Language: Korean
Writer's Background: "I grew up speaking Korean with my family."
Anticipation and excitement took me by the hand across the ocean and landed with me on the net of a familiar, yet foreign culture. My legs, accustomed to resting in a car, were racing against the countdown of the crosswalk signal. My ears that were used to hearing mostly one language heard another and my eyes that were familiar with faded graphic T-shirts and denim shorts saw crisp blouses and dress pants. The wafting smell of freshly baked cakes and pastries tempted me to enter bakeries and cafés of a contemporary build. The honks of cars back home were whispers compared to the bustling of bicycles speeding past, buses and taxis screeching to a halt, and the wheels of the metro clattering against the rail. The scene was chaotically beautiful.
I spent days and nights in the homes of grandfathers and grandmothers and aunts and uncles. Although they all lived in different districts, different cities, and different provinces, something stands firm among the different households: all my cousins, unfortunately, endure a long and grueling school day. It is a school day so long that they eat dinner in the classroom. It is a school day so rigorous that calculus is a standard class for students my age. It is a school day so strict that the school administration needs a parent’s permission to leave before 10 p.m. I admit, I was envious of my cousins for living in what I considered a cultural haven with the ability to walk and take the buses and subways by themselves. However, I knew their freedom was limited, what with the intense focus on education across the nation. While I played tourist, my cousins have been upholding that national standard. Because of this, I aspire to make the most of my academic and non-academic potential wherever I may be.
Of the two to three weeks I spent in the motherland, a memorable five days were at my grandparents’ farm in the rural countryside—the bug-infested, dusty, and worn-down countryside. “House” is a generous term; it was more so a shack with questionable water quality and no dishwasher, washing machine, clothes dryer, or mattress. I loved every aspect of the farm regardless. I loved the gentle purr of the ocean waves that curled close to the farm as the sun came down to pet it to sleep every night. I admired the neighboring farmers who toiled out in the fields from dawn to dusk. Moreover, I was deeply touched by the generosity of my grandparents during our stay.
The last night before our departure, my grandmother sat our family down. It is common for the elders to give money as gifts in our culture, but my grandmother, a poor farmer, was giving an unimaginable amount of money to her eldest son’s middle-class family. We initially refused, but eventually accepted, and I accepted with it a personal request from my grandmother to pursue a higher education at a prestigious school. To this day, I do not know how many days, months, or years it took to save up such an amount, but whatever the amount may be, I will work hard towards fulfilling my grandmother’s wish.
I am but a crimson-stained rose of Sharon—a melding of a rose and the mugunghwa.
I knew this the moment the plane landed. I knew this when my cousins left the house at 8 a.m. to endure their 15-hour school day. I knew this as I hugged the shoreline of the Yellow Sea with an evening walk towards the sunset. I knew that even though I grew up in a culture different from that of my family in the motherland, I will channel a persevering spirit just the same.
Editor's Note: The mugunghwa (무궁화), also known as the rose of Sharon or Hibiscus syriacus, is the national flower of South Korea. Its name refers to an "eternal blossom that never fades." The flower can be found in various national emblems and is compared to the its homeland in the national anthem. It serves to represent the everlasting noble spirit and strength of its people.
Jeon is a junior attending Hamilton High School in Chandler, AZ.
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