The first thing that jumped out at me when I met her was her physical weakness. Her hands felt small, thinned with age, soft, and leathery when I took them in mine. She was in a wheelchair, and she wore a patterned pink shirt that fit loosely on her tiny frame. 

Five-year-old me was addicted to Barbie. 

I watched the movies. I memorized the songs. I pranced around my basement in full fairy-princess costume, twirling a wand and going on imaginary girl-power adventures. I collected dolls– mostly blonde with shimmery pink dresses, or brunettes with light eyes and kind smiles, but there was one doll that always stood out to me the most. 

Today, my mother taught me how to make doenjang jjigae. 

I had asked her to show me, since I’m moving into an apartment-style at school in August and I won’t have a meal plan. 

I have monolids. Mono as in “one”. One-lid. No crease.

Eye-shape seems to be a resurrectable conversation topic with my Asian friends. Which of us have been “blessed by the heavens above” with that little fold in their eyelid– which of us “unfortunate souls” have been cursed to bear the weight of hooded eyes. 

I had never really attempted to express what it means to be Korean American in words until this internship. 

My Korean name is Park Ji-Eun, 박지은. My grandparents picked it out when I was born: Ji for “wisdom”, Eun for “grace of God”. It is a name chosen with love, with purpose. 

When I was applying to colleges, I had a lot of adults heaping advice on me–how to find the best study abroad programs, the best campus life, the best professors, the best undergrad programs. Also– to find Koreans. =

Hi, I’m Emma and I am a rising sophomore at SUNY Binghamton. I’m undeclared, but I want to double major in Art History and English.