Ganghwa Island with My Birth Family
“Yoon Hee, the last weekend of June. Busy?”
“Not yet.” It was only April, but my sisters have learned that my weekends book up quickly, so they now message me with plans in advance.
“Good. Appa’s birthday. Let’s meet.”
I penciled it into my calendar. Perhaps it will be the last time the whole family is together again before I depart from Korea. While I was growing up with my adopted family in suburban America, my Korean family was a foreign concept. It wasn’t until 2012 that I realized they were real people and subsequently found them. Since then, we have been trying to make up for the 24 years apart.
My family decided to spend my birth father’s birthday on the rural Ganghwa Islands of Incheon. We visited a total of three islands, the first being Gyodong. To reach the island, my father had to show necessary documents to the soldiers who were guarding the entrance. We were granted access with the promise that we would leave that night. The military presence reminded me how physically close we were to North Korea—just on the other side of the water.
Gyodong Island is barely inhabited. The downtown area was quaint and rustic. There was only one road where a car would certainly not fit, but a bicycle might be able to finagle its way through. There were interesting little shops with ladies in front tending to their vegetables. Life was slow, a rarity in Korea.
We stumbled into a humble visitor’s center to watch a video about the effect of Korea’s north and south split on the island. From what I gathered, local families were separated by the split and were never able to reunite, leaving them longing for each other over the years. It struck a chord with my birth mother because she was left in tears. “We are together now, and we can only move forward, not dwell on the past,” I tried to explain in my limited Korean.
We later hopped back in the car, waved farewell to the guards, and headed back to Ganghwa Island. A few curvy roads led us to the ocean, lined with an array of seafood restaurants. My family pointed in excitement to a squiggly octopus. Before I could look away, the woman pulled the animal out of the tank, decapitated it, and chopped away at its tentacles. She scooped up the last bits into Styrofoam before nonchalantly wrapping it up. My sister took the to-go package while I gawked at its squirming tentacles. This was my first time witnessing the iconic Korean food with my own eyes.
When we got to the pension, we enthusiastically toured the house like kids moving into a new home. The ocean views on the wrap-around deck from our second-floor balcony especially delighted us.
This called for a celebration—fresh octopus. The tentacles were still crawling even after its death twenty minutes earlier. My family slurped down the moving limbs and encouraged me to eat. Since it was my first opportunity to try the delicacy, I agreed; it is something everyone should try in Korea. I picked up a small piece without circular suction cups, dipped it in the accompanying sauce, and gingerly put it in my mouth. The savory sauce was delightful, but the chewy tentacle is not something I will actively seek out again. I managed to smile, put down my chopsticks and observed them enjoy a food so foreign to me. I could not help but imagine that I would join them if I had not been adopted and assimilated into American culture.
My oldest sister and her newborn baby popped their heads in suddenly. It was the first time meeting my second niece, and I took note of our similar facial features. My other three-year old niece leaped in, acting silly as always. She and I get along well. She recently surpassed my Korean language abilities, so she can officially converse better with my family than I can.
We found ourselves outside on the swinging bench with our father pushing us high. We giggled with every push, wind blowing in our hair. As I regressed back to being a three-year old with my niece, part of me saddened that I never had the chance to play with my birth father as a child, but simultaneously lifted because I had the opportunity then.
The rest of the night was a cozy one lazing in the pension. I feel absolutely comfortable with them, but sometimes the language and cultural barrier can be isolating. Being so deeply connected yet feeling like strangers has been a remarkable experience to which I am still adjusting. Even though we are not able to have deep conversations, we can still communicate our emotions without words. Our family had meaningful gatherings over the years, and I am nothing but appreciative for their efforts to include me in the family and for showing me some of the hidden gems in my birth country. My time living in Korea will soon end, but our relationship and memories will continue.