First Supper

The white limited edition Kia Grand Carnival mini van pulled in to a parking lot of a tall apartment building. Grandpa’s apartment. I was a bit worried about how my family would receive me. This was my first time visiting Korea by myself, and for whatever reason I felt that it would be different. We took the elevator up six floors, and I opened the door to grandpa’s apartment. “Is she here?” I heard them say in Korean. They saw that I indeed had arrived and greeted me with loud exultations and hugs. I went to hug grandpa, the only one who didn’t stand up to greet me because of his age. In Korean culture that meant you came to him, not the other way around. I realized then that I was surround by my kind and loving family. All of them with smiles on their faces, there were a lot of them. My mom had three sisters, and one brother. My mom’s brother was the one who drove me there. He had two kids, Yu-Gyung and Gwaun-oo. My uncle was the youngest. My mother, the oldest. Her three sisters In-suk, Jin-Suk, and Mi-Suk were the middle siblings of the family. Yes, it is common for all the siblings in the family to have the same endings in their first name. I giggled a bit to myself the first time I heard all their names in order. All their cumulative kids large in number too, 7. Although one of my aunts lives in America, there were five kids around my age surrounding me all the time throughout my trip. After all the raucous settled down, they started to talk to me in Korean. I wasn’t quite fluent, so I gave them a blank look. I heard them say in Korean “She doesn’t know what we’re talking about.” Just then I realized what she had said. “Oh! Change my pants!” I exclaimed. My aunt nodded her head. I went to the room with my luggage in it. Closed the door, and fished out a pair of pajama pants. It’s Korean culture that when you get home you change into more comfortable clothes. Sort of like loungewear. I slipped them on and went back out into the living room where everyone had slipped into their normal activities. All the men watching TV in the living room, all the women in the tiny kitchen bustling about, and the children in Grandpa’s bedroom. It was a small room with black Korean wardrobes and a Korean vanity with detailed ornate cranes and ginkgo trees carved in the sides and painted with bright colors. This was the one thing of Grandma’s that Grandpa had left. She passed a way two summers before my visit, of breast cancer. My mother didn’t have very good memories of her, because of their hard lifestyle. With a minimal income and five kids my grandparents were hard pressed to make ends meet. I looked at my cousins. They’re eyes were all glued to the TV, as usual they were watching a musical performance show. I looked and saw a poppy bubbly group, probably the new hot thing in Korean music. I really didn’t know, they came out with artists so fast I could barely keep track. Although I do admit I after the trip was over Korean music would be my favorite genre. My guilty pleasure, they’re music scene is reminiscent of America’s 90’s music scene. I looked at my cousin Ye-Seul, who was one month apart in age from me. She looked back, “Hi.” “Hey,” I said. Just then I caught sight of her wrist. I gasped. My cousins heads snapped up to look at me. I pointed to Yeseul’s wrist, “Is that real?” “Umm, yes,” she half smiled. “Did it hurt? Did your mom get mad?” She shook her head. “A little bit, no she is not mad,” she said. I only asked this because in Korea getting a tattoo meant trashiness. It was a big no no in Korean society, but Ye-seul is a big rebel. She aspires to be an American, while I aspire to be a Korean. I told her we’ll switch places. I was surprised at her answer. Just then the apartment door opened again. Autumn walked through the door, dressed nicely as usual. She kicked off her heels, and walked up to the door way and looked at all of us laying on grandpa’s makeshift bed made of blankets on the floor. She answer a few questions from her mother who was making dinner in the kitchen with my other aunt. She came into the room and plopped down on the floor. “Hi Bianca,” she said. “Hi,” I said back and gave her a smile. I obviously wasn’t going to get through this trip with my superb Korean speaking skills, so I might as well convey my emotions with my face. I was happy to see her, most definitely, she was the best English speaker in the family, and the only kid who had been to America, well Hawaii to visit my aunt, but it’s still America. She watched TV for a few minutes and then turned back to me. “ Did you see Ye-seuls tattoo?” she asked with a look of disgust on her face. “Yeah,” I said. “I scream at her for long time, it’s bad,” she said. “Mm,” I said. So I was right. Tattoos are a Korean taboo.