On The Subject of Luck
illustrated by Elizabeth Zu
In the summer of 2019, a few friends of mine in a group chat jokingly started asking when we were all going to Asia together. Whether or not this was in response to a meme (the likely case) has long been buried in the thousands of messages since, but the next thing we knew we were making plans and buying plane tickets for that upcoming winter. In those two weeks abroad, I got to see so many sights and eat my way through four different cities, including Seoul, South Korea. I saw my extended family for the first time in nearly four years, all the while humbled by what four years can change.
After meeting with my grandmother on my father’s side, the last relative I was to see during my stay, I remember waving goodbye as I stepped on a packed subway car. While the parting was (as cliché as it is) bittersweet, I couldn’t help but wonder when I would see them next.
With the recent pandemic, I felt relieved and lucky that I got to see them when I did. After all, there’s no telling when my immediate family members and I would see them next.
I was lucky to see them when I did, right?
“I could barely hold a conversation with my relatives, and while they all smiled and commented on how well I spoke Korean, I couldn’t help but feel the divide growing wider.”
Last semester I ended up taking a poetry class for an English requirement. I had always been into poetry and I didn’t feel like taking something where I had to write long essays on longer readings, so this seemed like the natural choice. While we did have readings, they were all written by authors that were still alive and well. Each came in to give a reading and answer questions about their work, and one of particular note was the author Victoria Chang. Of particular note was a point she made about the luck surrounding children of immigrants; it’s not uncommon to hear people or our own family members exclaim how lucky we are to have a life in the great U.S of A.
Growing up, I lived in a predominantly white neighborhood. Whenever holidays came around, I’d always hear plans of visiting grandparents, aunts and uncles, and other various extended family members. I had never really put too much thought into it until coming to university. Hearing stories of others like me not taking holidays too seriously and having dinners with just their immediate family (other than maybe the Lunar New Year) got me thinking what life might have been like had my parents stayed in Seoul. What would it have been like to have all that family so close to me?
In the four years I hadn’t seen my relatives, I was now more aware than ever about my own disconnect with my own family’s culture. I could barely hold a conversation with my relatives, and while they all smiled and commented on how well I spoke Korean, I couldn’t help but feel the divide growing wider.
“But when every day you become more aware of the liminal space you live in, when every day you have to fight to justify your place in a place you’ve lived your whole life, it gets hard to see the luck in any of it.”
I remember one particular exchange with some of my cousins about what life was like in the States. “It must be so nice, there’s so much less stress with your academics compared to here.” While the South Korean education system puts significant pressure on its students to study 24/7, I couldn’t help but feel like their vision of the U.S. was too narrow. Sure, I was lucky to be able to pursue my hobbies and interests outside of my studies in an effort to be more “holistic,” with perhaps an easier time working towards the career I desire. But those seemed insignificant to the vast amount of personal experiences I seem to miss out on as the first to be born outside South Korea. Whether it be as simple as grandparents sitting by the TV or just hanging out with my cousins, I longed to have some semblance of the family experience that my peers had.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; I appreciate the life my parents have given me here and I’ve always admired the strength that it took to leave their home to start a new life in a foreign country. But when every day you become more aware of the liminal space you live in, when every day you have to fight to justify your place in a place you’ve lived your whole life, it gets hard to see the luck in any of it. Are we supposed to feel lucky to live in a place where the people in power antagonize us and instigate violence against us? Are we to feel lucky that the people meant to protect us dismiss our deaths as the victims of someone who “had a bad day”?
Sure, the grass is always greener on the other side. But I’m tired of being lucky.