January 2020: America, the (Un)Recognizable

English Camp came and went, thank god. I hadn’t forgotten how stressful camp can be, before and during. 

I had forgotten what long haul flights are like. Nothing can distract you from the oh-so-important job of staring at the back of the seat in front of you until you’ve memorized everything in its kangaroo pocket of airline magazines.

This past January, after 13 grueling hours of this exercise in stasis, I made it home. Er, one of my homes. Which way is home again?

That’s right, dear reader. After a year and a half of living in Korea, I finally made the return to Texas for ten days. See, I’d initially promised to return last August, whether that meant for good or for a vacation. That was the plan—up until a variety of factors came up and we all agreed it was best if I wait until January. I went to Japan instead, and while I treasure that trip with all my heart, some part of me quietly knows that I should’ve gone home then. 

A year and a half was too long. 

It may seem obvious, but once you get into the routine of forgetting what’s thousands of miles away, of what you can’t have, it grows harder and harder to return to it, if only to save yourself the pain of losing it all over again.

Yes, I mean conveniences like my favorite brand of deodorant or old fashioned small-town diner pancakes. But I mean, the real things. The smell of mom’s hair, the dogs laying in the sun, my best friend’s laugh. 

I remember writing in an early diary, maybe 2 or 3 months in to my move to Korea, that I missed my mom so much it felt physical, like I could really feel that grief sitting in my heart. (For context: my mom is hard of hearing, and calling is a no-go. Which means we can only text or Skype, which is very rare for her. So for most of the time I was gone, we didn’t talk.) 

And then…that pain became a natural weight. I learned to live without seeing my family ever, without talking for literal weeks on end. I’m not proud of it, but at a certain point, I was living a life that did not include my very dearest ones. Ironically, it’s an easy habit to fall into.

I knew coming back would hurt, because it meant reopening that ugly mended tissue, reminding me of all the little—and big—things I’d chosen and continue to choose to leave.

But, yes, it was all good. I cried a bit. My mom cried more. My dogs jumped with joy. We ate all the cravings—huevos con chorizo, kolaches, avocado sandwiches and vegan spaghetti and enchiladas. I marveled at how salty American food tasted to me now. 

We went to Six Flags, made new memories, spent hours talking about the old days. I met new friends, friends of friends. Drank the recommended IPA and White Claw variants. Drove and drove and drove. I ate Taco Bell, the pinnacle of the American culinary experience. I sat in the parking lot of my old high school, which looks unrecognizable now. 

With each bit, I had to reconcile who I was with who I am now.

It was so strange coming home because I don’t feel like the “me” who left. Yes, I know that’s all well-and-cliche. The young woman goes off to live abroad and comes back changed. Tell me where you’ve heard that before? 

But let me not undermine my point for once: I really have changed, and in ways that I can’t really pinpoint to if asked. As I was cleaning up this blog, I reread my very first posts, and I couldn’t help but cringe. I was so wide-eyed, a bundle of nerves ready to break apart at any point. I didn’t really know what I wanted.

I don’t know how to explain that I’m not those things anymore, but I’m not. I feel a quiet confidence in myself I didn’t have before. An example—moving to Korea took every ounce of courage. As I prepare to make the jump to teach English in Spain, I feel not even a quarter of that fear or anxiety.

I’ve made friends, lost some, made new ones. I’ve been put outside of my comfort zone so often that I don’t really feel embarrassment when I fuck up publicly anymore. I can make small talk and mingle with crowds with much more ease. I don’t worry about what other people think of me nearly as much as I used to.

I’ve changed for the better. I’ve grown, as you do when you’re in your early twenties, and as you do when you move as far as I did.

Being back in my dad’s house, and then my mom’s, and then with my best friend, made me feel 17 again. I felt like Korea was a fever dream, only verifiable in the clothes I’d packed and the souvenirs I’d brought. Some would maybe find that comforting—that return to a childish era, the feeling of being taken care of, a simpler time. Guiltily, I found myself missing my own space. I realized I’ve become accustomed to my alone time, and also to the conversations of young twenty-somethings. 

Home looks the same—new restaurant here, a replacement. They finished that road over there. New gas station and clinic down the road. 

Everything was the same, but it was like everything had moved one inch to the right. I noticed the little things that no one thinks to tell you about. I’m talking the most mundane things, like a new pair of shoes you see every teen wearing. The song on the radio that everyone’s sick of, but you haven’t heard yet.

It’s to be expected. My friends in Korea talk about reverse culture shock, which makes people back in Texas chuckle. I guess it seems like a ridiculous notion. Something made up. A bit overblown—making yourself sound like the town’s very own Frodo and Sam, returning from their Odyssey. 

Reverse culture shock is real though, and I found myself going through the throes of it over the tiniest things. How much stuff there is stocked on the walls of a grocery store, of every cheesey ranchy variety. How easy it is to order anything. How wide and spread out the roads are, how flat the buildings. I found myself marveling at things I’d never noticed before—how gorgeous the Texas sunset is each night. The curious comfort of a waitress greeting you with a “Whatchya need, baby?”

If it’s not obvious, I’m still working through the emotional bungee jump of going home and returning not even two weeks later. And I think maybe I’m still jetlagged?

Well, I had the aisle to myself on the way back to Korea. So, can’t complain.

All of the night runs to Braum’s and H-E-B, cuddles with my mom, card games and Disney movies were sorely needed for all the expected reasons, but as I prepare to leave Korea in eight months, I wonder just how I’ll handle my return then. 

The plan? Stay in America for a few weeks, then off to Spain. I applied to teach English in Madrid through the Auxiliares program, and we’ll see! I’m not ready to go home for good yet, despite how sad I sound in all of this.

This month’s update is kind of somber and sentimental. Going home does that to you lol. 2020 was off to an introspective and fun, if a bit sobering, start.

Oh, what else? I got a new phone, I got a new haircut, and I got a new journal. I worked on some art, but it’s still not ready. I have too many things to do!

In two weeks I’ll be headed to Taiwan for my Spring Break, so expect to see some pictures and food reports from that and as always, thanks for reading.