The LemonSqueeze

My parents placed Korean culture at the top of the priority list for my siblings and me. We went to the cemetery several times a year to bow to our ancestors and pour rice wine around their tombstones. We celebrated the lunar new year with a morning full of incense and open doors to welcome ancestral spirits to feast on the food that my mom and grandma prepared over the span of several nights. We made a family pilgrimage to Korea to celebrate the death anniversary of my grandpa. Even though my family practiced traditional Korean culture, there was always a disconnect since I was not a native Korean. During my family’s pilgrimage, I wandered onto the soccer field in front of the hotel, and quickly began playing with the kids, until I was ousted for my accent. “Yankee” is what the Korean kids called me for being born in America and was no longer welcomed to play with them.

“Mama. Por que se están comiendo nuestra comida?” My mother and I were eating tacos rancheros in South Central Los Angeles after closing the liquor store. The hispanic girl’s mother quickly scolded her for her question, but my mom gave the little girl a smile. Although my family was proudly Korean, we began adopting the city’s culture as a whole. We seamlessly filled the areas of disconnect with different foods and experiences. Huevos con chorizo for breakfast, Kimchi tacos for lunch, sushi burritos for dinner.

I was a transfer from UCSD who quickly learned that I was behind for not having an internship in the first two weeks of school. On the way to an internship interview, I entered a tunnel that took me through to the other side of Treasure Island and instinctively honked my horn and revved my motorcycle in the tunnel, but there was no reciprocation from other drivers. Angelinos collectively understand that a tunnel is a place to bring out each other’s inner child or to release the day’s frustrations by furiously honking and revving our engines.

Berkeley’s harsh academic standards often required my roommates and me to lock ourselves in the dorm to study without distractions. “La Sopa De Tu Propio Chocolate”, a song I heard in the Curry house on Telegraph Avenue the night before, came to mind. Alan looked down onto me from his top bunk when he heard the characteristic deep bass and high yelps of the Banda and it seemed as though we instantaneously recognized the Angelino in one another. We understood each other.

My experiences with being called yankee by the kids I saw most similar to my physical appearance or being questioned by a hispanic girl on why Asians were eating Mexican food has made me extremely grateful for growing up in a melting pot of families. I believe that our likeness was not through the Banda that played throughout our dorm, but through the mutual understanding that we represented the character that is based on community and acceptance, in the city that is as multicultural as Los Angeles.