These days, it feels like South Korea is the shiny, new toy.

For a long time Korea was overlooked by China and Japan. All of my memories from grade school in the United States are filled with curious peers asking me if I was Chinese or Japanese. “No, I’m Korean,” I’d say to faces filled with either disinterest, confusion or the well-meaning, “really? Where is that? Are you North or South Korean?” In college in the US, I remember when one girl who lived in my dorm had asked me how I had such nice skin. I was thrilled to show her my green tea infused Innisfree products that I was using at the time (I suffered terrible skin problems for years and worked very hard to learn about Korean beauty to revive my skin health). Though I regularly overheard the girls exchanging their own makeup and beauty secrets, none had ever asked me before.

“Green tea, wow,” she said, already turning away to leave with her friends who never spoke to me, their tans and beach-waved hair at distinct odds to my fair-skinned, natural makeup style.

Now, it is the strangest feeling to see someone’s face light up with excitement when I mention Korea. It happens everywhere outside of Korea. In the lobby of a tiny country church where a senior in college told me with glowing eyes how she is preparing to teach English in Seoul after graduating. The woman in Lululemon pants passing me in the mall to ask me where I got my jacket, because, oh my god Korean fashion is just so cute. At a commercial shoot where the producer can’t stop talking about how much she loves Twice and don’t you sing? Why don’t you become a K-pop idol?

Don’t get me wrong, I am so proud of Korea and how far the country has come on the global stage. I am happy to represent Korea when asked to - it seems I cannot escape it these days. But those who don’t really know will only see the Happy, Shiny, Pretty Korea - what I call the chic wrapping paper that the Korean government and media use to package up Korean Culture, the new hot commodity.

I mentioned a cafe in a different post that showed me an example of these ugly things in Korea wrapped in pretty paper. As you might have read, I was welcomed with excitement when I told the cafe owner I wanted to feature them on my old blog. When I returned a few weeks later with Cedric, we were treated with unexplainable dislike. I don’t like saying it out loud, but the only thing that had differed between my first visit was that on the second time Cedric came with me. Cedric is Black and Korean.

We had individually sat at two of the tables and pulled out our laptops to work. The owner, who had been present the first time I visited, quickly came over to ask us to sit at one table together.

“Would it be alright to sit separately for now,” I said, smiling, believing he recognized me. “As more guests come we will absolutely join to one table to make room.” He looked reluctant but nodded, as the cafe was devoid of anyone but ourselves. Cedric and I set up at our individual tables, then I went to the restroom. Upon return, I found Cedric had moved his things to join me at one tiny table.

“Oh, what happened?” I asked.

Cedric, scowling, said that the moment I had left, the owner had demanded Cedric to move his items to my table. I’m sure he’s just making sure there’s plenty of space, I said, soothingly.

We had barely worked twenty minutes when the cafe owner came to our table and told us bluntly that there was a laptop usage limit of one hour. I was surprised, as the last time I had used my laptop freely for hours. I nodded hesitantly. The owner took his seat again behind his counter, shooting us unfriendly looks over his fashionable, thin-rimmed glasses.

Our time at the cafe didn’t last the full hour. The owner came over to us once again, demanding we move our bags closer to our feet because more customers were coming in and they needed their space. Tired by his pettiness but unwilling to cause any trouble, I smiled neutrally and moved my bag under my seat. What I sat upright, I jostled our table slightly. To my horror, it was just enough to knock my latte right over the edge and onto the floor. In all of my years in Korea, I’ve never broken anything in a cafe or store. But all good things come to an end, and in this case it ended with a heart-stopping crash, coffee and ice splashing all over the floor. The girls sitting next to us gasped.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice pitching higher in my dismay, grabbing a fistful of napkins and leaning down.

Cedric grabbed my wrist. “There’s glass,” he warned, “you’ll cut yourself.”

When these accidents happen, it is expected that the cafe worker will come over to say are you okay? No, don’t touch it, I’ll mop it up. Why don’t you sit over at another table while I clean this up? Of the many times I’ve seen a broken cup in a cafe, the scene plays out by the script. But in this case, the characters on this stage were not according to the usual Korean standards.

The cafe owner looked down at me where I knelt, my face upturned anxiously to him. With a masked expression, he coolly said,

“좀 치워 주세요.”
Translation: “Clean it up.”

and returned to the cafe bar where he began to make another customer’s drink. The girls at the table murmured, shocked by the owner’s behavior, but they said nothing and simply looked at me. Half kneeling on the floor and unsure, I dropped a few napkins over the mess while Cedric stared at the owner, anger simmering in his eyes.

“Leave it,” Cedric said, his stare daring the owner to look back at him. “Let’s pack up our things and get out of here.”

Helplessly, I gathered the napkins in my hands, carefully holding a large shard of glass, and threw it in the trashcan. The owner, holding two fresh cups of coffee, delivered them to the neighboring table, deliberately walking past me without a glance. The customers received their drinks with dropped eyes and demure thank yous. The broken glass and spilled coffee made a terrible stain against the beautiful, white cafe floor and the gold-trimmed feet of the tables. Cedric grabbed our bags, his jaw set , took my hand and lead me to the exit. I turned over my shoulder, saying weakly, “죄송합니다….” as the owner granted us with a final, inscrutable look. We had ruined his precious cafe; long before I had broken my glass. Simply with our presence.

Sometimes I think about that moment and how I felt. It was awful to break that beautiful glass and make such a mess. My clumsiness was almost like proving his point - see, these kinds of people don’t belong in this cafe. Look what trouble they make. It was embarrassing to be told to clean the floor, spotlighted by the customers staring at me, uncertain and uncomfortable. At the same time, by my stumble we had inadvertently ripped away a corner of the happy, shiny, pretty wrapping paper of the moment and revealed the ugliness underneath - the grimy surface of Korea’s old attitude towards people like us. Not right for this cafe. Not right for this country.

We are not happy, shiny, pretty people - us mixed Koreans. Korea hasn’t quite found a way to wrap us up and package us neatly.

Like every country, Korea has its ugly things. It’s just that those ugly things are hidden so well by the carefully gift-wrapped exports that people outside of Korea have come to associate with the culture. Happy Korean dramas. Shiny K-pop idols. Pretty makeup and clothing. I don’t resent Korea for making an image for itself - we all do that. Maybe it’s frustration, maybe it’s exhaustion, but sometimes I wish people knew the ugly realities of Korea instead of all the happy, shiny, pretty things. Because maybe then people might see how those ugly things have hurt me and someone, at the very least, might begin to understand my complicated love for my Korean life.

Note* This is just my recollection and my emotions from that moment. I’m compassionate and wise enough now (I hope) to know that Korea is much bigger and more than a single incident.

Note number 2* Don’t let this incident prevent you from visiting the cafe, if you find it. What happened to me doesn’t equate everyone’s experience.