Big Island

Aloha.

A word known for hello and goodbye. Often paired with the shaka hand gesture and often hijacked by tourists and blonde hair blue eyed surfers in films. But true Aloha is more than just a friendly greeting in passing. It is the spirit of Hawai’i and the spirit of the people who get to inhabit it. It is the spirit of love, compassion, and family that is extended out, generously.

My time in Hawai’i last January was filled with nothing but this Aloha spirit. Deciding the bite the bullet to get a stupid expensive rental for a few days was one of the best decision I’ve made in my life. Driving on winding roads through dense jungles, lava rocks, macadamia tree orchards, and along poster card beaches made me quickly forget that I was paying an arm and a leg for my dinky Mazda 3. God. Screaming out into endless jungle while zipping around with no agenda is a sensation in of itself.

I admit, I came to Hawai’i burnt out, jaded, and a bit lost. Escapism at its purest form. But the moment I faced the vast Pacific. The moment I smelled that salty sulfuric air. The moment I was surrounded by lush beauty. The moment I shoveled poke, loco mocos, and spam musubis into my bottomless appetite… I was restored.

The big island of Hawai’i is a kaleidoscope of landscapes, textures, smells, people, and food. You got tourist traps, stunning beaches, a walmart, some dive bars, and a massive missionary base in Kona.

Rolling hills with grazing cattle, wind ripping through rich green fields, cliffs, and national geographic level beauty as people jump off a 40 foot cliff into foaming waters in South Point.

At the center of the island and find yourself on the tallest mountain in the world, since most of the mountain is under water, freezing your ass off as hold to boulders as you see the purest sunset you’ll ever experience at 4000 feet on Mauna Kea.

Venture to the other side of the island and find a town locked in time, valleys of water falls, mochi made from Japanese grandmothers, and flocks of homeless folk living in paradise. Hilo.

Sure, after a few months of living on a giant rock you’ll get some island fever. But I for one am ready to be terminally diagnosed with it if it means that my mouth can keep consuming ungodly amounts of poke, fruits, and spam.

Islander culture is one of my favorite cultures. What is it like to be born into and live in paradise? It looks like Islander culture. Kick back, family over everything, unusually musically gifted, aunties and uncles, tough as fucking nails, but generous, open armed, and hilarious. Once you’re in. You’re in.

I’ll admit, when I was there I couldn’t help but want to be a local, and of course I didn’t succeed in the two weeks I was there. But I remember when I was greeted with a shaka from a passing local as I pulled into Old Kona Airport on my friend’s moped for a solo beach day. It felt good. I knew I was a fraud, but maybe he didn’t.

I could write another post about the food alone there. Maybe I will. And if I do I’ll link it here.

But more than just escaping my prison sentence at home, I was there for a short gathering of amazing people at the massive missionary base in Kona. A mélange of ivy league students/alumni, ex/current missionaries, and other amazing people who stumbled in. I was a missionary for a few formidable years in my early 20s and I left feeling like I was in a space capsule swirling back into orbit. Fire, debris, g-forces and all.

I had questions. What the fuck was the last few years of my life all about? Do I really believe everything I saw and experienced? Am I even a christian still? What would my friends and mentors back at the missionary base think of my lifestyle now? Why the hell should I care?

I’ll spare you the sob story of another disgruntled, angsty, perpetually-in-an-extistential-crisis millennial. But you get the picture. I experienced amazing life-molding life experiences with a radical christian organization and as I left, I came home feeling like I woke up from a long, blissful, and blurry dream.

Fast forward a few years, and I find myself looking out into the Pacific ocean with the salty wind drying off my tears leaving contrasting streaks on my dark-korean-farming-forefather-esk tan. Feeling as if I can feel God again as I was surrounded by natural beauty.

The Aloha spirit gripped my hardened little heart and slapped my baby bottom awake as I cried liked like a newborn.

Our gathering was a hot crucible as we smelted theological/extistential/cultural/racial/personal material together to come out with a little more peace, a little more clarity, and some more life long friends. Corny? Hell yes. Vague? Yes. More detail? Ask me and I will verbal upchuck until you’ve had your fill.

Hawai’i. This short trip will forever be a cherished one.

If you’ve gotten this far, thanks for taking the time to read my rambling.

Aloha.

-Edmond

Sunnyside

Every journey starts here.

In the arms of the one who brought us onto this wild rock.

My cultural journey, my cultural experience, my worldview was molded by this woman.

Seonyoung or “Sunny” to her American peers, came to Los Angeles in 1991 as a young Korean woman fresh out of art school. She married the man that she’s known since elementary school and followed him to America to start a new life, a new experience, a new journey.

As a Korean woman, dreams, art, ambitions were all put to the wayside as she found out she was having her first little brat. As tradition goes, she was destined to become a homemaker and a mother. Canvases of abstract oil paints, brushes and easels, creative expression, all buried into her tiny closet in East Los Angeles as she prepared for her new role as a mother.

26 years, three children, many white hairs, wrinkles, trails, tribulations, and four cities later, Sunny continues on to be a steadfast woman.

The only difference is, now I can fully appreciate my mother.

My mother was not a woman of eloquent words or expressions. She was a dichotomy of cultural nuance and story, as many immigrant mothers become. She was an embodiment of a post-Korean war woman. Nothing mattered more than having hot meals at each meal. Nothing mattered more than making sure her rebellious children passed their classes. Nothing mattered more than to see her selfless outpouring one day bear fruit. To know that her sacrifice was not in vain.

She couldn’t express her love in word form well. When she attempted to express how she “felt” she would coyly look away. Breaking the awkwardness with a chuckle and quickly walking away. Brief moments that would leave me in deep gratitude.

Her sparse words are the buttery, peaked, whipped cream on top.

The cake that is hidden below was meticulously made by her actions.

I was a bit of a handful growing up as I constantly pushed her buttons She would whoop my ungrateful and disrespectful ass, berate me as if she was in her own Korean drama, and mumble her disappointments under her breath whenever we would frequently clash.

Yet after ever skirmish, she would begrudgingly call me out of my old-spice musky cave for dinner.

”JIWOO-YA!… BAPMOULA. BAALEE WAH SHEKKI-YA.”

”JIWOO. GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND EAT THIS DAMN DINNER.”

Her apologies, unlike my sparse ones, were never in word form.

Her apologies were set at the dinner table.

Whether it was galbi jiim (braised soy short ribs), ddak dori tang (braised spicy chicken), dwengjang jjigae (fermented soybean soup), or spaghetti and kimchi (Italian store bought tomato sauce with fermented nappa cabbage) she would have a hot meal ready.

In the midst of furious chopping, clanging of pots and pans, and persistent under-breath cursing, she always found a way to apologize (or patronize) and express her unconditional love.

Years later, as I started to cook more myself, professionally and for friends, I realized that I do the same. I love hospitality. I love expressing my love for guests and friends through my food and my service. As my cooking ends and as everyone sits and starts to eat is when I can feel what my mom might have felt whenever she fed our family. A sense of accomplishment, gratitude, love, peace, and a sense of “I am doing a good thing”.

I am proudly a mama’s boy. I love my mother more than any being on this planet. My creativity. My ponderings. My craft. My faith. My life… is the fruit of my mother’s handiwork, prayers, discipline, and love. I thank God for this gift and I launch this site with her in mind.

엄마, 사랑해, 고마워.

Now, go call your mom and tell her that you love her.

-Edmond