding Jeong: A Korean-American’s Story
By Patrick Cho
The face of my grandmother wrinkles in concern. “Peh-tu-rick, Peh-tu-rick”, she says in her lilting Korean pronunciation of my name. “Eat a lot!” I look down. Dishes of juicy, dripping kimchi, tiny crunchy sardines, and limp bean sprouts, enveloped in the distinctly kelpy aroma of seaweed soup, lie ominously on the kitchen table. It is the second day of our annual holiday visit to my Korean grandparents, and as is traditional I am baffled by nearly everything at their house. I poke at a legume, thinking wistfully of Christmas ham. “So, Grandma….your kimchi has just been in this pot for days? Just outside? Not in the fridge?”
“Yes, that’s the best way! It’s how we made it when we lived in Korea.”
“But doesn’t it go bad?”
“No, no, leaving it out is what makes it all taste good! Try some!”
At nine years old I had a hard enough time eating any vegetable, let alone fermenting cabbage with an odor powerful enough to strip paint, but I didn’t want to be rude to my grandmother. With the shade of botulism leering over my shoulder, I bit in.
“Ooh…mmm.” I said, noncommittally.
“It’s delicious, right? Kimchi will last for a long time, so we can send some home with you when you leave!”
Ah yes. The gift that keeps on giving.
As the grandson of Korean immigrants, my grandparents were always a source of confusion to me. Coming to the United States in the 1950s, they faced an alien society with strictly defined boundaries for minorities; like many immigrants of that generation, they desperately wanted their kids to “be American.” They never taught their children or grandchildren anything about their mother country. My childhood memories of them are a haze of befuddlement: Why do we always take a walk after meals? Do we really have to wait for my grandpa to start eating before anyone else? Are they seriously going to eat kimchi and rice for breakfast? I came to Korea as a Fulbright grantee in the summer of 2013 in many ways simply to answer this nagging question: why were my grandparents so weird?
I found the answer after living with my Korean homestay family.
At first, things were jarringly unfamiliar; the shell-shocked feeling as I arrived at my new home greeted by a swirling torrent of baffling Korean remains one of the most awkward moments of my life. But as the weeks passed and I came to know the subtle patterns of my hostfamily, it seemed like every day brought a new revelation. From food to manners to the very language we spoke, so many things awakened memories of my grandparents; what had been incomprehensible suddenly made sense. As my understanding of Korea deepened, I came to see my family in a completely different light.
When I returned to the U.S. at the end of my first grant year, I brimmed with questions for my grandmother. As I began to speak to her in my newly acquired Korean she did something I had never seen her do before, not even at my grandfather’s funeral—she began to cry. As we talked over the next few days, years of pent-up memories came tumbling out. I was filled with pride to hear that in the 1940s, as a woman and a colonial subject, she had not only gone to college but graduated from medical school; I was stunned to hear her recount her flight from North Korea and struggle for survival during the Korean War. Listening to these stories I began to notice something else—my father, who had never expressed even the slightest interest in our family history, was also paying attention. For him, as for me before my grant, my grandmother had been largely a mystery.
As my grandmother finally began to share her memories, I could feel the jeong—the deep affection and connection—being developed between not just my grandmother and me, but between her and my father. I realized that our family story was the story of so many immigrants of the 1950s—children of immigrants who reject their parent’s heritage, and grandchildren who in taking an interest, bridge the gap.
As I come to the end of my time in Korea, I sometimes reflect on how much I have changed while living here. Korea means many thing to me—the home of incredibly happy memories, deep and lasting friendships, a place where I grew and matured in innumerable ways. But more than anything, Korea is where I finally came to understand my family.
* The grandson of North Korean immigrants to the Untied States, Patrick Cho worked as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at Gwangju Girls High School in Gwangju and Miyang High School in Seoul from 2013-2015. He currently studies at Seoul National University.
Finding Jeong: A Korean-American’s Story
By Patrick Cho
The face of my grandmother wrinkles in concern. “Peh-tu-rick, Peh-tu-rick”, she says in her lilting Korean pronunciation of my name. “Eat a lot!” I look down. Dishes of juicy, dripping kimchi, tiny crunchy sardines, and limp bean sprouts, enveloped in the distinctly kelpy aroma of seaweed soup, lie ominously on the kitchen table. It is the second day of our annual holiday visit to my Korean grandparents, and as is traditional I am baffled by nearly everything at their house. I poke at a legume, thinking wistfully of Christmas ham. “So, Grandma….your kimchi has just been in this pot for days? Just outside? Not in the fridge?”
“Yes, that’s the best way! It’s how we made it when we lived in Korea.”
“But doesn’t it go bad?”
“No, no, leaving it out is what makes it all taste good! Try some!”
At nine years old I had a hard enough time eating any vegetable, let alone fermenting cabbage with an odor powerful enough to strip paint, but I didn’t want to be rude to my grandmother. With the shade of botulism leering over my shoulder, I bit in.
“Ooh…mmm.” I said, noncommittally.
“It’s delicious, right? Kimchi will last for a long time, so we can send some home with you when you leave!”
Ah yes. The gift that keeps on giving.
As the grandson of Korean immigrants, my grandparents were always a source of confusion to me. Coming to the United States in the 1950s, they faced an alien society with strictly defined boundaries for minorities; like many immigrants of that generation, they desperately wanted their kids to “be American.” They never taught their children or grandchildren anything about their mother country. My childhood memories of them are a haze of befuddlement: Why do we always take a walk after meals? Do we really have to wait for my grandpa to start eating before anyone else? Are they seriously going to eat kimchi and rice for breakfast? I came to Korea as a Fulbright grantee in the summer of 2013 in many ways simply to answer this nagging question: why were my grandparents so weird?
I found the answer after living with my Korean homestay family.
At first, things were jarringly unfamiliar; the shell-shocked feeling as I arrived at my new home greeted by a swirling torrent of baffling Korean remains one of the most awkward moments of my life. But as the weeks passed and I came to know the subtle patterns of my hostfamily, it seemed like every day brought a new revelation. From food to manners to the very language we spoke, so many things awakened memories of my grandparents; what had been incomprehensible suddenly made sense. As my understanding of Korea deepened, I came to see my family in a completely different light.
When I returned to the U.S. at the end of my first grant year, I brimmed with questions for my grandmother. As I began to speak to her in my newly acquired Korean she did something I had never seen her do before, not even at my grandfather’s funeral—she began to cry. As we talked over the next few days, years of pent-up memories came tumbling out. I was filled with pride to hear that in the 1940s, as a woman and a colonial subject, she had not only gone to college but graduated from medical school; I was stunned to hear her recount her flight from North Korea and struggle for survival during the Korean War. Listening to these stories I began to notice something else—my father, who had never expressed even the slightest interest in our family history, was also paying attention. For him, as for me before my grant, my grandmother had been largely a mystery.
As my grandmother finally began to share her memories, I could feel the jeong—the deep affection and connection—being developed between not just my grandmother and me, but between her and my father. I realized that our family story was the story of so many immigrants of the 1950s—children of immigrants who reject their parent’s heritage, and grandchildren who in taking an interest, bridge the gap.
As I come to the end of my time in Korea, I sometimes reflect on how much I have changed while living here. Korea means many thing to me—the home of incredibly happy memories, deep and lasting friendships, a place where I grew and matured in innumerable ways. But more than anything, Korea is where I finally came to understand my family.
* The grandson of North Korean immigrants to the Untied States, Patrick Cho worked as a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant at Gwangju Girls High School in Gwangju and Miyang High School in Seoul from 2013-2015. He currently studies at Seoul National University.