Crying at a Bibimbap Restaurant

Have you ever felt embarrassed by the things that you used to like? 

(For those reading this: I know this is super long; I'm working on making this shorter and would appreciate comments on that matter)

I used to (and still do) love eating meat. As a child, I necessitated it so much that I literally wouldn’t eat anything unless there was meat on the table. When I was around six or seven, my parents, my aunt, my cousins, and I went to a bibimbap restaurant. Traditionally, bibimbap comes with veggies, rice, fried egg, and red chili paste. Unfortunately, the bulgogi bibimbap (which includes sweet marinated beef as an additional topping) was out of stock. I refused to order anything. 

While everyone else was getting started on their steaming bowls, I was hungry, didn’t see meat anywhere, and was about to cry. Eventually, a streak of tears trickled down my face, and when someone called this out, I exploded into tears. 

As usual, my aunt reassured me and called over the manager. Although the details are blurry now, she made a bit of a scene, demanding that the restaurant manager get me a plate of bulgogi. She won, and thanks to her, I finally got to start eating while everyone else, including my aunt, stared at their food now gone cold. When I was about done eating (the bulgogi was good), I noticed my twenty-something-year-old cousin staring at me. She teased, “You’re such a baby. You only eat what you want”. For the first time, a shame grew inside me–both for my love of meat and the privileges that I had. 

My cousin was right. I was a baby. Literally. As the youngest among my paternal cousins (my youngest cousin is 12 years older than me), I was always at the center of my family’s attention. My aunts always sent me presents, gave me money, and did everything they needed to do to make sure that I had everything I wanted. 

The bibimbap incident woke me up to a feeling that all this love and privilege was–no matter how thankful I was for them–making me weak, self-conscious, and spoiled. Because I was always given what I wanted, I never had to sacrifice my own preferences for those of others. As much as my aunts adored me for being the “princess” of the family, I also felt pressured to hide parts of myself that deviated from the usual quiet and shy image. I wanted to sing and be in musicals but kept all this passion to myself because I thought it made me look too bold. I liked running around and making silly jokes, but instead sat obediently in my mom’s lap, waiting for someone to advocate for my needs and wants. 

A turning point came when my parents and I immigrated to the US when I was nine. Settling on a new continent where I knew no one, I was presented with both a challenge and an opportunity. I was left alone to lift myself up in the American education system, but this also gave me a chance to strengthen my independence. I faced both a necessity and a freedom to be proactive, to stand up for myself, and to rely on myself as I navigated through the unfiltered difficulties of assimilation. Whether I liked it or not, I was standing at the edge of a cliff, awaiting either a free fall or a free fly–with no safety net underneath. 

Walking into my new school forced me to confront these changes. The first week of class, I was left staring at my desk for hours as my peers eagerly worked through their assignments. Awkwardly hovering over a sea of pencil scribbling noises, I instinctively realized that I couldn’t just passively sit there and hope for the best. I thought of how much my parents had sacrificed to come here and burned with the urgency to do something, to take ownership of my success in this new country. 

That day, I walked up to a group of kids at a lunch table and introduced myself: “Hi! Can I lunch with you guys?”. They said yes, and throughout that 30-minute period (and many more lunch periods after that) I listened intently to every conversation, hoping to pick up some new words. 

At home, I painstakingly went through an English book with a Korean-English translator, stopping at every sentence to write down the definitions of unfamiliar words–which initially represented 70% of the book. A page in, a wave of dread overwhelmed me: I felt dwarfed by the mountain of vocabulary and grammar I had yet to learn and grew scared as I imagined staying in ESL classes throughout middle school. As these worries ran through my head, I recognized that I was alone–not just in my room but also in my struggles. I couldn’t expect anyone to hold my hands and teach me everything from 0 to 10. With pure frustration, pain, and pressure gripping every part of me, I pushed forward page by page until, after several weeks, I finished my first English book. 

Adjusting to the U.S. was a pure struggle, but I also found new joys in the opportunities it provided. In my third month in the country, our school was preparing a How to Eat Like a Child musical. My heart jumped: This was the chance to let out my hidden passion! When our music teacher asked for volunteers for solos, my hand shot up. Preparing for the musical felt like a dream come true. Including my two-minute solo, I memorized the whole soundtrack for the musical and poured my heart and soul into every minute of rehearsals. The night of the performance, my parents saw me singing and acting for the first time. On our way back to our car, my dad said, “You were really flying around the stage! I could only see you during the whole musical”. This comment was more than just a compliment; it represented how I was adjusting to this new country.

Assimilating to the US was the first huge barrier that I had overcome on my own. Through hard work and grit, I proved to myself and others that I could take a daunting situation and use it as a stepping stone to strengthen myself. When I was placed on a cliff, I jumped off and took flight--on the stage and on many more opportunities in the future.

In the last seven years since the night of the musical, I have grown even more independent and strong: I not only grew out of my dietary dependence on meat, but I have also constructed a plan for my life guided by my inner passions and interests; I'm much less afraid to advocate for who I am and what I aspire to achieve and will overcome whatever barriers come in my way with energy and resilience. In the meantime, my love for my family--both immediate and extended--has grown even stronger: years of independently pushing through barriers in and outside of school helped me deeply appreciate the guidance and care they have given me. And I no longer feel embarrassed or weakened by the love I receive from my family; rather, I realize it has strengthened me: the level of commitment that others have shown toward me inspired me to boldly speak up for myself and chart my own path toward success in every challenge I found myself in since I had immigrated.

When I return to Korea next summer, I will no longer be the “kid” in my family. In the years that we’ve been away, my aunts have become grandmothers of five and six-year-olds. In our next family gathering, I will give these children the same amount of attention and love I have received. But when my niece tears up at the table because she doesn't like anything on the menu, I’ll tell her, “Grow up, kid.”