Korea. Land of my Father and Mother. Land of my ancestors. Land that is divided of brothers and sisters that I will never know.
Korea has long been a country that has toiled and suffered. Shamanism was its prayer, its conduit to comfort itself. The ritual to speak to the dead, to those who crossed over was known as “Gut” (goot). It consisted of song and dance, masks would be worn to channel to the gods and ask for guidance. As I get older and settle into my Americana label, I struggle greatly. I acknowledge my luck of circumstance, to be educated in western ideology, to have a topographic vantage point, I recognize it and treasure it. Yet, there is always something amiss. I become restless and wonder about the old world. I think of my forebears, I think of their struggles, their pain, their loss. I wonder why was I to be the fulcrum of their actions. How did I come to be here and what was it that provided them strength to carry on.
I am American. But I am also fiercely Korean. I cannot discard my lineage. To do so would be to discard my being. I am in constant search to find such signs, such asks. I know only to be true to what I am. I seek to speak to the gods.