Kendra v. Korea

There is a powder blue vinyl sign that circulates throughout our Korean church circle.  Whenever one of the children turns one, someone rents this sign for picture-taking purposes.  It says: Congratulation.  First Birthday Party.

Yup.  Only one congratulation for that first birthday.  And in case you were wondering what we are doing all of a twitter about that first birthday?  We were having a party.  Aren't you glad there was a sign to tell you so? It's a rough translation.  And the black-as-licorice stain on my soul loves it, relishes in the fact that this poster exists and keeps getting borrowed and strung for every first birthday celebration.

For so long, it was my comfort.

I'd go to church and find myself cornered, the object of ridicule or warped curiosity.  I didn't understand.  Why were the elders always asking me if I was pregnant when I wasn't, if I cooked Korean food for my husband when I'm not Korean, when I was going to stop working when I had no intention of doing so, and when I was going to have a son when I obviously had no control over the outcome.

Your birthday sign says "Congratulation."

And you keep using it.

And you have no idea how funny that is to me.

But in the last year, this mental tug-of-war has ceased. I let go of the rope, to quote my friend Lora.

I have come (finally) to understand a generation and a culture that places no premium on insulting an individual.  I had perceived it all wrong.  These elders were actually fulfilling their role in making me feel noticed, and therefore making me feel welcome as part of a family.  Because family is king to this generation, of this culture.

I am generalizing here.  But this generalization is doing its job to help me get out of my head.  And this past weekend, when the chorus of questions about whether or not I was having twins just kept repeating its bitter refrain, it was all I could do but laugh and enjoy the first birthday party, wishing a sincere Congratulation to everyone.