Chapter 1: The Shadow of "Best Korea"
"Hi, I remember you." "Sorry, I don’t think I know who you are." "I heard you telling someone, 'I am from my mother’s belly.' It was quite memorable, so I remember you." "Oh, really? I thought, 'Does this stranger remember me because I’m one of the few Asians on this cruise?' Well, thank you for remembering me."
This was a conversation I had with a stranger in a cruise ship elevator. The first question foreigners always ask me is, "Where are you from?" I reply: "I am from my mother’s belly."
Having lived in the U.S. for a long time, I find the question tiresome, so I answer it as if I'm just cracking a joke. Some walk away with a laugh, but others are persistent, wanting to know where I was truly born. "What is your nationality? Japanese?" I shake my head. "Chinese? Korean?" "I am from Korea." Even after answering, some are relentless. "North Korea? South Korea?" I reply, "I am from East Korea. Or maybe West Korea." Most foreigners know about North and South Korea, but they often look puzzled, as if they don't know much about Korea itself. So, I smile and add, "Actually, I am from Best Korea."
Thanks to Korean dramas and BTS, Korea has become widely known. My long-standing joke, "Best Korea," has become a reality. My two children once told me, "Mom, thank you. Thank you for raising us as Koreans in the world’s greatest city, New York, and for letting us live as free citizens of the world." "No, I am the one who is grateful—thank you for being proud of being Korean."
A long time ago, my eldest traveled to Mongolia. One dark night, while wandering the plains under the stars, he felt relieved to spot a ger—a Mongolian home. "I’m lost. Could you please show me the way?" "Wait just a moment. I’m watching a Korean drama right now. I’ll guide you when it ends." "I’m Korean!" "Oh, how wonderful! Then let's watch the rest of the drama together, and I'll show you the way afterward."
Chapter 2: A Sentence from a Phone Booth
The Korea I was born in transformed into a prosperous nation through the cry of "Let's live well!" Thanks to the efforts of many, from artists to BTS, the world now knows Korea. My children are proud of their heritage. Yet, I often feel like a tiny pebble tossed into space—neither fully Korean nor American. I feel like a hardened, weary stone, tossed and turned, bruised by the struggles of trying to plant roots in a foreign land.
"Wake up. You look like pickled cabbage soaked in too much salt. Where did your feisty personality go? Before you moved to the U.S., you used to roll on the floor if things didn't go your way. Look at you now—you've become so gentle! New York must be a tough place. Moving to the U.S. was the right choice. You got an education, you tamed that temper of yours, and we didn't have to spend a fortune on a wedding. If you had married in Korea, it would have cost much more than your tuition." My father said this with joy when I visited Korea years ago.
My life in America started off rocky. When I was leaving for the U.S., a cousin asked me to deliver a heavy box of Korean food to her sister-in-law in Chicago. "But sister, where is Chicago?" I asked. "It's near New York. Don't worry, my sister-in-law will come pick it up." When I arrived at JFK, a Malaysian student from the school was waiting with a sign. The box was already leaking the smell of Korean food! My English was already poor, but the stress made it even harder to understand anything. After registering at school, I called the person in Chicago to pick up the box. "Did you know how far Chicago is from New York? I can't go get it. Just mail it to me." Without a car, without knowing where the post office was, and having no idea how to ship anything, I felt helpless. Before I could even finish my sentence, she hung up the phone, sounding annoyed.
When I first left for the U.S., my professor gave me the phone number of an acquaintance living there. For months, I just stared at the piece of paper, hesitating. Finally, I mustered the courage to call. "Hello, this is Lee Soo-im from Seoul." "I don't meet with Korean people," came the cold, sharp reply. I felt as if I had been struck on the head with a steel pipe. I stood frozen in the phone booth, clutching the receiver, not knowing what to do.
Later, I met a Korean woman and was so happy. But she said, "I don't deal with smart-aleck girls who just arrived from Seoul. They’re scary." I felt like I was sinking deeper into a swamp.
Drowning in loneliness, I somehow ended up having tea with a Korean man. I tried so hard to look good, listening intently. "You could have earned quite a bit of money if you worked instead of wasting time here. In America, time is money." I felt as if I had been pushed off a cliff.
Every time I visited Seoul, my father would look at my weary face and sigh, "Why have you become so small and petty?" The difficult marriage and immigrant life had indeed shrunk my spirit. I kept visiting home because it was a place where I could eat well, rest, and receive pocket money. But as time passed, the contrast grew—I was pinching pennies while they lived lavishly. Feeling the distance, I stopped going. After my mother passed away, my childhood home was taken over by a new sister-in-law and my father’s girlfriend. I became an unwelcome guest in a place that used to be my sanctuary. My home had become a stage for strangers, and it faded into a bitter memory.
After years of immigrating, falling off cliffs, and crawling back up, I withered like dried grapes and hardened like a stone. Eventually, that stone wore down into dust. Sometimes, I feel like dust under someone’s feet, unable to stand. "Why am I huddled here?" I ask myself. I have lived in America longer than I ever lived in Korea, yet the more I stay, the less I understand this vast country. After my parents passed, Korea also stopped being the home I knew; it became a land of sorrow. They say home is where the heart goes. My home was always in my mother's arms.
Chapter 3: Tears Hidden in a Mother’s Skirt
When I was young, my mother was often ill and would send me away to our country house. She would promise to follow me soon, but after the car drove away, I had to walk the winding, ten-mile path alone. The river cliffs along the way seemed endlessly deep, and the water looked as if it would swallow me whole.
When I arrived, my aunt would lift me up, carry me to the stream, and bathe me. Sitting on the daecheongmaru (wooden porch), I would eat rice soaked in water with pickled cucumbers and salted clams. It tasted so good that I could forget my mother for a while.
I would play with my friends, but when they went home at sunset, I would stand by the graves on the hillside, looking down at the valley. I hoped to see my mother among the people returning home. But she was never there. In my dreams, my mother told me she couldn't come because her legs and head hurt.
I would cry for days, wanting to go to her. I imagined my mother had fallen off those river cliffs while trying to find me, which only made me cry more. After a few days of weeping, I could finally go back to her side. I would bury myself in my mother’s skirt, wiping my tears so she wouldn't see me cry. With her, I was the happiest child in the world.
Now, my mother is gone. She has gone to a place I cannot follow. Now, I am a mother to two children. As I absentmindedly brush the hair from my child's face, I catch the scent of my mother’s skirt—the scent that lifted me up whenever I wanted to give up in a strange land. I finally realize: my home is not a place on a map, but the memory of the warmth that once held me. Though I felt like scattered dust, I now use that memory as my compass, walking forward as the universe for my own children.
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