Although I seldom returned to the States in those days, a combination of events – a break from work and an anxious heart – found me in the Seattle airport in the late summer of 1973, passing through on my way east. Walking around the terminal between flights, taking in my first sight of America after a long spell away, filling my mind with impressions, thinking of anything but the reason that brought me back, I saw an old Korean woman standing in the middle of it all, perhaps lost and clearly distracted by the crowds hurrying past.
She looked very much out of place. I might have seen the same woman countless times on the streets of Seoul or in country villages, and now here she was in America. Like many older Korean women she was rather short but she held herself erect and was looking about with an alert air. Her face was lined and showed the hardships so many of her generation had suffered. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun and held in place with a jade pin. She wore a traditional woman’s hanbok in light grey, with the short chogori bodice and the long chima skirt tied high above the breast and falling in a straight line to her very small feet clad in white rubber gomushin. The quality of her dress, the light shade of the jade hair pin and the dark gold of the ring on her left hand all spoke of a degree of affluence, but her apparent uncertainty told me this was perhaps her first time so far from home. In those days few Koreans could travel abroad and I wondered how she came to be here, and on another point I was very curious – how was she traveling alone?
I approached her, bent slightly and spoke to her in Korean, using the respectful term of address a younger person would always use to an elderly woman, “Grandmother, may I help you? Are you alright?”
She was in no way surprised to hear a foreigner speaking to her in her own language.
“It’s all so big!” she said, looking around in wonder. “How can you find anything here?” She spoke with a strong Kyŏngsang Province accent and from her tone of voice I could tell that while she was a little uncertain and surprised by all she saw, she was not intimidated by these new surroundings.
“Perhaps I can help you, Grandmother. Is someone meeting you here? I can help you find the way.”
“Is this Chicago? I’m meeting my son in Chicago. Where can I find him?”
“No, this is Seattle. I believe you need to change planes here. Another plane will take you to Chicago.”
“Seattle? No one told me. On the plane they said something else.”
I understood the problem when she said Seattle with ‘sh’ instead of ‘s’ and with the aspirant ‘t’ used in Korean and not the half-swallowed, almost absent ‘t’ of American English. Clearly she could not understand the announcements and, I guessed , she could not read any of the signs.
“Do you have your ticket?” I asked. “I’ll help you find the right place to go.”
In her hand she clutched a small cloth bundle, the kind of wrapper called a p’ochaegi, really just a square of cloth with the four corners tied across, holding the few things she carried. She pulled from this her passport and a boarding pass with her baggage check stapled across. I looked at these and confirmed she was on her way to Chicago and had checked several bags. Looking at a display board nearby I saw that her boarding gate was farther down the terminal and she had some time between flights.
“Grandmother, we have to walk this way and find the gate where you catch your next flight. You have to fly on another plane for about four more hours and then you will be in Chicago. Your son will be waiting for you there. Please come with me, I’ll take you to the right place.”
Her face brightened, she thanked me, then placed her worn and callused hand in mine, which would have seemed child-like had I not seen this sort of thing so often in the years before, and we walked hand in hand down the terminal to her gate, where I spoke to the attendant, explaining that this elderly woman did not speak English and needed some help. Then I explained to her that the young American woman would make sure she got on the plane when the time came and meanwhile she should sit here in the waiting area until her flight was ready.
But I didn’t want to leave her just yet, by now I felt in some way responsible and wanted to be sure she caught her flight, and since I also had some time before my own departure I decided to stay and keep her company, so we sat down together.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “but I’m a little thirsty. Can I buy a soft drink here?” And she pulled from her bundle some American money. I was startled to see three hundred-dollar bills in her hand.
“Grandmother, please put that away. It’s far too much to buy a Coke and you really shouldn’t show that kind of money too openly. I’ll get you something. Please stay here and I’ll be right back”
I walked down the terminal until I found a refreshment stand and bought two Cokes and – remembering how old people in Korea liked sweet things – I added a box of cookies. Her eyes brightened when she saw me return with these, and we sat together, drank our Cokes, shared our cookies and talked for a while.
I knew that in Korea questions about one’s age were not considered rude or too personal– indeed, people always ask – and the elderly are often willing to boast of their age. Addressing her with the figurative expression one used with elders I asked, “Grandmother, how many springs and autumns have you passed?”
Her eyes brightened with her smile, “I’m sixty-six!” she said, and laughed, delighted with herself.
“Really?” I asked. “How can that be? You seem much younger, I would have guessed sixty at the most. You have so much energy. And you can travel half-way round the world all by yourself!”
She laughed again and beamed with pleasure. “Yes, I’ve never been ill. And I’ve traveled to Seoul and Pusan many times,” she added, meaning than a trip to America shouldn’t be any more difficult that taking the train to Seoul. “But how old are you?” she asked. “It’s hard to tell a foreigner’s age. Are you married yet?”
I answered that I was only twenty-three, was not married yet and not likely to marry soon. She admonished me to marry, assured me one shouldn’t wait too long, children were such a comfort. I had heard this advice many times before and knew it was given with a good heart.
We passed the time talking of this and that. She was from Andong, not far from Taegu, had lived there all her life, had lost her husband several years before, had raised two sons, both married now with children of their own. Her older boy was a school teacher and she was on her way to visit her younger son, who had a small business in Chicago and had lived in America a long time. She looked forward to seeing the grandchildren whom she’d never met. Her younger boy sent her a little money every month, which she didn’t really need and put aside. This, I thought, explained the hundred-dollar bills.
I told her Chicago was a city on a huge lake, with very tall buildings downtown, and there were museums to see and she might enjoy a boat trip on the lake. She would find the weather quite hot and humid in late summer – like Taegu in fact – and if she stayed until winter she would see more snow that she ever saw in Andong.
We enjoyed each other’s company, but all too soon her flight was called. I told her to put the box of cookies in her p’ochaegi, she could have the rest of them later, and I walked her to the gate and made sure the attendant knew she was ready to board.
“Well, Grandmother,” I said, “I hope you have a happy visit with your son and his family. And I truly hope you enjoy America.”
“Of course I’ll enjoy it,” she said. “America is a fine place and the people are so nice.” Then suddenly she took my hand in both of hers and squeezed it hard. “Take care of yourself. You have a good heart. I thank you for your kindness, for keeping me company. And thanks for the cookies!” She smiled then and we bowed to each other and she turned to board the plane. Just as she passed from view she turned and waved, and I did not see her again.
Twenty years later I came to settle near Seattle and had occasion to go to the airport many times, most often on business trips but also to see my sons off to college – or off to a faraway war. And very often I remember that first time I passed through here and made the brief acquaintance of someone quite special. And when I try to understand the quality that made her stay in my mind all these years I come to one thought, she was undaunted by her circumstance. She came from a small town, a remote place, but she belonged wherever she was. And although I never knew her name or saw her again, she made a lasting personal connection.