Living in Korea is a distant memory to me. I don’t remember anything from my childhood. My therapist did tell me that I might have forgotten about it because of the trauma of being gay in that god-forsaken country. From what I could recall, it was dangerous there. And although I am not actively voicing out that I’m gay in this country, there’s still a sense of safety here. There will be people who will judge. That’s just how it is when there are contradictions in beliefs and all that jazz. But at least, it wasn’t as dangerous as South Korea. I don’t know how things are over there because it’s been years. And to be frank, the closest I got to reconnecting with my race is Korean food. 

Am I avoiding all things Korean? Not…entirely. As my therapist said, repression was my coping mechanism. Instead of facing and having peace with it, I apparently unconsciously repressed all of my memories about Korea and everything that happened there. So, when I heard we were moving here. It felt like a breath of fresh air. The start of a new beginning. 

My parents are loving parents. They figured out I was having a hard time in Korea and decided to move here, for my wellbeing. In fact, the first thing we ever did the moment we set foot on this new land was get therapy. My therapist now is our family therapist. I remember crying together and bonding over that moment because it meant to me that we were sharing our feelings together. 

From the little memory I have, my Daddy Kyungsoo was very supportive of me being gay. We had these funny conversations over him cooking breakfast eggs where he tells me “Minjeong. When are you bringing a girl home? You better make sure you have great taste. If she is not half of what your mother was, I am disowning you. You are a disgrace! Please bring a lover home. I really wanna act all cool and protective sometimes you know? HAVE A LIFE MINJEONG!” I rolled my eyes at him and teased “Daddy! Please. I am 17! Do you want me to bring a lover here right now? Hm? You wanna know if we kissed already? HMM???” The horror in Daddy Kyung’s eyes was there. Suddenly, daddy’s aura turned dark. He started mumbling to himself. “What was that dad? What are you saying?” I continued to . “ForgetIsaidanythingandonlyhavealoverwhenyou’reincollege.” He mumbled. “You’re eating your words, Daddy! I know you’re a chef but please, eat food, not words!” I laughed and hopped off the counter to hug him from behind. I felt him loosen his tension as he was finishing up the scrambled eggs. “I said… Only have a lover when you reach college.” he turned off the stove and turned to face me. “Hm? Is that okay with you my MJ? Just wait a little more. You’re graduating high school anyway! Be my baby, a little longer.” He looked at me with soft eyes and disheveled my bangs. I hugged him even closer and finished the conversation with “I think you’ll forever see me as your baby, Daddy Kyung.” Daddy only hummed in response. He was a lover boy. He always poured all the love he could give through his food. And since his love overflows, he ends up being all lovey-dovey to Mommy and me. He loves love. He loves seeing love, feeling love, sharing love. Maybe that’s why he was quick to accept me when I told them about being gay.

As for mommy Minha, she was more traditional than daddy. She wanted to keep me connected to my race. At least the bare minimum of some Korean traditions like bowing, respect to someone older, and all the other basics, she said. I knew she was doing it so I would not completely lose my sense of cultural identity whilst living in a new environment. She said it’s always gonna be part of me and that it would somehow help me understand myself more. Although I lashed at her a few times about it, she respected me enough to keep the “Korean-ness” at the bare minimum. Mommy was very pretty. She was a great teacher. Teaching acting classes in several universities. She even gets invited to national events! Mommy and Daddy were in love. Definitely. You could feel it and I wish I could have a love that they had. Mommy Minha being a walking woman with constant baby fever, it was hardest on her when I mentioned I’d rather be with women than men. The first thing she thought was “How about baby Minjeongs? Are we never seeing baby MJs running around?” She sobbed for days. I, being young, was so confused because what do you mean you’re already imagining baby me’s? I AM THE BABY. Daddy soon talked to Mommy with pages on pages long of research about how same- couples could have their own babies with their DNA. Aren’t they cute? Soon after, my mom accepted me completely. 

Both my parents knew it was dangerous in Korea. Being gay was like a crime. They were scared I would get bullied, which they didn’t know I already was. But that’s a story for another time. If I remember it, at least. They knew something was wrong with me when I stopped talking. I stopped hanging out with them and stayed in my room. So they did what they had to do to protect me. Move countries. When my mom passed away due to a traffic accident, that’s when I wanted to avoid anything Korean. 

I kept the basics that she always taught me as a sign of respect but I refused to speak in Korean. I refused to eat Korean food. Remembering my race meant remembering my mom. And at that time, it was hard for me. Daddy Kyung was thoughtful enough to only speak English to me and even asked if I wanted to come to the funeral in Korea. I said I didn’t want to go back there and stayed. He flew there for the funeral and made sure to video call me every night. What I did notice though, was that although it was also hard for daddy, he only smiled whenever he talked about mommy. He only saw love, his lovely Minha. 

Ever since then, I haven’t been speaking my native language. Even if I made peace (somehow), I still couldn’t cause I don’t remember anything. Repression is such a powerful coping mechanism. I do not recommend, please see a therapist. If you can’t afford it, listen to Mitski. 

Anyway, hearing Karina speak to me in Korean while eating at a Korean restaurant, it brought back something in me. Maybe Mommy was right. Keeping a sense of cultural identity can help me. Like, make me feel like I belong somewhere. I miss her. I miss Daddy. Though Daddy is just a few hours away, including traffic, I hope I get the chance to visit him and his restaurant again.