“Sometimes small cuts cause a lot of pain.” He gives me a half smile and another piece of gimbap disappears into his mouth. “We need to make you some seaweed soup. Usually we serve it for birthdays but I think your first visit to Korea is like a birthday.”

I put my chopsticks down.

The ever-intuitive Yujun asks, “What’s wrong?”

“My mom used to make that for me.”

“Oh really? But not anymore?”

“No. I made her stop.” I’m ashamed.

“What happened?” It’s a gentle question.

“About fourth grade, I think, I had some friends over and one asked why it was so stinky in the house. I don’t even think it was the soup that smelled but the kimchi Mom served with it. Someone else said that it was my hair since it looked like seaweed. After that, I wouldn’t eat it.”

“That’s terrible.”

“I feel like a fraud now.” I wave my hand. “I hated all this stuff growing up. Mom would want to take me to things or she’d send me articles on Korea. She offered to take me to a Korean concert once. I refused. I wanted nothing to do with it.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Remember Aunt Sue? She lives in a French country homeon the beach among all those ultramodern glass and concrete structures or the art deco ones. She wears Ralph Lauren constantly and smells like rose water. She never spoke Korean in the house and pretended she didn’t know it. She didn’t speak because she was embarrassed of her accent. We hardly talked at all when I first arrived. I couldn’t speak much English and she refused to speak Korean. Ironically, that’s why my English is so good. If she still eats kimchi, it would be outside or in the garage.”

I don’t know if he’s making this up to make me feel better, but I appreciate it if he is. There’s something really freeing about talking with someone who understands, who has had the same experiences. I don’t have to explain what it felt like to be othered. He knows all about the sensation of standing in a group and appearing so obviously different, of being asked questions that your friends are never asked. Where did you come from? What language do you speak? Do you speak ching chong chang? I inhale and let go of some of the guilt that’s wound itself around my lungs.

“What do you want to know about Korea? I’ll tell you as much as me and my phone know.”

I ask more questions about the time when my mother would’ve been pregnant. While I eat, he shares all sorts of details. There was no KTX train and the movie Train to Busan couldn’t have existed. He doesn’t know what the fashion was, but his father had worn the big tinted sunglasses in college that are popular in fashion magazines today. “It’s all a big circle,” Yujun declares. He puts down the box and moves the beer cans. “Let’s take a picture. Slide over.”