Stains

This morning the sky was open, dark, without clouds.  The temperature 64 degree fahrenheit.  Thankful for the coolness in these times of intense heat.  Today is Thursday.

There are only so many things one can fit into a lifetime.  In Koreatown, Los Angeles, so much has happened in a few decades.  A small unseen, unknown community comprised of people who share a heritage of deep knowing, live in a divided reality thanks to the line that was drawn across the land that was once known as the Hermit Kingdom.  The kings and queens, were stuck between the nations who required their support - on the one hand, was the Emperor on the mainland, and on the other, was an ambitious island nation sitting not far from the continent, seeking to have its culture known beyond its own sovereign borders.  

The legacy of being in such a bind, has translated into wars that were proxies for other countries who needed the peninsula to be engaged.  The role often was was to be the emissary between and simultaneously, serve others.  The impact on the collective psyche left people of Korean ancestry desperate to hold on to what was known and could be preserved as others surrounding the nation demanded conformity to "foreign" ways.  The effect to this day has been a kind of deep psychic scar that emerges in Koreatowns across this continent.

The talent and skill refined over generations shows up in music, folk dance, cuisine ranging from country comfort to high court expressions of nourishment that feeds the soul as much as the body.  The transmutation into contemporary culture shows up in the music of BTS - and it is so strong a part of Korean culture that the group (in every iteration) has created its very own "army" to promote messages, trends in clothing, make-up, hair, and oh yes, dance and song.  Koreans love to sing.  The "noreabang" (song rooms) is like the old wig shops.  If you find one in town, you know there is an ethnic Korean community that has planted roots there.

But there are so many stains.  The stains of loss because brothers and sisters cannot see one another and indeed, are cultivated to distrust and eventually if needed, kill one another.  The stains of suspicion and disappointment that linger because of the historic role of having to choose sides and then survive by serving the needs of others, or die.  The stains of poverty if born into a class of slaves that were owned by upper class families that could punish a runaway by branding their face so there was no way to hide their status.  These stains may fade over time, but they turn into deep scars that show up today.

Today I write because I had a most incredibly delicious meal last night with a friend and her Eurasian, beautiful teenage son.  The restaurant name "Sulga" (pure, as in newly drifted snow) on Olympic Blvd.  Everything sat at that table. And, the inspiration from the stains came through.