Gyopo /kyo·po/ (Korean) noun: an ethnic Korean who lives outside of Korea, esp. those with Korean heritage born and raised in another country

GYOPO is my reckoning with diaspora through photographic documentation of Korean culture and autobiographic writing, an attempt to make sense of a fractured life between worlds, and an urge for a homecoming without a home.

Cranes in the Sky, Busan, 2024

A Warm Welcome, Incheon International Airport, 2005

A plane from the United States lands. On it, a woman–my mother–is returning to Korea after 22 years. She did not plan to be gone so long but life and circumstance carried her like a seed to a distant shore, where she rooted.

She does not know the modern Seoul public transit system so waits in line for a taxi. The cabbie Tetrises the luggage and gestures for her to take a seat in the back. Through the rearview mirror he asks, “Where are you from?”

“Here. I’m from Seoul.”

“No way! I can tell you’re American–it’s in your eyes.”

Scan for Menu, Boston, 2025

“Hapa”

I didn’t know I was Asian until I was told. Then, I came to understand myself through the perspective of others: their pointed questions; their contorted faces, fingers tugging at the corners of their eyes; their innocent jokes; their pernicious slurs.

What does it mean to be of two worlds? In America, I cannot escape my Asianness. In Korea, I have to insist on it. To be half is to Atlas-hold the deep ache of nostalgia for a home that is not yours.

Umma at Dalmasa, Seoul, 2024

Mother Tongue

Every American-born child of an immigrant learns to become an adept translator, inculcated into an adult world too early. You explain the terms of lay-away, recite DMV documents, field phone calls with AT&T or Citi Bank. You fill out unemployment insurance claims and write birthday cards on scrap paper so they can transcribe it in their own angular handwriting. You are the buffer between them and the world.

I used to translate for my mother as a standard practice in most public situations. It wasn't a translation between Korean and English, but rather, a translation from her English, a broken English, to the world. I’d telegraph her message to the JC Penney clerk or Outback Steakhouse hostess and dutifully repeat their response in a way I knew she would be able to comprehend. It was, perhaps, easier for her to understand the world filtered through my voice. She protected me in every imaginable way; I protected her from hot-faced embarrassment.

I once asked my mother if she dreams in Korean or in English. She did not know. When I dream of her, I only hear her in English. But I think her true self is in Korean. I’ll never know what my mother sounds like, what she really sounds like. What are the intricacies of her subtle humor? Is she powerfully confident, or quietly assured? Does she speak simply or wear academic vocabulary like a shield as I do? The same way we do not always let our parents know us deeply, I will never fully know my mother.