This Awkward Girl
I'm the tall, awkward girl on the left. This picture is ingrained in my brain, akin to a passport stamp permanently embossed. She stands taller than the other kids, her Korean dress, a hanbok, is too short; traditionally, the skirt hem should cover the feet, just grazing the floor as if one were floating. The shoes are a strange maroon, resembling hand-sewn mittens held together with white sneaker laces. The hanbok itself is a beautiful royal blue adorned with glittering silver rounds like large coins, and the soft pale pink provides a contrasting hue I grew to love. This hanbok journeyed with me from my homeland of Korea to San Francisco.
When I look at her, I feel a tinge of sadness, but more importantly, I have questions. Who styled your hair that day? It appears as if someone attempted curls but forgot halfway, deciding instead to cut her bangs Edward Scissorhands-style. And then there are those dreaded-looking socks, as if she plucked them from granny’s bargain basement; they make her appear to have cankles. Don't get me wrong, I'm not the only one who looks awkward; the others do too. And singing in front of a Korean congregation when none of us can hit a high note? It’s no wonder I carry trauma from this entire experience.
I never enjoyed going to church; the same group you see pictured also poked fun at me and my brother. Since our move to San Francisco, as they were my age and my cousins, everyone assumed we would become fast friends. But who can blame them for not wanting to be friends with this 'Thing' of a child? My English was broken, and I didn't know what cool things kids talked about, and, well, I looked like her.
The older version of me isn't that different; I stand at 5 feet 10 inches, possess a quirky sense of humor, but I must say my hair has improved significantly since those experimental days. Children are inherently cruel; how else would they identify strangers-danger, dorks, and the awkward? I checked all those boxes.
There were moments when church was enjoyable. Situated in the heart of the Mission district of San Francisco, it served as a sanctuary for Latino communities, lower-income families, and artists. Not much has changed from the 80s to now, except for the influx of tech bros and their ilk.
During the times when I felt mortified reading aloud about Cain and his attempt to kill Abel, my aunt would discreetly extract me from youth Bible study, and we would take walks. She led me to the nearby doughnut store, now long gone. It was the kind of establishment open 24/7, catering to the homeless, those working odd hours, and the occasional churchgoers seeking respite from service.
There, I absorbed the sights and smells of the Mission. Unfortunately, the scents of freshly made tortillas, bread, and stewed meats were often overpowered by the stench of urine and feces. Yes, it was a problem back then and still persists today.
All was forgiven upon entering the humble doughnut shop. The delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee and frying dough mixed with the sweet scent of dulce provided the perfect blend. The display of doughnuts was a sight to behold, akin to precious jewels. Some were adorned with sprinkles, while others had a variety of toppings. Oh, how I wished I could indulge in three or four, but one mustn't be gluttonous, as we were still on Jesus' clock.
As I pressed my round face against the display case, I reached for the biggest and prettiest doughnuts, whether plain glazed with rainbow sprinkles or, if feeling more sophisticated, a chocolate-covered cruller. If you've never experienced one, you're truly missing out.
Unlike traditional round doughnuts, crullers are twisted into a long-ridged shape before being formed into loops. Their distinctively tender and airy texture is not doughy or heavy, thanks to the addition of eggs contributing to their richness. Top that off with a variety of flavors, and as the great Guy Fieri says, you're in Flavortown!
As my aunt granted my prayers, we strolled and conversed. She inquired about my day and checked in on me. Sadly, I don't recall much of our conversations; I believe I was simply grateful for her rescuing me from church, the place meant to bring solace.
The homelessness or the locals who looked physically different from me never frightened me; rather, I embraced it as a reminder that we needn't always conform. In church, I was expected to blend in automatically, as we all looked and spoke the same language. But that couldn't have been further from the truth.
After years of attending church, I grew to dread it in my youth, eventually leading to our decision not to return
Maybe it’s the sights, smells, and visuals that I keep going back to. Escapism helped me deal with the difficulties that lay ahead in my new life. Same family, but a whole new world, as Princess Jasmine would sing in Aladdin. Without the flying carpet and the handsome prince, I wasn't far off.
Imagine a younger version of yourself, dropped off where the language was spoken but not understood, people’s faces are unfamiliar, and the scenery is not what it used to be. This was my home, my school, my church - all places where one was supposed to feel safe. I can’t deny that I wasn’t sheltered from these refuges, but it was still very alien.
But a welcome face, a small gesture, and fried dough were all it took for me to start feeling a little more comfortable in my own surroundings.
