Renewal

A few days ago, my husband, son, and I returned from our annual pilgrimage back to my home.

This one. . . 

Not this one.

Usually prior to our yearly summer trip to St. Louis, I'm excited. Each year, our son is bigger and more capable of understanding why this is a special place. I get to experience it anew through his eyes, and each year is a fresh adventure.

This time, the typical anticipation was pretty low. Of course, I looked forward to seeing family and friends, watching the hilarious interplay between my parents, (they really are like a sitcom) and living like a tourist in familiar surroundings.

△  △  △

But ever since it was brought to my attention that Omma probably won't see me when I return to Seoul in a few weeks, it's a blanket that envelops my brain. It blocks the sunlight. It suffocates.

The distance between us has become increasingly palpable for months, beginning in February when I told her I was returning to Seoul for a conference.

"When are you coming?"

At the time, I didn't have exact dates. But as months wore on, I booked my flight, paid the conference fees, and secured lodging, all the while keeping her apprised of new itinerary information.

And each time, this was the response:

GIF credit

Several weeks ago, I texted the name and location of the AirBnB I will be staying. I offered to ride the train to her home (about an hour away from Seoul) along with tentative dates. A cryptic text followed.

One app translated her message as:

"The bird flew away to avoid the hysterics."

Another app read it as:

"Wait, wait, wait."

GIF credit.

I sent a screenshot to my Korean tutor. Perhaps it was an idiom, so the apps would have trouble?

My tutor wasn't sure, either, and said Omma used the word for "lost," so maybe she lost something?

Long story short, a KAD friend living in Korea mentioned that Omma's radio silence is indicative of the Korean face-saving cultural norm. 

In sum, Korea, like many East Asian countries, places more value on the group than the individual. To "save one's face" is a way to honor and respect each other, keeping taut the collective strings that bind. Bad news is delivered indirectly, deeply apologetically, or perhaps not at all in an effort to avoid or limit another party's embarrassment. (This super informative and interesting article explains a LOT more about Korean face-saving.)

The idea that we wouldn't see each other never even dawned on me. It was the Boogey Man, something fictional. Actually, that's not even accurate because at least he has a name. This possibility didn't even exist in my mind after our reunion last summer. Of course we would see each other. We will hold hands and walk down the street. We will shop, eat street food, and be a Korean mother and daughter. We will feel comfort in the similarities between our faces and voices. I will ask Omma questions about our family. We will go to noraebang together. We will feel pride when the other charmingly and entertainingly makes someone laugh. We will watch K Dramas. Of course we would see each other. We just reunited. We have 40 years to make up. 

Omma and I hold hands in Dongdaemun last summer.

This revelation's birth was messy and painful. It clawed its way out of my chest. The rejection scars were only beginning to heal. Now they were open again.

The child in me became petulant. I wanted to cancel my flight and stop learning Korean. Why bother? I'll show her.

△  △  △

Oddly, one of the things I most enjoy about our yearly St. Louis road trip is the journey, as cliche as that sounds. In our car, we play games, listen to podcasts, write Mad Libs, and discover together. We're a team. 

I forgot was that St. Louis is my team, too. My parents. My family. My friends. I didn't mention a lot about Omma to anyone, but for two weeks, I was privileged enough to be loved on, taken care of, and protected. That's irreplaceable. 

There was no pretense about it, no tip-toeing, walking on eggshells, or analysis of unspoken things. We fed raccoons peanut butter sandwiches. We ate picnic lunches at the Science Center and (in the case of my husband and I) defied our age crawling through tunnels in the City Museum. Along with an aunt, uncle, and baby cousin, we braved a torrential storm and met Twister, the famous painting horse at Longmeadow Rescue Ranch, which is like a farm animal satellite of the Humane Society of Missouri. We ate toasted ravioli with habanero apricot beer while laughing and catching up with cousins at Cugino's. (Ok, well, I ate toasted ravioli.) We rode the MetroLink train to the Loop. We laughed with friends in their home. We got up close and personal with penguins. We learned that pigs really do eat everything. We went to the "water park," and toughed it out despite the chilly water. We ate so much pizza that my son actually said he was tired of it. 

At Longmeadow, I got separated from my son and asked where he was. Someone said, "I saw him near Twister." He's been around horses before, but never actively sought them out. Animals are wonderful. Support Longmeadow Rescue Ranch here. 

I felt so full so often that I forgot what it was to be hungry.

One of the last things my therapist said to me before leaving for St. Louis was, "Don't forget to enjoy your family." I thought, at the time, that that sounded odd and a little pretentious. Of course I would, why wouldn't I? 

She knew what I didn't - that I forgot how it feels to be full.