Halfbreed Blues
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Everyone loves sang ga pul
But my eyes are not beautiful
My people have one of two attitudes toward me
The first is hate
I represent the reprehensible acts of colonization
Subjugation, defeat, and humiliation.
I am proof of the theft
I am the evidence left behind
After the rape
The other attitude
Is love
But not for me
Koreans adore my big eyes
Big nose
Anglo features
Nuni ga keuyo!
Aju yeoppeoda!
There is a tinge of disappointment
Because my looks are corrupted
By my Korean heritage
But this is also an asset
For I am an image of their aspirations
I am an image of themselves, but better
An image of themselves, but whiter
I prefer to be hated
The Paololo Valley is a rough place, not as bad as Kalihi or Nanakuli, but still, not a place that you go to visit. The haoles from Kahala or Hawaii Kai pass it by. Locals only go there if they live there. It has no scenic getaways. No hotels. No beaches. It’s known for excessive rain, housing projects, and batu.
But I made the occasional trip there. In one of the remote corners of the Valley, I found Hawaii’s only Korean Buddhist temple. I often went there to clear my mind.
The last time I was there, I stumbled upon Dae Won Sa’s weekend services. I figured that I’d join in - no harm in that. My Korean certainly wasn’t good enough to make sense of the sermon, but it was nice to feel the sense of community and unity within the sangha.
Afterwards I had a short conversation with a pleasant monk named Jae Woo. He invited me to join the congregation for the after service meal. As I took a plate and as I began to serve myself, one of the halmonies grabbed my arm. Her satori reminded me of Kyongsan-Do, but I was not proficient enough to distinguish the accent for certain. She told me there was no more food left. I could clearly see that there was. I told her that I just wanted to eat a little rice. She told me I needed to go to the kitchen to eat. She insisted. I couldn’t argue with her: she was a halmoni. She brusquely grabbed my arm and led me out of the judgment hall. We wound our way toward the front gate. She stood at the top of the steps while I descended. When she was satisfied that I had reached the kitchen, she turned and walked away.
I understood her message loud and clear, even if I couldn’t navigate through her accent. I spotted a pair of garbage cans outside of the kitchen. I quietly attempted to remove the lid and discard my empty plate. Slightly indignant, I moved away from the kitchen and slinked towards the main gate.
Approaching the entrance, I was taken aback by a Korean girl who was entering the temple. She was my age, and beautiful, but her dress did not beget a visit to the temple; it looked like she just came from the beach. She had attached herself to a tall Anglo-saxon. He was right out of one of Hitler’s eugenics films. Pulling him along, I watched her point at one of the monks.
“Look, do you see the little one with the bald head?” She giggled. Her master-race companion retorted with some sort of mindless joke.
She laughed entirely too hard.
I found myself unconsciously thumbing the pen in my pocket as he put his arm around her. My anger welled into an urge to plunge the tip right into his laughing throat.
Instead, I held my head low. I meekly left the temple, understanding why I was not welcome there.
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