of the boat and occasionally glancing over, broke into
I looked about for social cues; my fellow passengers continued texting on their cell phones, watching K-
a smile. I was overcome with a tingling sensation, and
dramas from their portable video players, or just staring
it wasn’t just the bathtub soju. Was I experiencing that
into space. None of them—none of us—reached for our
mythical jung? These North Koreans were so gaunt their
wallets. I made excuses to myself—this man was an elder
cheekbones threatened to break the surface of their skin,
and a male, I’d pervert the Confucian hierarchy—but in
and yet they shared all of their food and drink with me. I wanted to do something to express my thanks; ear-
truth, I felt no connection to him. When he took his paper
lier, I had sent over a bottle of soju, but it was a produc-
back from me, I didn’t meet his eye.
tion that required the guide as a go-between. If I flagged
As I grew disillusioned with life in Seoul, I had
him down again, it would only draw more attention. Tour-
the chance to travel to North Korea, and harbored
ists were forbidden from carrying DPRK currency, but
no great expectations for my trip. The DPRK, with its
I remembered I had some U.S. singles I could give as sou-
hermetically sealed borders, represented to me an undi-
venirs. They were brand-new bills, which required pulling
luted version of an already strict, militant culture. On the
out the stack from my wallet and licking my fingers as I
flight, myriad fears should have rightfully fought for my
counted. The tone of the group immediately shifted. “N-n-no!” they said, throwing up their hands. They
attention: that I was entering a totalitarian regime representing not one, but two, enemy states; that my mother
turned their heads away from me, pushing back their
was born in the same province as Kim Jong-Il, and if the
makeshift chairs. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . as a memento . . .” My cheeks
DPRK government discovered this fact, I’d be handled
flushed with embarrassment.
as they do daughters of defectors (sent to the gulags).
My handler pulled me from the circle, and as we
Instead, my central worry was whether I’d be criticized
walked away, I pinched the skin of my forearms. In God
and rejected by yet another faction of my kinsmen.
We Trust. Had I only confirmed the archetype of the U.S.
The amount of interaction I was permitted with the
imperialist? That fragile moment of unity, shattered.
locals surprised me; the pleasantness of those interactions surprised me more. I met historians at Kim Il-Sung commemorative sites, schoolchildren on playgrounds,
I’ve since returned to Seoul, having traveled to
the elderly on the subway, and to each I introduced
a place no Southern citizen can legally enter. This is a
myself as an American-born Chosun, using the DPRK
fact I’ve taken to dropping into each and every one of
word for “Korean.” I was a head taller and thirty pounds
my conversations. “I never felt jung until I went to North
heavier than the next biggest North Korean, yet they
Korea. Oh right, you’ve never been . . .”
enveloped me in their thin arms like a long-lost sister,
The South Koreans, in turn, shake their heads like I’ve
daughter, granddaughter.
gotten it all wrong. Jung, they tell me, takes a lifetime to
I also never imagined I’d be sitting around a fire with
develop, be it with a favorite mentor or despised mother-
North Koreans, drinking homemade acorn liquor. I was
in-law. What I’d experienced was just “one, big, propa-
on a fishing boat off the eastern coast when I said hello
gandized show” designed to “elicit sympathy” in the
to a group of locals. They evaluated me—my Korean(ish)
form of “cold, hard cash.”
face, my American sneakers—and just when I expected
I often look back on that moment on the fishing boat,
to be met with a dismissive grunt, one of the men pushed
and it disheartens me to think it might have been staged.
a clam into my hand. It was char-grilled, as meaty as
I wonder, too, about the last words the woman had
beef. A woman offered me her seat—a discarded piece
whispered to me as I—disgraced—gathered my things to
of Styrofoam. She pried apart a clam shell and poured
leave.
into one of the halves a clear liquid. “To your health, little
“Just never forget you’re Chosun,” she said, waving
sister!” she said, and I was made to drink.
away my dollar bills. “It’s the only memory worth holding on to.” PP
We also toasted to “one flowing blood line,” to unity for the Chosun people, to the new memories we were forming. Even my tour guide, standing at the far end
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