My Summer in Seoul

I kept looking at the signs; they were all in both Korean and English, which was a small blessing, so at least I knew I was in the right place.

My mental process felt extremely slow as I searched for my name on the signs some of the drivers were holding. Would it be spelled in English? Korean? And at what point did I need to just text him and ask where he was? I had his cell number for emergencies. I chewed my lower lip and pulled out my cell just as the sound of my name rang out.

“Grace!” It was loud, feminine, definitely not Siu.

I whirled around and nearly collided with a large iPad with my name scribbled on it.

Digital.

Cool trick.

“Hi.” I offered a mini wave.

She blinked at me.

Slowly.

Like she was either having a stroke or was confused why I answered to my own name.

And then I stupidly did a little bow. “Annyeong.”

It was literally the only word I knew.

Hello.

But at least I pronounced it correctly, right? Wrong? Her eyes narrowed as she blinked even slower. Was there another Grace? Was I wrong?

I cleared my throat.

“You.” She drew out the word in English like I would struggle with my own language and needed extra time to process the meaning. “You’re Grace.”

“English, oh thank God.” I exhaled and then winced. “Sorry, my Korean is a bit sub-par.”

Understatement of the century.

“Define.” She looked irritated and panicked all in one. “A bit?”

I gulped. “I should get my suitcase.”

“Owner Siu, he said you would work out just fine, that you majored in production. I was under the assumption…” She reached for me, gripped my arm, and then released it with a blush hitting her cheeks. “We all were under the assumption that you were Korean-American.” She paused and then added. “Native.”

I frowned and almost touched my hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious about how bright and messy it was. “Um, I was born in Seattle, lived there my entire life. My dad and Uncle Siu are brothers, both of them were enlisted at the same time in Korea. Dad saved his life, and while we don’t really have a super close family, they’ve stayed in touch over the years. So my dad’s Korean but my mom…” I trailed off. What did a person actually say in this situation? My Korean dad fell in love with my American mom, and the rest was history? One of the greatest love stories of all time that transcended any sort of language or cultural barrier, because wasn’t that what love did? It was the first time I’d been uncomfortable in my own skin since middle school when I had girls mock my eyes or call me names behind my back like I wasn’t good enough to sit at their table. My confidence came from my parents, and then slowly, I realized I could choose to let people hurt me, choose to let the arrows dig into my skin, or I could stand taller and be better than the ones shooting them.

I chose the latter.

Not that it meant I had zero insecurities, but at least in college, I found people of every race, sexual orientation, background—and I accepted them just like they accepted me. While there was the occasional asshat, at least I was able to find friends and not panic every time I walked into the lunchroom. I shuddered. Not fitting in, no matter how great your upbringing is, always reared its ugly head whenever I was feeling out of place… Like now.

“Oh…” She looked worried. I think she was close to my age. Then again, I couldn’t tell; I immediately felt like a decade older than her. My skin would never look that perfect, and I suddenly realized I needed to get my brows waxed. My hair looked like a bird had made a nest in it then suffocated on the ratty strands. And again, plane sweat.

This girl? Her hair was pulled into a low bun with pieces falling out front; it was so shiny I would need sunglasses if I stared any longer, and I couldn’t find a flaw on any part of her perfect skin.

Not that I was looking for something to be wrong with her, but it would be nice if she had something out of place, a strand of hair stuck to her cheek or smudged makeup, so I didn’t feel so grungy like I needed to suddenly go on a diet and buy face wash that I would actually use rather than just stockpile in my bathroom.

“Um…” I started chewing on my thumbnail.

Her eyes widened in horror.

No nail chewing. Got it.

I dropped my hand and gulped. “Is everything okay?”

“No,” She said it quickly, almost violently. “It’s not okay.”

The loud thud of bags getting thrown onto the belt interrupted our awkward stare-down. I held up my finger, motioning for her to give me one minute, and went to retrieve my bag.