Issue 13: "From Conception to Connection: A Pilgrimage to Korea" by Mira Garrett Bayonne

Immigrant Hustle: A Monthly Mini Memoir

Hi KP!

This month’s IH Mini Memoir is written in gorgeous poetic verse by Mira Garrett Bayonne, a true renaissance woman and figure of maternal power. Mira’s memoir on her first visit to South Korea with her mom is absolutely evocative and engaging. I devoured the story verse by verse and felt like a companion on Mira’s pilgrimage. What struck me most was how Mira’s initial experience of feeling like an outsider in her homeland might resonate with so many of us. Thank you Mira, for helping us feel less alone in that experience! Mira’s embodiment of jeong and her desire to humanely represent what it means to be Komerican makes us proud to share her story with you.

Happy reading!

From Conception to Connection: A Pilgrimage to Korea - A Mini Memoir in Verse

Mira Garrett Bayonne is a poet, multi-media artist, and lawyer; originally from Fayetteville, NC. She is an alumna of New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology, and received her Juris Doctor from Roger Williams University School of Law. A nurturing mother at heart, her work aims to contribute towards the healing, evolution, and prosperity of the familial spirit. She is currently working on her first book, and enjoys: nature walks, food, listening to audiobooks on 2x speed, and exploring life with her husband of twenty-three years and two young teens. Mira and her family currently live in the Mainline suburbs outside of Philadelphia. Follow Mira on IG @Miragb.

“What are you?”  

“What’s your nationality?”

"What are you mixed with?”

As an African-American and Korean child growing up in The South circa early 1980s, I was often asked those three questions before any interest or inquiry of my name.  

Gazed upon with mystified admiration, and sometimes a discriminatory scowl, in wonderment of the roots from which I came.  

Like a white tiger amongst sheep, I quickly learned that I was different; that we are not all the same. 

I was conceived in South Korea, at a time when southern fried chicken had not yet crossed its cultural borders, and you could still experience old-fashioned winter kimchi that fermented underground.

I was born in America, just fifteen years after interracial marriage bans were ruled unconstitutional, and people were no longer jailed for loving the wrong person in the wrong town.  

My Korean mother immigrated to America to marry my father, a U.S. Army Sergeant from Texas.  

Though they were brave enough to explore a relationship that seemed challenging at best, their marriage dissolved before I turned three, and I grew up with her at a distance— limiting our time together to holidays, more or less.  

She played a consistent and supportive part in my life, but I knew very little of her.

I didn’t feel very Korean, apart from the slant of my eyes, and when people described them as “chinky,” I didn’t even realize it to be an ethnic slur.  

Operating left of center within my cultural duality was what I grew to know; but in 2018, like a circadian clock, Korea beckoned me with a deeply intuitive call to return for the first time, post-utero.  

To explore the country with my mom, while she could still share her story, was compelling enough for me to convince her that the time was due for us to go.  

I wanted to witness her maneuver in a land that wasn’t foreign to her soul. 

I went seeking a deeper connection with my mom, but mostly, I just wanted to feel more whole.

I needed to understand the wise and ancient traditions that lie within the depths of me— the birthright that accompanies her family name.

I’ve always been keenly aware of our differences, but now that I was a mother, I craved a bond that would allow me to believe that we were more the same.

We landed in Seoul in November of that year, and for ten days my aunt, uncle, and three cousins hosted us on a whirlwind tour of the best that Korea had to offer.  

Interestingly, just sixteen months later, a global pandemic would cause international borders to close, like sealed relics inside of a steel coffer.

The timing was undoubtedly meant to be.

I was so excited to finally step foot onto native land, that I was completely unprepared for the emotional isolation that quickly took hold of me.  

My immersion into this foreign land that seemed oddly familiar, yet just outside of my reach, unexpectedly amplified my differences and silenced my natural expression of speech.  

A wave of grief crashed over me as I realized how profoundly disheartening it was to lack the intimacy of understanding the native language of my mom— to have never deciphered the linguistic sounds I heard while I was in her womb;

Lost in my subconscious ether are all the dreams she spoke aloud to only me, while there was no one else listening within the solitude of her room.

Second only to the shade of our skin, language is often the primary indicator of commonality and connection when traveling the world;

To find myself with neither attribute in my favor caused a slew of unresolved emotions, that were once tightly raveled, to become relentlessly unfurled. 

It was difficult to communicate with my family, and most of the natives, through the shallow wading pool of words we knew in common; so instead, we found ourselves connecting over nature, art, and food.  

It’s amazing how beauty and deliciousness never get lost in translation, but rather conjures a united sense of undeniable gratitude. 

And on the seventh day of our trip, I rented a beautiful traditional hanbok to wear for a tour of Gyeongbokgung, the main royal palace of the ancient Joseon dynasty. 

Its name translates to, “Palace greatly blessed by Heaven,” and the experience was more than I could have ever surmised it to be.  

I floated through the courtyard, feeling as regal as a benevolent emperor’s heir;

with the golden embroidery of my dress highlighting the earth tones of my skin and naturally curly, sun-kissed hair. 

People stared and took photos of me, as if I were an asiatic unicorn,  bronzed and dipped in traditional garb.

The spectacle that ensued, ironically, made me feel less different than before; like a warm embrace of intrinsic regard.

My pilgrimage to Korea taught me that we are not all the same; we are one.  

There are no conflicting differences in oneness, only a spectrum of polar perspectives.

Perhaps the cultural collision of my conception is an allegory of this truth; a soul starred to be reflective. 

I traveled over 12,000 miles to connect with a part of me that requires no passport to explore,

but the journey was nonetheless necessary to broaden my perspective, and left me yearning to discover so much more.

H Mart Happiness: What’s your favorite product and why?

“My favorite H-Mart product is tradional tongbaechu-kimchi.  It's the single Korean dish that I consistently crave and enjoy.  I like to cut it into small, bite-sized pieces with kitchen gloves and scissors, then roll it in seaweed with rice.  That's my Korean comfort food!” - Mira B.

What’s your favorite H Mart product? Message us with your favorite in 1-2 sentences and we’ll feature it with a photo right here on the webzine!