“Get a grip! You look like over-salted green onions—totally limp. What happened to that fiery temper of yours? Before you went to America, if things didn’t go your way, you’d throw a tantrum and roll around on the floor! And now? You’ve gone soft and actually turned into a decent human being. I guess New York really does change people. Good thing you went to the U.S.—you got to study, tame that nasty temper, and we didn’t have to pay for a wedding. Three birds with one stone! If you’d gotten married in Korea, we would’ve spent a fortune. I’d bet it would’ve cost way more than your tuition.”
That’s what my father said, delighted, when I visited Korea long ago.
Before I left for New York, my cousin brought a huge box filled with Korean food to the airport and asked me to deliver it to her sister-in-law in Chicago.
“Unni, where’s Chicago?” I asked.
She said it was somewhere near New York. She assured me that if I contacted her, she’d come pick it up. So we shoved the box onto the check-in counter.
At JFK Airport, a Malaysian girl from my school stood holding a sign with my name. And wouldn’t you know it—the smell of Korean food was already leaking out of the box. My English, already shaky, completely failed me.
After registering at school, I called Chicago to let them know the box had arrived. They snapped, “Why would I go all the way to New York to get it? Just mail it.” But I didn’t have a car, didn’t know where the post office was, and had no idea how to send a package. She hung up, annoyed: “Why’d you even bring it?”
Before leaving Korea, a professor had given me the number of someone he knew in the U.S.
I pulled out the slip of paper and hesitated, but finally gathered the courage to call.
“Hello, I’m Sooim Lee, I just arrived from Seoul…”
“I don’t meet with Koreans.”
His voice was cold and final, like a blade. It felt like being hit on the head with a metal rod. I stood frozen, unable to hang up the phone.
I happened to meet a Korean ajumma (older woman) one day. I was so happy. But she said,
“I don’t deal with sly young girls fresh off the boat from Seoul.”
It felt like I was sinking into a deep swamp, struggling not to drown.
I was so lonely that I even ended up having tea with a Korean man—something I never thought I’d do. Trying to make a good impression, I widened my small eyes and listened carefully. But then she said,
“Instead of wasting time chatting, you could be making money. Time is money in America, you know.”
It felt like being pushed off a cliff. I was frozen, unable to move.
Over the years in America, I kept falling off that cliff—again and again. Each time, I’d claw my way back up, only to fall once more. Bit by bit, I became that over-salted green onion—limp and worn out. And I can’t help but wonder… How many people did I turn into salted green onions, too?
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