By Sajin Kwok
Scalpel slit eyelids
Spill fat and blood
Outwards in a
Surgical
Straight
Line
Cut, scrape, and tuck
Sew it up
Now Koreans can have
쌍꺼풀 double eyelids
Just like mine.
But to them my eyes
Will never be beautiful
South Korean ambivalence
Dividing my body in two
Like eyelid incisions
On one hand:
Hate
For US military bases, clubs, and brothels
내국인 출입금지
“No Koreans allowed”
That’s what I represent
I am the proof of the theft
I am the evidence left behind
After the rape
The other attitude
Is love
But not for who I really am
Koreans adore my big eyes
Big nose
Anglo appearance
눈이 너무 커요 !
“Your eyes are sooooo big!”
아주 예쁘다 !
“Wow, they are so beautiful!”
However, disappointment lingers
Behind even these compliments
Handsome American features corrupted
By Korean heritage
But this is also an asset
For I am their aspirations
An image of themselves—but better
An image of themselves—but Whiter.
I prefer to be hated
T he Paololo Valley is a rough place—not as bad as Kalihi or Nanakuli, but still not really a place you go visit. The haoles from Kahala or Hawai‘i Kai pass it by. Locals only go there if they live there. It has no scenic getaways. No hotels. No beaches. It’s known for excessive rain, housing projects, and batu.
In one of the far corners of the Valley, you can find Hawai‘i’s only Korean Buddhist temple, Dae Won Sa. I made the trip up there when I could, ostensibly looking for spiritual insight. That time, I stumbled upon one of the weekend services. Although my Korean certainly wasn’t good enough to make sense of the sermon, I decided to join in. Even if Buddhism is a solitary journey, it’s nice to have some travelling companions every now and again.
After the service, a monk named Jae Woo approached me. We talked briefly about the history of the temple, and he sprinkled English words into his sentences to help me follow along. He led me to the Judgment Hall and invited me to join the congregation for the after-service meal.
As I took a plate and reached for the rice paddle, I felt a cold hand grasp my wrist. I followed a weathered, spotted arm up to the face of one of the temple’s elders. When she began speaking, my rudimentary Korean left me ill-equipped to decipher her rapid, up and down pitch. I did my best to pick out the words and phrases I could understand: 밥이 없어 , “no food left,” 부엌으로 가야 돼 , “must go to the kitchen.”
Standing in front of the steaming rice cooker, cool plates of kimchi, cucumbers, and bean sprouts, I could clearly see that there was plenty of food left. I stammered that I would just eat a little rice and leave. She repeated herself, this time more sternly: “Go to the kitchen.” She brusquely led me out of the Judgment Hall.
We wound our way toward the front gate. She released my arm, standing atop of the steps as I descended. Satisfied that I had reached the kitchen door, she turned and walked away. Even if I couldn’t navigate her dialect, I understood her message loud and clear. I spotted a pair of garbage cans outside of the kitchen. I quietly removed the lid and discarded my empty plate. Shaking my head, I moved away from the kitchen and slinked towards the main gate.
At the entrance, I was taken aback by a Korean girl entering the temple. She was my age—early twenties, long, shining black hair, slender, tan skin in a bikini top, loosely tied sarong, and zoris. I was surprised as much by her beauty as the inappropriateness of her attire. She was attached to the arm of a tall Anglo-Saxon. He looked like they had slapped aloha-print board shorts on an actor from one of Hitler’s eugenics films. As she pulled him through the four guardians gate, I watched her point at one of the monks.
He followed disinterestedly while she tugged on him, giggling, “Look at the little one with the bald head!” Her tall master-race companion looked up and retorted with his best imitation of an “Asian” accent.
She laughed entirely too hard.
He smiled and slid his long, yellow-haired arm around the curve of her waist. My hands clenched. I wanted to pull out handfuls of that blond hair and hammer those white teeth with my fists until they were bloody, jagged splinters. Instead, I held my head low as I meekly left the temple, understanding why I was not welcome there.
Kwok Sa Jin (勿槝錻 ) is an activist, scholar, and educator. His Korean mother met his white father when he was stationed in Dongducheon, South Korea. Sa Jin returned to Korea in 2000, where he fought against the trafficking and prostitution of women to the U.S. military with the organization Durebang (My Sister’s Place). In 2003, he was project leader for the South Korean National Human Rights Commission’s investigation into the status of Korean Amerasians. He has worked collaboratively with Amerasians in Okinawa and the Philippines, and has given presentations on Amerasians in a variety of professional and academic settings on both sides of the Pacific Ocean. He is currently a master’s candidate in the sociology department at Songgonghoe University. His master’s thesis examines the lives of South Korean Amerasians through the framework of the U.N. Convention on Genocide. Sa Jin lives in Minnesota where he teaches ESL at Sejong Academy, a Korean-language immersion school.