Tag Archives: family life

Between Names

Between Names

By Jane Helen Lee, age 17, South Korea.

I was a collector of languages before I even knew the English word for “language.” I would gently pluck foreign words from overheard conversations and save them like colorful marbles in my pocket—later turning them over, swirling their smooth coolness between my tongue, sounding out hola, nǐ hǎo, 안녕하세요 (annyeonghaseyo). Through the sun-dappled filters of childhood that gently curtained my vision, there was something quietly magical about being able to say “hello” or even just “thank you” to a stranger in their own language. It felt as if I were weaving a thread between myself and someone I might never meet again.

The complicated kanji, hanja, and hangeul forms a patchwork quilt of syllables and syntax, woven from the voices of street vendors, lullabies, movies, and late-night whispers between siblings. Even when I couldn’t understand the meaning, I could feel the emotion behind a sentence—the rise in pitch, then the tremble, then, finally, the laughter tucked like a baby in a swaddle between vowels. Language to me, is and will always be something so achingly human.

But at age eight, I nearly lost my mother tongue.

My first language was Korean, and I learned English at a pretentious little english-only, ridiculously expensive preschool where white teachers would give Korean children names like “Emma” and “Madison.” When I moved to the US at age 6, my mother (omma) was shocked by how fast I forgot that my name was 재인 (Jae-in), not Jane. Suddenly, 엄마 (omma) was mommy and 숙세 (sook-jae) was homework. This shook her and, so, she pulled me out of school for 2 weeks to teach me, to make me re-learn and make sure I never forgot. This is something I thank her for to this day.

I once came across a piece of writing that claimed we are different people to each person we meet. I suppose that is true. To my mother, I am “재인아”, to my dad, I am “peach”, to my brother, I am “누나” (noona), to my classmates, I am “Jane.” I am 寶貝儿 (Bǎobèi er), 헤레나 (hae-le-na), Janie, peanut…, and I could go on forever. But that left me wondering: who am I to myself if all the names and identities I answer to have been lost or borrowed as changing masks to wear when interacting with others? See, when someone calls me “재인아” (jaein-a), I reply “응?” (eung?) or “네?” (nae?) and I’m what you’d describe as mature, and if you discount my horrible posture, maybe even ladylike, but call me Janie and I will change to become ever so child-like. Say “누나” (noona) and I will be strong. But despite being all these things, all these people, at once, I am just me. To me, I have no name, no title. The voice that tells me “ooh you shouldn’t have said that” or “hey, you look kind of good today” has no name for me. The thoughts I think that you will never hear except through the filtered microphone of my many masks do not belong to any one person, they belong to me, the many “me”s that together compose a jar of water made murky with the mixing-ins of paintbrushes tainted with colors from all parts of my life: every memory I have lived, every word I have spoken, and every song I have sung. And I can only hope that my jar, rinsed so many times of all the colors I have lived and palettes I have used, is not a dirty gray.

—Jane Helen Lee is a Korean-American writer currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work across screenwriting, poetry, and fiction and is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. Jane also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Unseen, the academic journal of the Korean Youth Honor Society, and finds joy in writing, debating, and volunteering at her local rehabilitation center.

Jane adds: “I am a senior attending high school in South Korea, and pencil was to me, what a Barbie doll was to many others: my dream, and my lighthouse. While dolls came to life in the hands of others, my pencil became an extension of myself. I began writing before I could even speak, creating stories and songs with scribbles, translating the world around me into language. In its easily broken, soft body, I found power; in its worn tip, wisdom. The pencil was my voice when I had none, and my refuge when life felt too loud. Now, that voice continues to guide me as I explore the issues close to my heart through my writing.”

Making Wontons

Making Wontons

By Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California.

The cold water welcomed my fingertips as I dipped them into the bowl. I gently lathered the water onto the wrapper so I wouldn’t rip it. The meat inside of the wrapper felt like a golf ball—smooth, spherical and heavy for its small size. I connected the two opposite corners of the wrapper and folded the wonton* into an envelope.

I’m a third generation American and making wontons is something that connects me to my culture. My parents are pretty good at it, but I’m just starting, so sometimes I make small mistakes. We make them at random times. Sometimes I get home from soccer practice and the wontons are waiting for me, and other times, I get to make a couple of them, too.

Chinese cuisine is a lot different than many other cuisines in that you rarely ever get to eat the dish you ordered. Most of the time, you share all of the food with everyone at the table, even if you only ordered one item. When I share these meals with my parents, it helps me bond with them.

I set the wonton down on the platter where many of the wontons my parents had previously made were sitting. Journey (the music band) played in the background. My mom, who was preparing the vegetables for dinner, said something to my dad in Chinese which I didn’t understand.

As my dad pulled the first batch of wontons out of the pot, the aroma filled the room, and my mouth watered.

I refocused on my task, but I was having trouble closing the wrappers tight. So I dropped the wonton onto the plate, sat back in my chair, and crossed my arms.

My dad got up from his chair and crouched down next to me. He then calmly walked me through how to find the right amount of meat and how to seal the wrappers well.

When I visit China, I’m the only person in my family who doesn’t speak any Chinese. Whenever we’re shopping at street markets, vendors are shouting out items in Chinese, and at restaurants the menus are all written in Chinese. This makes me feel separated from my culture because I can’t do the basic things that Chinese people can do. But when we’re back home in California, making Chinese food is one of the only things that makes me feel Chinese.

“It’s okay,” my dad tells me. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

My mom, still standing over the boiling pot of water, says, “Yeah, as a kid, I didn’t understand how to make wontons right away. It takes time to learn new things.”

A smile crept onto my face. When the wontons were finished boiling, I made a sauce containing soy sauce, sesame sauce and rice vinegar. I bit into the first wonton and the juice from the meat burst inside my mouth in a flavorful explosion.

Immersing in Chinese culture isn’t just about speaking the language. Food and my parents are equally important things that connect me to it. In China, I may have felt awkward being around a lot of the people, but through participating in small cultural practices here in the U.S., I hope to fill the gap between Chinese culture and me.

* Wonton is a Chinese dumpling that is commonly found across many regional cuisines of China.

—Drew Choy, age 12, grade 6, California. Drew writes, “I’m Chinese-American, and I am the second generation of my family born in the U.S. I only speak English right now, but I used to be fluent in Chinese. The most important thing to me is my parents. They are the ones that support you and guide you through all aspects of your lifetime. My parents are my best friends and I wouldn’t be who I am without them. In the future, my dream is to become a professional soccer player. I am a very athletic kid, and sports are something that always cheer me up.”