This is a piece scribed for a writing competition. If you enjoy it, I'd be honored if you could show it some love on the website. Thanks in advance, Page and Spoon friends!
Everyone was staring.
The kids, their parents, even the guards followed our family around with their eyes. Some were polite enough to take a peek and immediately pan their gaze to something else. Others locked their pupils unblinkingly on us - the only Korean family in the entire theme park. Though I was a generally carefree ten-year-old, I could feel my face growing hot as I felt the sudden urge to study the ground for dried gum as I waited in line for the next ride.
My parents and relatives had dished out for full-day passes, a decision the adults made because it made the most financial sense ("Stay longer, cheaper per hour!" Dad had crowed), but I suddenly would've broken my nearly-full piggy bank open if it meant that we could pile into the car and head back. Where our faces weren't so curious. Where we didn't feel like such freaks. Where I didn't heatedly wish I had the same skin color as my Barbie doll back home.
I figured things would get better once everyone at the waterpark had seen our small entourage at least once. They would have looked, seen, and hopefully gotten tired of scrutinizing our almond eyes. But as we spent our morning, methodically traipsing up every tall hill with a tube dragging behind us, or gleefully sliding down and pulling up our bottoms like every other red-blooded American in the park, I could feel myself suddenly sympathizing with the plight of our goldfish at home.
It wasn't much fun being watched.
The worst part was lunchtime. All day, I'd been entertaining fantasies of getting to wait in line and waltz away with a hot dog and cola in hand. I couldn't change my face, but surely I'd fit in a little better if I had their food in hand. But the same impecunious parents of mine who decided to spring for the all-day pass refused to be persuaded by the exorbitant prices.
"Fourteen dollars for a burger?!" my dad roared, unfazed by my urgent shushing. "They must think we're idiots!"
Then Mom had the perfect solution. Perfect. Brilliant. And horrifying.
"Don't we have some instant noodles we bought from Hmart the other day?" she asked. "They're still in the trunk, and we can just ask them for hot water. It'll be the perfect meal!"
And with nine resounding cheers (conveniently drowning out the staunch silence of one), my parents, aunt, and uncle enthusiastically tromped to the parking lot, leaving us kids to go on at least one more ride before lunch. I chose to sit it out, feigning a stomachache that wasn't quite as fake as it would seem.
I knew the sort of instant noodles they bought. It wasn't the neat and tidy kind, which only required hot water to the line and a dash of patience while freeze-fried noodles compliantly softened in the broth. Those would have drawn some of the same stares, of course, but I would have far preferred them to the kind my parents brought back.
They were instant Korean bibim naengmyun. Cold mixed noodles. With fresh horror, I imagined the multiple steps that would go into preparing our 'instant' lunch, each one with just enough of a 'weirdness quotient' that made my stomach rumble more defiantly in the non-hungry way. To make our meal, we'd have to pour hot water over the noodle lumps, wait a few minutes, spill out most of it through some holes poked with our utensils (Oh God. We'd have to eat with chopsticks), and then mix the included spicy sauce into the noodles.
To make matters worse, I was the one appointed to head up to a counter and ask - in as brave and confident a voice as I could muster - "Excuse me. Could we have some hot water? Like ten cups of it? Please and thank you."
I couldn't tell you how it tasted, because I promptly threw it up half an hour later into a potted plant. Everyone blamed the heat, but I knew why. And even as an adult, the memory of that day makes me feel slightly nauseous whenever I see that same brand sitting on a shelf in the local Asian supermarket.
More than a decade later, I'm now a teacher. I now speak openly and proudly of my favorite kimbap fillings. Or all the foods I wouldn't dare mention to my elementary school friends. I turn the volume up specially in the presence of Asian students who seem to be slouching lower in their chairs to hide their packed lunches. From time to time, I invite non-Korean friends to have the same dishes at restaurants and quietly preen when they gasp after their first taste.
Such flavors! they'll exclaim with unsheathed excitement, because no hot dog could ever dream of packing such a tasty punch.
And in about a week, when I take my niece and nephew to their first time at a waterpark, I can't tell you how they'll be feeling about the possible stares.
But I can tell you what we'll be eating for lunch.
