A few weeks ago, during one of my regular visits back to Seoul, I stopped by the local mogyoktang for a routine deep-body scrub. I entered the bathhouse and went through standard protocol — disrobe, shower and soak.
But as soon as I opened the glass doors and stepped onto the dark concrete floor of the bathing area, I could feel all the ahjummas’ and halmonis’ eyes on me. I tried my best to ignore their stares and washed in the middle of the room quickly so I could submerge myself in one of the hot tubs, hiding my body from view.
I love bath culture, but in South Korea, I always feel like I’m on display at the bathhouse because we’re completely naked and I’m the only one with tattoos.
I relaxed and let the hot water expel all the nasty stuff that’s been building up since my last scrub. When it was my turn, I walked over to the body scrub area, where the ahjumma in her black bra and underwear dumped a bucket of hot water on the table before I plopped my body on top of it.
She immediately started rubbing my body with a rough loofah, reaching crevices even my closest partners haven’t been privy to. I could see the dead layer of skin coming off.
“Why would you do this to your perfect body?” she chastised as she scrubbed. “Now it’s ruined. This is such a waste. Promise me you won’t get any more.”
South Korea is one of the few countries left in the world where tattoos are still illegal, and this ahjumma was just one of the older generation of Koreans who often look down on me for having them. I tried to laugh it off and not take it personally when this went on for the next 30 minutes. But it’s an example of one of the many cultural differences between me and my motherland. Even though I love her, she doesn’t always love me back.
In America, which I’ve officially called home since age 3, I’m often told that I don’t belong. Like all Asian Americans, I hate the question “Where are you from?” because it’s almost always followed up…
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