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add the kimchi to the pot ( my first word being umma / falling asleep to korean lullabies and babbling to my grandparents / washed kimchi being a constant on the dinner table / making moon-shaped mandu with my dad / sharing rice cakes with my cousins / connecting with the culture that was an ocean away from me / feeling the gentle tug of my parents and grandparents towards a history that only felt half mine / a creeping realization that i was split in half / my identity hyphenated / my history half lost )
add the rest of the meat, vegetables, and water ( english at preschool and korean at home / languages like oil and water / frustration sparking from the mixture / a begging to be heard and a begging to be comprehensible / my kimchi still watered down at the dinner table / my cousins laughing at my korean but marveling at my english / who am i? / who will i be? / who do i have to become? )
bring to a boil ( the hyphenation in my nationality feeling more like a barrier than a bridge / arguments ending in tears because they’re the only language understood by everyone in my household / hold english under my tongue like it’s sour candy / melt the acidic words the best i can into half-hearted korean / frustration crackling at my skin when the words i wish to be sharp and cutting become dull and meaningless / spill over the edge with words like boiling water / a begging to be heard / a begging to be understood )
cook until meat is cooked through ( peel away time to reveal my history / whispers of my grandma’s stories soft under my fingers as i peel away at them like mandarin skins / laugh a little more with my cousins over convenience store food and discount ice cream / solidifying the oil-water mixture that was my identity )
serve with rice ( the hyphen in korean-canadian being more like a bridge than anything / sharing kimbap with my friends / i know who i am / i know who i will be / i know who i have to become / perfect harmony / spicy kimchi broth over steaming morsels of white rice )
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cailyn Seo is a 16-year-old writer from Vancouver, Canada. Most of her pieces are about different facets of her identity, whether it be of their queerness or Korean identity. When she isn’t writing, you can find them blasting music or hoarding sticker sheets.
Cover Page by Jiaying Chen