Mixed Race Studies

The Skin I’m In – At the Korean Sauna

Ms. Food Queen: Cooking Across Difference
November 2014

Christine Gregory

I am lying naked on a padded linoleum table while a heavyset Korean ajumma (middle aged woman) scrubs every inch of my body.  I catch a glimpse of the tiny rolls of dead skin left behind on her pink washrag. I see more bits on the table and all over the floor. Mortified, I shut my eyes.  My mind is racing.  I’m at a Korean sauna in Palisades, New Jersey with my mother and her dear friend.  We have all paid for a body scrub and a massage.  I am supposed to be relaxing, but instead I am silently freaking out. Bits of my brown skin are everywhere and I am worried about being judged.

I’m the only black woman in here.  The bath area is filled with Korean women of all ages and shapes.  It is a beautiful, communal space.  Not so much because of the décor, more because of how lovely it is to bare everything without judgment or shame. And yet I cannot seem to enjoy the moment…

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Proving Race

Ms. Food Queen: Cooking Across Difference
August 2014

Christine Gregory

I am standing in the lobby of a Korean restaurant. In the split second before I’m seated, I make a conscious decision of whether or not to speak Korean. I know that if I do, it will lead to many benefits, tangible and intangible. I will receive better service. The wait staff will smile at me. I will be given special side dishes that are not on the menu, (for which I will not be expected to pay). I will feel welcome.

I know that if I do not speak Korean, I will be given a cordial and obligatory “Hello.” I will be seated and served what I ordered. I will dine and go, like a stranger. They will look at my brown face, and maybe even smile, but they will fail to recognize me as one of their own.

I almost always elect to speak Korean. Given the benefits, the reasons might seem obvious.   But it isn’t for the discounted pedicures, free sodas at the sushi carry out, and – believe it or not –occasional yellow croaker given gratis by the fish monger at the local Korean mart. It’s because I want them to see me. I want them to know that I am Korean. Speaking the language is the way that I prove my identity.

I am black and Korean, but could easily “pass” for Latina, Ethiopian, South Asian, Polynesian, or Indian. Despite my racially ambiguous appearance, I’ve grown quite deft at subtly revealing my identity to other black folks. I effortlessly code switch and drop hints that would lead whomever I am addressing to surmise that, “Yeah, she must be black.” For example, I mention that I attended a historically black college; share a photo of my African American husband; or drop the name of the church that I attend, all excellent sources of proof…

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Talking About Race – An Essay

Ms. Food Queen: Cooking Across Difference
July 2014

Christine Gregory

In the Korean language, “heug–in sa ram” means “black person.” The word “heug” also means dirt. I realized this when I was in high school and confronted my mother about it. She bristled, and said that I was too sensitive. I looked to my father for back up, but he would provide none. Though he was African American and born in rural South Carolina, he never spoke of his experiences with prejudice or bias. I recall once on a visit home from college, hoping to inspire a conversation about the cultural and racial differences in his and my mother’s relationship, I asked him how he felt about being in an interracial marriage with a Korean woman. He replied, “What are you talking about? Your mama ain’t white.”

Growing up, we never talked about race– and it drove me crazy. From my perspective, our lives revolved around our identity, yet we never discussed what it meant to be black, Korean, or mixed. Among my mother’s Korean friends, co-workers and acquaintances, my brother and I were black. They were shocked at our taste for Korean food beyond mainstream kimchi and bulgogi; and equally astounded by my ability to speak Korean so well! Out of sheer ignorance, they excluded us from church activities meant only for “full-blooded” Korean parishioners, not realizing that they were replicating, in Jim Crow-like fashion, the racism of prior decades.

To black folks, we were mixed. Not quite African American, but brown enough to be included in social networks and friend groups that gave us a sense of community and belonging. Almost all of my friends were black or biracial. With several military bases nearby, mixed race children were not uncommon in our neighborhood. Yet our Korean heritage was still a subject of fascination. Why didn’t we own a grocery mart or dry cleaners? No. We don’t know Karate (and it’s Tae Kwon Do, thank-you-very-much). No. We don’t eat dogs and kimchee is not spoiled cabbage…

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