Welcome to Confessions
Age is just a number
One of the first things a Korean will ask you is myeoch sal-ieyo (몇 살이에요), which means ‘How old are you’?
To a foreigner, it doesn't seem nice. To a woman, that’s double down. But there is a reason for that. Their culture dictates respect by age. Unless you are born in the same year, which makes you friends, everyone else is older or younger, senior or junior, family or not. Making it hard, I imagine, to meet a love interest or form a relationship across ages.
Being Chinese, not from China, I still maintain some of the cultures there. The Chinese language has levels of respect, though not as complicated as our East Asian Korean counterparts. Adding to English being my first language and living in the US for more than my earlier life, I’m a Twinkie. Sometimes, I feel that way because I am an immigrant in the land of the free, more Asian than American-born, bringing the culture and the languages of my childhood. And yet, when I’m in Asia, I am the foreigner, a lone cowgirl in the grasslands.
So, how old am I? Smart enough to not tell you. Forever thirty-five, as I often say. In South Korea, though, my label would be ajumma (아줌마), and there was no way to escape that horrendous title.
Ajumma
A derogatory term reserved for married and over-middle-aged women with tightly permed hair, visors, and mismatched clothing to hide from the sun, her pack of cackling friends, and their fierce opinions. Descriptions of these women vary depending on where they lived, but one thing is obvious: Korean women do not want to be called that, and neither do I.
And he said it, “Ajumma.” Pointing with that judging finger in ridicule. Across the Pacific, in a bedroom somewhere in Seoul, this young man laughed. To him, I had the nerve to be there, watching him. I was some spoilt fruit, pathetic and a fool.
Never have I ever felt this slow burn. He skipped me, and that was good riddance. Frozen on the spot, I stared at my laptop. Closing it and burying my head in my covers as my heart bled. My ego, where once was whole, was now stabbed with a shade of black.
I had no feelings for that stranger. I didn’t know his name or where the fuck he was. But, a bruised self wasn’t quickly healed, and for the rest of the day and a half, I mulled in seething anger at that one word and the derision on his handsome face.
Was it wrong for me to be there? It was my first foray into online chat after years bundled in a bubble of suburbia life. So what if I was chatting with people younger than I was? Was it wrong to want to feel the rush of freedom and be who I am?
They didn’t know me.
Age is but a number. This soul could fly free, too. And in my first bout of freedom, I was shot down for being too old.
The Koreans were an enigma. Though we were Asians, their Confucian thinking and group mentality differed from mine, like night and day. Where I was and where I am now, our societies were cosmopolitan. In America, with various foods, skin tones, and religions, it was difficult to comprehend the monoculture.
My curiosity grew with K-pop and K-drama blaring through the Internet and on our TVs and music apps. Were they how the media portrayed them? I knew I shouldn’t trust the media. Like Hollywood, the Korean machine was well-oiled and excellent at producing the dream-like entertainment everyone was addicted to today.
I wanted to know. There had to be more to them. Underneath the kbeauty, perfect bodies, and hot moves, these people were normal and had the same urges as me.
I wouldn’t let one dick stand in the way of my exploration. My excitement burst through. Ometv, the random search chat app, was my gateway. Youtubers showed how I would get the Korean experience they got. The truth was at my fingertips. I wanted to know.
This Ajumma was going to prove a point. I wasn’t going to let that cruel word get me down.
Who said I was a has-been? If what I’d learned and knew, Milf was the hottest searched porn, and this Ajumma was only just beginning.
