All Nonfiction
- Bullying
- Books
- Academic
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Heroes
- Interviews
- Memoir
- Personal Experience
- Sports
- Travel & Culture
All Opinions
- Bullying
- Current Events / Politics
- Discrimination
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Environment
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
All Hot Topics
- Bullying
- Community Service
- Environment
- Health
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
- Back
Summer Guide
- Program Links
- Program Reviews
- Back
College Guide
- College Links
- College Reviews
- College Essays
- College Articles
- Back
Baggage MAG
I’m 7, and
In my lunchbox, my mom has packed me kimbap.
My eyes widen as I take it out, each roll like a vibrant full moon-
Flaky black seaweed and white rice, wrapped around colorful carrots and egg and fishcake.
The kids crowd around me as I take out my chopsticks. They say,
“That smells gross. Are you eating dog?”
My mouth dries up. I don’t want to eat anymore.
66 years ago,
My grandmother is also 7, and
In a small North Korean household, there is no backpack, no lunchbox.
Instead, she reaches into a tattered knapsack,
Searching for any food she might have missed, anything,
The bag is empty.
And with war on the horizon-
With smoke billowing from nearby villages, with the Reds looming over their every move-
It is likely, she knows, that this knapsack will not be full anytime soon.
I’m 11, and
We learn about the Korean War in school.
It’s funny- when you’re a kid,
There’s always got to be a ‘good guy’ and a ‘bad guy’.
So when I raise my hand
And tell the class
That my great grandparents had once worked for the North Korean Government,
I suppose I had to be the bad guy.
The next day, someone has scrawled obscenities all over my locker.
I blink back tears, and reach into my backpack,
Take out some tissues, and start to scrub.
62 years ago,
My grandmother is also 11, and
She fumbles as she reaches into her bag to find her ticket,
Her hand trembling as she holds it out for inspection.
She boards the boat and stares into the ocean.
It is grey and silent and cold, much like the hum of her own heart.
She doesn’t dare turn back. She doesn’t want to see the smoke anymore.
The boat drifts off in silence.
The long journey to Seoul begins.
Today, I’m 15, and
Whenever I tell people about my family’s history,
Whenever I empty out this bag I carry, full of stories, of struggles, of a pilgrimage across an ocean,
All they can say is, “You’re North Korean?!”
No, I say. I was born in Chicago. But-
My North Korean family, my North Korean heritage, my North Korean blood,
That is who I am.
That is what I’m carrying.
So I close my bag.
58 years ago, my grandmother closes hers.
We hoist them onto our shoulders and keep walking.
And although sometimes it is heavy, sometimes it is inconvenient,
Sometimes it feels like it is carrying the world,
We refuse to be ashamed of our baggage.
Similar Articles
JOIN THE DISCUSSION
This article has 1 comment.
Isabel is 15 years old and a senior in high school. She's been drawing and telling stories since she could hold a pencil and probably won't stop until she's physically unable to. Although she was born and raised in the Midwest, her north and south Korean heritage remain central to her identity and self-expression. When she's not typing away at her computer or proving the derivative of hyperbolic sine, Isabel likes to bike in the forest, draw in her sketchbook, and stargaze.