Culture Shock
The day was a little different from other typical Sundays. First, it was unusually sunny out, without a trace of fog to be found. Second, I could not smell the coffee that my dad would always brew on weekends. Third, I woke up by myself. But I did not think of any of these as peculiar until I stopped in front of my parent's bedroom door. When I opened the ivory door, I knew something was wrong. Mom, instead of greeting me with her typical sweet smile, was lying down with a pale, strained look on her face. Dad and my sister were standing by her with panicked eyes.
"Your mother is very sick," dad said. "She's leaving tonight." And he stood there with a strange smile – one that strangely did not seem like a smile at all. I could not understand him at the time. I was so sure that mom was going to be fine, because she said so herself when she woke up. But because his tortured eyes were so vivid, it felt wrong to even imagine being away from her. When my parents gave me the choice to stay, or go back to Korea with them when our visa expired, I decided to go back with them, unaware of what my choice would bring upon me.
Our family returned and her chemotherapy procedure began. She reassured me and my concerned sister, in the States by herself at her new university, with playful whines about the big painful needles. She joked about how much more the treatment would have cost our family if her tumor had not been a malignant one. My mom was fighting a stage three ovarian cancer like her usual cheerful self. Although I was not allowed at the hospital with her, I could guess the pain that she was going through from fact that she sleeping much more than before. Nevertheless, her records were great, and the doctors were astonished at how well she was doing. With such a strong mother fighting to stay with us, I could not afford to fail at anything at all.
I tried to enjoy my new life as much as I could. When I opened the creaky, tattered wooden door to my classroom in my awkward new uniforms, I immediately became the center of interest. My classmates and visitors from other classes surrounded me in thick circles and asked me endless questions with curious eyes directed to the stranger. "How long did you say you lived there?" "Say something in English!" "What's your hobby?" While I was busy answering the questions, a girl that has been standing by me asked me whether I was hungry. Before I could say anything, she stuffed the piece of bread that she's been nibbling on into my mouth. And then the bell rang, and everyone went back to their places.
And then it became lunchtime. Every single girl in my class sprinted out of the classroom to the cafeteria. They pushed and pulled violently on each other to get into the lunch line. Before I could realize what was going on, I was in the middle of the chaos. A girl in my class later explained that this was the way they did things, and laughed at the fact that a broken arm or leg would be occasional. Then she marched to the bathroom with the other girls to brush their teeth.
By the time I got used to these behaviors, I graduated intermediate school for the second time in my life. I got accepted to Seoul Global High School, and because I always had fantasies about Korean high schools, I was excited beyond myself. The small differences that I felt during the six months in middle school seemed petty and meaningless. I anticipated for my high school to be different.
High school was completely different, however, in a different way from what I have expected. I went through painful process of difficulties, just to find out that I was different from everyone else - I was a third culture kid. Because I always thought of myself as a Korean, it was shocking to see how I was unlike the others. Nevertheless, I could not think of myself as an American either, because I simply was not, both legally and mentally. I started getting depressed, and started trying to change who I was. It felt wrong to be me. I tried to become someone else.
Things changed as I started understanding my symptoms through a class in my junior year. In that class, we learned about culture shock. Up until that point, I could not understand why I was different. I thought I was wrong. But as I studied culture shock, and how a person from a different culture can feel like the way I was feeling, I realized that I did not have to change who I was in order to fit in. The class taught me how to deal with culture shock, which includes interacting with people from the initial culture who can empathize with one. I tried out the method, and it made me look at myself in a much more positive way.
I talked with my roommate, who told me that she lived in Canada for a few years. Talking with her and sharing thoughts on Korean culture made me accept the fact that I was just different. And as I understood that and looked around, I realized that there were many people who would be willing to comprehend what I was going through. I saw how I have been hiding myself too much. Additionally, I grasped how I was a third culture kid, with my own culture that has characteristics from both America and Korea, and how this let me see so much more of the world. I began to see how the difficult times that I have gone through have given me a broader perspective.
The details you added about your mother such as her undergoing chemotherapy and the tumor not being malignant made me feel how real cancer is. It's always been a topic that doesn't affect me or my loved ones but to read about it from someone I know makes me think of it differently. In addition, it being the main, concrete reason that you came back to Korea and thus makes the experience seem all the more real. If something did slightly confuse me it's the sentence 'My mom was fighting a stage three ovarian cancer like her usual cheerful self.' I wasn't able to fully grasp what you meant by 'like her usual cheerful self' because it could be either that this was a frequent routine for her or that she fought cancer in a cheerful and not depressed mood.
ReplyDeleteYour opening and ending sentences for the first paragraph is excellent. Ending the intro paragraph as you did leaves me hanging and curious for more. Additionally, because this is a story of your past, you used past tense perfectly and did not make any mistakes as far as I know.
Considering this is your first draft, I believe you did a great job adding the appropriate details but perhaps you could further elaborate on what exactly made you feel you were different.
-Su Yeon Kim (201500568)
Your first paragraph was really interesting enough to catch my attention and keep myself read until the end of your writing. The descriptive and lively word choices made me have the scenery imagined in my head and follow your story through. Moreover, I think that you have used the appropriate verb tense in the writing. For further revision, I personally would like to suggest to balance out the amount of writing in terms of the flow of you piece(beginning-middle-end) and to include lots of balanced out details in every part.
ReplyDelete201503676 Hong Chae-ryoung
Culture Shock
ReplyDeleteThe day was a little different from other typical Sundays. First, it was unusually bright out. The air tasted crisp and dry, free of the dense fog that covered Rancho Palos Verdes nearly every morning. Second, I could not smell the coffee that my dad always brewed on weekends. Third, I woke up by myself. But I did not think of any of these as peculiar until I stopped in front of my parent’s bedroom. As I opened the ivory door, I knew something was wrong. Mom, instead of greeting me with her typical sweet smile, was lying down with a pale, strained look on her face. Dad and my sister were standing by her with panicked eyes.
“Your mother is very sick,” dad blurted out. “She’s leaving tonight.” And he stood there with a face that reminded me of the burning man from a horror movie. I could not understand him at the time. I was so sure that mom was going to be fine, because she said so herself when she woke up. But because his tortured eyes were so vivid, it felt wrong to even imagine being away from her. When my mom came back for my graduation and they asked whether I wanted to move back to Korea with them or not, I naturally said “Yes,” unaware of what my choice would bring upon me.
Once we moved to Korea, mom’s chemotherapy procedure began. Although I was not allowed at the hospital with her, I could guess the pain that she was going through from fact that she sleeping much longer than before. However, she fought her stage three ovarian cancer like her usual cheerful self. She reassured me and my concerned sister, in the States by herself at her new university, with playful whines about the big painful needles. She often joked about her illness. “Thank heavens my tumor was a malignant one,” she would say. “That expensive insurance wouldn’t have done its job if that lump was benign!” My family soon gave up being miserable about what could have happened. The therapy did its job, and the doctors were astonished at how well she was doing. With such a strong mother fighting to stay with us, I could not afford to fail. I was determined to do well. After all, Korea was my home country. What could go wrong?
Meanwhile, I had to attend school again. I put on the uniform, and a got haircut to follow the regulations. As I awkwardly walked into the stuffy classroom on the first day of school, feeling the thirty-six pairs of keen black eyes piercing me, I told myself that I was going to be fine. I immediately became the center of interest. Once it became break time, my classmates and visitors from other classes surrounded me in thick circles with curious eyes directed to the stranger. Before I could introduce myself, the flood of questions started. “How long did you say you lived there?” “Say something in English!” “What’s your hobby?” While I was busy answering the questions, a girl that has been standing by me asked me whether I was hungry. Before I could say anything, she stuffed the piece of bread that she’s been nibbling on into my mouth. And then the bell rang, and everyone went back to their places.
ReplyDeleteI was awestruck. Nobody gave food to each other like that back in the States. As I chewed the piece of bread that became a soggy lump in my mouth, I comically deliberated whether she was trying to insult me or not. I could guess that she was trying to be nice, but I could not understand her. And then the lunch bell rang. Every single girl in my class sprinted out of the classroom like bulls to the cafeteria. They pushed and pulled violently on each other to get into the lunch line. Before I could realize what was going on, my seat partner, who seemed like a quiet girl until then, grabbed my hand and joined the herd. I was soon in the middle of the chaos. She later explained that this was the way they did things, and laughed at the fact that a broken arm or leg would be occasional. Then she marched off to the bathroom with the other girls to brush their teeth.
By the time I got used to these behaviors, I graduated intermediate school for the second time in my life. I got accepted to Seoul Global High School, and because I always had fantasies about Korean high schools, I was excited beyond myself. The small events that left me baffled during the six months in middle school seemed petty and meaningless. I anticipated for my high school to be different.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteHigh school was completely different, unfortunately, in a different way from what I have expected. I began to realize that fantasies were meant to be fictional. The first was the grading system. The relative grading system was much harsher than intermediate school, because grade was related to admissions. It forced everyone into a line, and rated the students like beef. School became a scene of survival. It felt as though I was living in middle of a jungle.
DeleteMoreover, making friends was different. I loved talking to people, and casual conversations with random people were natural. But that was not acceptable in Korean culture. A girl in my class came up to me one day and said, “You talk to boys too much.” I was dazed. Did I talk too much with boys? Was I acting like a flirt? With that as start, I saw how I acted and thought differently from other students. I felt wrong. It felt as though I was failing my parent’s expectations for not adjusting. It took a long time for me to understand that what I have been experiencing was culture shock, and that being different does not mean that one’s wrong.
Because I always thought of myself as a Korean, it was shocking to perceive the differences. Nevertheless, I could not think of myself as an American either, because I simply was not, both legally and mentally. I started trying to change who I was. I desperately tried to blend in. I stopped myself from starting random conversations. I refrained from wearing the clothes that I used to love, and wore dark, simple clothes that made me look like other students. I shied away from conversations about English. I stopped saying that I missed America. I surrounded myself with Korean culture.
Things changed as I started understanding my symptoms through a class in my junior year. In that class, we learned about culture shock. As I studied culture shock, I learned that my confusion was natural. The class taught me how to deal with culture shock, which included interacting with people from the initial culture who can empathize with one.
So I talked with my roommate, who told me that she lived in Canada for a few years. Talking with her and sharing thoughts on Korean culture made me accept the fact that I was just different. I did not have to change who I was in order to fit in. And as I understood that and looked around, I realized that I had already made many friends who were willing to comprehend what I was going through. Additionally, I grasped how I was a third culture kid, with my own culture that has characteristics from both America and Korea, and how this was going to let me see so much more of the world. I began to truly appreciate how the difficult times that I had gone through gave me a broader perspective. I could finally understand the girl and her bread. It was a form of jeong, a Korean kind of kinship.
When my roommate offered me half of her snack after the long talk, I gladly took it and gave her half of mine.