Sunday BEEF
Sunday BEEF By Iris Hyun-A Kim In the Netflix original series BEEF (minor spoiler ahead), there is an iconic scene when Danny, played by Steven Yeun, goes to church. Danny, a Korean American handyman embroiled in a heated revenge stand-off with a stranger, unexpectedly decides to attend Sunday service. He walks in during the timely performance of “Come to the Altar” by the praise band. The camera flits between singing attendees with their uplifted hands and Danny’s slowly shifting facial expression from uncomfortable to emotional. At the musical climax, Danny bows his head and begins to sob. In 1965, Congress passed the Immigration and Nationality Act, which may have come as a surprise to many Americans that their new neighbors hailed not from China or Japan, but from the tiny peninsular nation that was split in half just 15 years prior. Towards the end of the 20th century, the Korean diaspora community comprised the largest part of new immigrants in the United States, according to the “Boston Korean Diaspora Project” by Boston University. With them came the increased consumption of cabbage (for kimchi), a boom in Korean-owned corner stores and laundromats and the occasional halmoni picking greens off the side of the road. But before any of those instances even materialized, there was the Korean-American church. Korean Christianity grew alongside the southern peninsula’s post-WWII ideals of democracy and freedom and was quickly brought over by immigrants in the following decades. By the time Danny reached the multigenerational English-speaking ministry in the Californian suburbs, a particular sense of community existed within the Korean-American Church — uncanny details of which were portrayed in the BEEF church mise-en-scène. The sight of folding chairs and Danny munching on a donut after service brought me back to the long Sundays I would spend running around my own hometown church. Whether religious or not, many recent immigrants found themselves in a Korean church on Sundays to meet the established immigrants, forming connections and ushering them into assimilation. There were plentiful opportunities to do so, as Sunday corporate worship was only one of the many events happening throughout the day, even more so the week: hiking trips for the elderly and interchurch sports tournaments for youth kids, summer camps and Saturday hangul classes, early morning prayers and after-hours small group gatherings. Babysitting was always free, and kids could always find something to do in the back storage rooms of a building that never went dark. No matter where you were in your beliefs or immigration status, there was a place for you. Like Danny, I found myself crying in the first church service I attended in Seoul for some inexplicable reason. I was fully surrounded by a cacophony of voices singing out, instruments reverberating the room. But despite the ongoing efforts to adjust to life in Korea, I could not help but feel the disconnect with that Sunday. While Danny cried and entered a strangely familiar and comforting community, I cried for the strangely unfamiliar, the discomfort of the land that my body left before it was formed. [Featured photo by Kierstin Conaway]
River Child
River Child By Leah Yan Doherty, 1st Year ETA [Image by Victoria Thiem] I They say I floated softlydown the Yangtze, a ripple-like shimmerinto their outstretched arms—“our little river child” Tears, freshly pluckedfrom the deepened creaseof patient smiles, crinkled around the edgestasting of hope and roasted coffee. At nightI would listen to talesof shape-shifting monkey kingsand Chinese cinderellas “… a bright child and lovely too,with skin as smooth as ivory anddark pools for eyes,” she only had one friend,a magical carp 魚 with golden scales. then, as always, came gentle sleep Stories of my birthplace started and endedwith long-winded lectures on ancient calligraphyand portraits of gray-bearded emperorssitting behind mighty walls of stone. To this faraway land, I was a stranger II We came from various orphanagesbut an invisible string tied our lives togetherlike a red ribbon of fate, trailing after usas dutifully as a kite “Am I pretty?” asked one of my sistersas she pursed her faintly cracked lips andlifted silver-studded brows—don’t tell my mom please—to a green mirror, covered in rust. She widened those almond eyeswhich reflected backa set of canoeslooking for land to accept it “beautiful,” I thought. Then she hushed me,took me suddenly by the handand we started runningbarely swallowing our grins up, up, up. Perhaps it is how memories paint the wallslike intricate murals of wildflowerand laughter stains the ceiling,or perhaps it’s something more? How effortless it is,my heart repliesto remember those days III I look just like them Inside emanated sweetness and gochujangas I made my way through a small doorstepping over strands of leftover hair, black like mine,strewn across the marble floor. There sat a group of people, multiple generationsa middle grandson whose jelly-filled cheeksduplicated in form down the wooden table“Ohhh 맵다,” he sighed Outside my ears picked upa gentle pattering of tiny feet on pavement,and the lingering exhale of lush green peakscalming a school of restless trout. If you listen carefullyto the 북한강 river, a midnight shade of blueyou might be able to hear its twinklingbetween the mountains’ heartbeat “From Korea?” my host aunt asked, mid-chewMy cheeks flushed a deep pinkas the few Korean words I knew took flightlike a couple of traitorous birds. Looking down at the golden dustwhich painted my piano-curved fingersthe way BHC chicken does, salty and sweetI managed to sputter “중국계 미국인.” IV Forever a river child To this day, my head still spinswhenever I catch glimpses of heran ‘olive skin’ girl with high cheekbones andmatted hair from one too many dye jobs Did she have other brothers and sisterswhose likeness was brought up,like clockwork, over a charcoal potof simmering broth? It hurtled me back, her rattling coughfrom years of trekking in fine dustto tend to the soil and pick ripe mountain berriesI looked at my host mom in wonder is this what it’s like? It started as severance,severance from my birth mother’s coos,the pleas of Mandarin speakers on the subway, “你会说中文吗?”and secret talks between the Yangtze and its rolling peaks. As painful as it wasI felt grateful for my imagination thenand in that fleeting moment, pictured myselfat a table several lives away… their lovely river child. From there, the smoky gray sky didwhat I had wanted to do but couldn’tit started to pour [Featured photo by Kierstin Conaway]
Mangoes
Mangoes By Martha “Cati” Pudner, 2nd Year ETA Wrinkled fingers shakily slicing, Flies swarming the samples, Blotches of angled sun streaming between the leaves. There was a sign but no soul around to read it. My hands came up empty But it was already sliced, and handing it over He swatted me away, And him and his flies slid back into the rhythm of the trees. [Featured photo by Tansica Sunkamaneevongse]