The Korean Vegan
  • Home.
  • About.
    • Events
    • Contact Me.
  • Recipes.
  • Writing.
  • Partner With Me.
  • Free E-Book
  • Stuff I Love
  • TKV Cookbook
  • Home.
  • About.
    • Events
    • Contact Me.
  • Recipes.
  • Writing.
  • Partner With Me.
  • Free E-Book
  • Stuff I Love
  • TKV Cookbook

The Korean Vegan

Life

One Afternoon at the Peninsula.

After finishing up my very first year as an associate at my law firm, I invited my entire family—my mom, dad, brother, aunts, uncle, cousin, and even my 80+ year old grandmother—to the Peninsula Hotel for afternoon tea. We arrived at the iconic hotel on Superior and all 13 of us filed past the pair of gargoyled lions and into the revolving door, as a slight man uniformed in all white pressed his gloved hands against the glass so that we wouldn’t have to. Our reservation was at The Lobby, the hotel’s premier restaurant, renown for its Sunday brunch and afternoon tea service. As we waited for the brass doors of the elevator shaft to admit us, I touched my hair. I had taken pains with my appearance that day—I wore a pale yellow frock with delicate flowers darting across the skirt and a wide sash around my waist. I ironed my hair and pressed the curls so they looked more happenstance than artifice. I even had makeup on.

The elevator finally arrived and three guests ahead of us went in.  My family followed. My cousins tittered nervously, my brother looked uncomfortable but stared straight ahead. My parents were silent. My grandmother wedged herself into a corner. It was a tight squeeze, and perhaps it would have made more sense for us to take two cars up to the restaurant, but I could sense that no one wanted to be separated.  As the doors slid closed, I heard one of the women who had gotten in before us—a petite young woman with glossy brown hair, sparkling diamond studs hanging from her lobes, and a pristine white Mon Cler jacket—sniff rather loudly as my grandmother leaned back into her space. She then burst into a fit of not kind giggles as she whispered something to her companion, also bedecked in casual couture.

Standing at the back of the elevator, I could feel a bead of sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades, as I attempted to put a few more inches between myself and the woman standing next to me—a young black woman with her hair pulled back in a tight pony tail sporting a form-fitting black hoodie and running tights—as if I could—should—compensate for my grandmother’s faux pas. Perhaps taking a cue from me, the young black woman also adjusted her position and sidled away from the two aforementioned women to her right. As she did, the diamond studded one murmured, “Oh, you’re ok. It’s not YOU.”

In such a small space, it was impossible for all of us who understood English not to grasp the real meaning of her words. “It’s not YOU.” It’s THEM. More beads of sweat between my shoulder blades. My face flushed as a big ball of fury, shame, confusion, and anxiety threatened to crush all the intentions that drove me to bring my family—none of whom had ever dreamed of visiting a five star hotel—and my grandmother—who still had nightmares about the war and stood with her walnut hands clasped behind her curved back—to The Peninsula. I stared straight ahead, past the wispy black curls (dyed) of my Hahlmuhnee, wondering how long before we’d be freed from our vintage brass prison.

“Mmm-kay.”

That wasn’t me. And it definitely wasn’t anyone in my family. None of us could inject that level of contempt into two syllables. I cocked my head and stole a glance at the sporty black woman next to me. She looked both irritated and resolute. Tired. And the Mon Cler ladies next to her were not having it.

“Hey, what’s your problem? I told you, it’s not YOU.”

“I don’t have a problem,” she answered without missing a beat, without raising her voice above a mutter, without shifting her gaze an inch from the double doors, which finally began to open. My grandmother ambled out, followed by two huffy and puffy white jackets and a cloud of Chanel No. 5. As we walked down the wide corridor lined with glass cases shimmering with the largest diamonds I had ever seen, I turned to the woman who’d managed to say so much in so few words.

“Those girls are crazy,” I said with a shy smile.

“Yeah, they are. Don’t pay them no mind,” she advised before heading towards another bank of elevators past the restaurant. I looked past her at my Hahlmuhnee, who remained oblivious to the jewels that glowed all around her, the chandeliers that hung like upside down tiaras from the ceiling, the soft tete-a-tete of champaign glasses that threatened to unfurl the bullishness that led me to believe I could be good enough for admission to a club that seemed reserved for those who looked nothing like me, something Sporty Girl had understood implicitly in a way I was too spineless to absorb.

Later, over a cup of green tea and a plate of stiff British scones, my aunt looked over at me and said, “Joanne, you are so pretty.” I smiled back at her. But inside, I kept thinking of Sporty Girl, her quiet defiance on our behalf, and my instinct to internalize the gaze that rendered my family gratuitous. I thought to myself, “I am never going to be silent again.”

It’s been 15 years since that day at the Peninsula. Every time I go back—and I’ve gone back often (they have an excellent vegan tea service)—I think of that woman in the elevator.  I think of her now, too, what she taught me in our brief exchange about collective pain, the human struggle, the necessity of allies and the sheer power of compassion, whose brilliance put Cartier to shame.

I think of my Hahlmuhnee. I think of the beads of sweat down my back.

I am never going to be silent again.

#blacklivesmatter

One Afternoon at the Peninsula. was last modified: May 31st, 2020 by the.krn.vegan@gmail.com
0 comment
7
Facebook Twitter Google + Pinterest

You may also like

That Time I Went Vegan…

Daddy’s Favorite Noodles And That Time I...

Running Away From Ed.

Looking Back for Hahl-muh-nee on my First...

Seaweed Soup For Birthdays.

TOP 5 Unexpected Byproducts Of Going Vegan....

That Time America Ghosted Me.

That Time I Googled “How To Stop...

What Being American Means to Me.

That Time I Got Lost In Italy.

About Me

About Me

I veganize Korean food. I Koreanize everything else.

Keep in touch

Facebook Twitter Instagram Pinterest Youtube

the.korean.vegan

The Korean Vegan, Esq.
Over a year ago, after the death of Ahmaud Arbery, Over a year ago, after the death of Ahmaud Arbery, I started thinking a great deal about how to eradicate systemic racism in this country and the role that solidarity between various groups played in that objective.  In the past several months, as the AAPI community grappled with the rise in violence against its most vulnerable, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to understand what we can learn from the this nation’s ongoing struggle with white supremacy and what, if any value, our solidarity with the Black American community could bring to that fight. This isn’t an easy post to write, partially because I am still learning and many of my thoughts remain unformed. Race, identity, oppression—these things are slippery, naturally evade definition, and as a result, it’s hard to have discussions about these things without causing injury—especially when we are all grieving as we continue to watch people die.
.
Not everyone’s activism looks the same. Mine tends to be more introspective, perhaps because I, like so many others, struggle with identifying concrete things I can actually do to make things better.  For me, it always boils down to “doing the right thing.” Character, integrity, loyalty. Showing up even when it’s so much easier to turn our backs and walk away. I write this now even as I know that I haven’t yet been really tested, that my commitment to BLM and the continued fight against systemic racism remains somewhat theoretical. When has my privilege really been threatened, when have I had to allow my own safety to be jeopardized for the safety of others?
.
I don’t yet know what the complete form of solidarity looks like, but I do know what it’s not: convenient.
Strawberry Milk! So easy. Just cut up some strawbe Strawberry Milk! So easy. Just cut up some strawberries, add a little orange zest, drop on some sweetener, then pour in 1/4 cup coffee creamer and 1 cup of your favorite plant milk! If you want extra berry flavor, marinate your cut strawberries in the sweetener for 1 hour before adding your liquids. The best part is scooping the strawberries into your mouth at the end. Trust me!
Someone asked me the other day whether I had ever Someone asked me the other day whether I had ever experienced any incidents of racism in my life. I had to laugh because at first I thought it was rhetorical. Of course I have. I’ve grown up with it. I don’t say that to play the victim-quite the opposite. It’s something I now take for granted as part of my life. And as I answered the question I realized it’s part of my “American life.” I’ve been thinking a lot these days about what it means to be “American.” It isn’t an easy one to answer and I think it’s an intensely personal question. So I answered it in reference to my own experiences. Recipe for this simple kimchi fried rice on my blog, thekoreanvegan.com. Just look up “fried rice.”
Load More...

Sign Up For Your Copy of Our FREE E-Book!

Recipes

  • Bread and Breakfast
  • Desserts
  • Entrees
  • Food
  • Gluten Free
  • Life
  • Mains
  • Pasta and Noodles
  • Sauces
  • Soups, Stews, and Side Dishes
  • Stuff I Love
  • Traditional Korean Recipes
  • Uncategorized

Popular Posts

  • Stuff I Love: On The Stovetop

    November 4, 2020
  • Spicy & Crunchy Garlic Tofu (Kkanpoong Tofu)

    July 13, 2020
  • Tteokbokki (Spicy Korean Rice Cakes)

    August 13, 2016
  • Kimchi Chigae Reigns Supreme.

    August 13, 2017
  • Your Favorite Tofu Recipe EVAR.

    October 13, 2016
  • Savory Pancakes – Gluten Free!

    May 15, 2018
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Pinterest
  • Youtube
  • Snapchat
Footer Logo

@2020 The Korean Vegan. All Right Reserved. Site Design by The Denizen Co.


Back To Top