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When I think how attempts at connection often fail, I think back to when I stayed alone at a hostel in Cairo, teeks before Arab Spring My sister and I had decided, as a post-chealore and adventure abroad together for the first tiht, I stopped over in Cairo, on the way from travel I’d already embarked on alone I saw only two other travelers inthere, and I felt lonely and scared On my way back and forth to the solitary bathroouest

Wecasual, like “Hi, how are you?” each tireetedKorean and a sort of head bob/bow co, since I don’t speak Korean—but I can iine that for someone as Korean, his politeness would have been very co

This nonsensical exchange happened nu finally clicked, and he realized I was American, just as he was After that we ducked out of the hostel and grabbed a quick yptian dish of rice, macaroni, lentils, tomato sauce, and fried onions—at a casual restaurant where we stood at a table, eating in the open air

I don’t remember the specifics of e talked about—beyond the time he’d spent in Korea, his work, other idle chitchat But I do rees seenition in his eyes—that we, in fact, shared coh on different terrain than what he’d assumed It was only when he saw me for what I actually was, a fellow Aht I was, that we could relax and bu as equally clueless tourists, in search of sustenance

Sometimes our clumsy attempts to connect, as we make assumptions and projections, only create distance where none was intended So e don’t know—our fundaers to each other—to see individuals for e actually are

When white Americans have askedup, their state for an easy narrative: of “home” food, in which I dined on traditional Korean food, which ht me to cook, which I could now cook for these white Americans, in turn They’ve offered tidy stories for which they’d like confirmation—that yes, what they know of Koreans or Korean-Americans is essentially accurate

White A, that they like kimchi, or that they know bibimbop, or that they love Korean barbeque At a writer’s conference, thoughto do with food, my white workshop leader blurted out to ized

“That’s great,” I say blandly, while thinking, “What does that have to do withthis particular recollection?”

I feel the same frustration in the insistence of the question I so frequently hear: “No, I ardless

of the question’s intentions, its doubt renders me alien I am American I’ve often wished that non-Korean-Americans simply asked me different sorts of questions—ones that don’t qualify n, but ones that allow me to define who I am, on my own terms

Instead, depending on the tone of the questioner as they ask whether I’m Chinese, Japanese, Vietna h, insisting I’ the conversation

Yes, I am Korean-American, but my inheritance doesn’t fit the neat and tidy parameters of what little is coe is messy and coamations of past travels, influences, and familial and cultural inheritances In a place like Aly devoid as it is of a monocultural tradition of food appreciation, this lack of cohesion feels fitting

I re in surprise, when she learned my Korean short ribs recipe came not from my mother but from the New York Times Despite the assumptions of most who first encounter e of cooking, I taught myself