A letter from Seoul on identity and change.
Originally published on my personal blog in 2019.
There is a stretch of subway in Seoul, between Gangbyon and Jamsilnaru station, where the tracks cross the Han river. I still remember the excitement I used to get as a child when traversing that span of the line. As the dark expanse of the tunnels suddenly blossomed into slats of rapidly-filtered light, I would lean on the side of the subway doors watching the river pan out effervescently and then fade away — always too soon to marvel fully at its beauty.
I crossed that stretch many times during my semester studying abroad in Seoul; On my way to networking events in Gangnam, to find cafes in Garosu-gil, and coming back from Jamsil after visiting my newborn nephews –sometimes with friends, often in a rush, but always with that 5th grade child in me silently gaping at the vast expanse unfolding outside the subway windows.
During my global rotation in Seoul, I found it difficult to articulate what the experience felt like. I’d been there too many times to count; months over summer vacations, a year in 5th grade, and a couple of very cold winters. In many ways, Seoul carried confusing and sometimes uncomfortable memories, stemming from a childhood naïveté not fully allowing me to process the heavy and hectic transitions — containing life shifts that altered faster than the city’s store turnover rate.
My memories are filled with those of studying for tests and sitting in cram schools, wandering the streets of Nowon-gu littered with the aroma of street food and cigarettes; bullet-train rides to visit relatives and to attend Grandparents’ funerals — blurred with the scent of incense, sounds of crowded bus terminals, and buzz of glitzy shopping malls.
One particular summer, I remember riding the cramped cable car up to the Namsan Tower but only after making my mom and grandma wait for 30 extra minutes as I checked each cable car to find the one signed by the main characters of the Korean Drama Boys Over Flowers. (I did end up finding it. And still have the blurry pictures of their signatures on my now-archaic pink flip phone.)
Little did I know that, 10 years later, I would be living directly under that tower, in the Haebangchon neighborhood — translated to “Liberation Town” as it traces its roots from the Korean War. Once a shooting range for the Japanese military, it became a home for North Korean defectors who had fled to the South. Now, 60 some years later, it has become one of Korea’s most diverse neighborhoods known for expats, hipster coffee shops, and lively bars lighting up the hilly, winding roads each night.
In 4 months, I learned to love its quirky alleys and small-town charm; its coziness and its beautiful rooftops that looked out upon the city. And slowly, my relationship with the city began to change. I saw things with new eyes and a new humbleness that grew from simply being there — not because I was on a mission to visit family, learn the language, or go to SAT camp. But because I was there like every other one of my classmates — to observe, explore, and let the city teach me.
Growing up, I’d been inundated to not “forget my roots.” I had been told that this county, this city, was a part of my identity. But it was difficult to internalize. The two cultures often seemed like oil and water — portraying an illusion of being one only when I could shake myself up enough for them to mix, temporarily, until they slowly regained their respective places.
Maybe it was because I was always branded as “American” when I visited. Even though I spoke with no accent and strutted my signature Korean bangs, I was still always the “foreigner” to family, to family friends, and to outside acquaintances. It was assumed that I didn’t know how to get around the city, didn’t know the latest slang, and didn’t know the latest dramas — when maybe, I did. And it was assumed that I could explain “what America was like” with a robust political, social, cultural, and economic analysis thrown in there — when maybe I couldn’t.
There was the “American me,” with the apparent Californian accent I’ve been told I have. And the “Korean me” — who mostly just laughs in conversation, because I don’t have the same wit to respond to things as I do in English. But they began to merge somewhere along the line last semester.
Perhaps it was when I met more students or young professionals like me who also never felt quite at home wherever they were — who had grown up abroad but shared the same Korean heritage with their inherent challenges, experiences, and unique perspectives. Or maybe when I gave my first-ever presentation in Korean to a group of employees at LG — with a couple of stumbles and a lot of nerves, but realized that I was still the same person regardless of the language I expressed myself in. And slowly, my two identities seemed less at odds.
All-in-all, some things were still the same; The CU stores with the bell ringing on each swing of the door, the chaotic buzz of rush hours on the subways and shouting of street vendors near closing time; The hierarchical matrix structures giving way to glass ceilings that have lurked around even amidst the frenzy of “flattened” everything.
But some things were different; Stores had been torn down, rebuilt, and remodeled, new K-pop bands sprouted up every week, and I saw the inkling potential of the rising generation — entrepreneurs, activists, and students who were speaking out against corruption, gender inequality, and the education system — taking the difficult plight against systematic change.
I wasn’t sure which of us — me or the city — had changed more.
In my final month there, I remember taking the subway back across the river towards Haebangchon, probably for the last time for a while. It was a dark, cold, December evening. I watched the sparkling city lights whiz through the fluttering gaps of the windows, thinking about the past 4 months. The train entered the tunnel again, leaving me staring at my own reflection.
