Familial Buzzing

Dinnertime.

Venga a comer.

식사.

Whether in Costa Rica, Changwon, or the home I left in California, being called for meals has meant that I’m part of a family.  The depth and complexities of my integration into a new home is difficult to unpack, if not impossible.  However, the structural fact is that I am called for meals and fed just like the youngest family members when the food is ready.  Sharing meals together is often considered a basic element of homestay life.  Etiquette, duration, and the array of foods I don’t know the name of vary – but sitting with people who have welcomed me into their homes and lives remains the same. It’s an honor, a privilege to be a part of this clear signature of courage and warmth.  

At the same time, providing a place to sleep, water to bathe with, and food to eat don't necessitate love and true familial integration.  In the culture I have grown up with, signatures that a guest is wanted, not just welcome, include optional and often personal commitments.  Sharing raw feelings, dissolving overly polite guest treatment; treating a guest as nothing more or less special than anyone else in the family.  Until I reach this stage of informality, I feel like I’m overburdening my hosts.

“¡Deja de beber esa cerveza mientras conduciendo!” Lela piped in from the back seat as Tista swung around a steep turn.  Stop drinking that beer while driving! “Tranquila, tranquila” Tista grinned in the rearview mirror at his wife.  He finished the can of Imperial and passed it to the crowded back seat.  I held my unopened can wet with condensation between my legs and attempted the impossible feat of smiling at both of my host parents.

            

            Finding the line between the point where a family tolerates or accepts you as a family member captures so much of my conscious mind.  In Costa Rica, this little vignette was one of those unmanicured situations where I felt included by default.  The veil of familial professionalism and composure discarded, my host parents argued in front of me and for a moment may have forgotten that I hadn’t lived with their relationship dynamics my whole life.  Or maybe I had crossed over the line of overprotectiveness and tolerance and shifted to the realm of just another member of the family who was expected to roll their eyes and look out the window.

            “I LOVE YOU MY WIFE I LOVE YOU”, my host dad 전종구slurred in broken English as he pawed at 좍민정.  My host mother swatted back and kindly said “He will not remember this tomorrow.  He is drunk.”  A flashback to the car ride with Tista and Lela, I had two host parents who were half expecting validation from their guest, their adopted family member.  I had been playing Simon and Garfunkel on my phone and quietly queued up Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy.  

            “Were you scared of our fight last night?” my host mother좍민정 asked me over breakfast the next morning.  My host dad grinned into his mushroom rice soup.  “He is a happy drunk,” 좍민정  continued.  “…other fathers, when they drink, they sometimes come home and beat their wives and children.  My husband is happy.”  My host dad interjected “I drink at home because I love my family.”

            The transition period for living with a new family is delicate for all parties.  I’m overly polite, the parents are overly nurturing, the children are scared and curious.   It would be foolish to think that I’d ever come close to fully integrating into a family, especially when my hosts are speaking 98% in English and I’m interjecting with the little Korean language I can haphazardly include.  But after a short period of time, I feel the same veil of politeness, tiptoeing, manicuring has begun to dissolve.