I know my mom’s kimchi by taste. I can also recognize that of her friends’, who would often stop by my childhood home with reams of other Korean side dishes, or “banchan.”
Because of them, I have always associated the sound of a doorbell with food. They would pass onto us Tupperware of pickled vegetables and seasoned roots, my mom would return the favor with her own plastic containers packed to the brim, and so the cycle would go on.
My parents moved from Korea to the US in the 70s and made sure me and my siblings were still experiencing Korean culture despite being abroad.
We were connected to culture through food
This side-dish whirligig is a common practice across Korean communities, referred to “nanum munhwa”. Directly translated, it means a culture of sharing. Making banchan is time-consuming, arduous work, yielding dishes with short shelf lives. It thus makes sense to make the dishes in bulk and share them with others. My mom, who grew up on a farm along Korea’s countryside, recalls having to bring her own mother’s fare to her neighbors and friends. She dreaded having to make these deliveries at night, she tells me.
She and her friends would bring that same culture of sharing to America, albeit with a few modifications. With different ingredients to improvise old recipes, they concocted their own staple versions of banchan: kimchi made with kohlrabi, pickled radish wraps made with roast beef. And side dishes were not delivered between neighbors trekking across farms, but by way of Volvo Station Wagons and Subaru Foresters.
These side dishes, though, meant much more than just good eats. Connected within this culture of sharing was a network of first-generation parents who had emigrated from Korea to America, many of whom I still consider a core part of my upbringing.
They were like family
My parents’ friends emulated a quasi-Korean, quasi-American citizenry in ways that went beyond good neighborly samaritan. For my sisters and I, they were also de facto aunts and uncles. Consequently, their children were our de facto cousins. Our families shared every Thanksgiving, Christmas, Mother’s Day and Father’s Day together. We would tag along on each other’s day trips and extended holidays. Clothes, games, toys were exchanged, swapped, handed down. And being the youngest, I always had my pick of the crop.
To this day, there is no perfect word to describe what exactly those within this network mean to me. To call them my friends is ungenerous, and to call them family is a fib. What’s more is I do have extended family — actual extended family — in Korea. Still, with my blood relatives oceans away, it only seemed right to let those around me err on the side of kinship. Connected by heritage, they define to me what it means to be Korean. To this day, my title for my so-called “cousins” translates to “older sister” or “older brother”.
I grew up around other children of immigrants
I have also grown up with a feeling of gratitude, a common sentiment among children of immigrants. Connected by our parents’ decision to move abroad, many of us raised within this community would carry with us a deep appreciation that would come to characterize our generation’s experience. Sometimes, though, I wonder if it will define that of the third.
A new generation is taking shape today. Proudly, it includes my niece, Sloane. At times, my sisters and I consider how our upbringing will shape hers. It seems the proof will be in the pudding, however. My parents live close by, and are playing a strong role in her upbringing. And Sloane, like many others, is being raised in a multicultural household — inspired by the values of her parents and her parents’ parents.
In our growingly multigenerational community, the dedication to bringing forward our Korean-ness lives on. From language to food, Sloane and others within our community are surrounded by reminders of their roots. And while many of the neighborhood kids I grew up with have moved across the country, we are sure to remind those around us they are more family than friends. Distance means we can no longer deliver to each other fresh side dishes on a daily basis. But when we do visit each other, we bring gifts and reminders of our new homes.
We can only hope that the experience of the third generation will be as enriching as it was for us, contoured by our parents’ ability to lean on one another.
