(c) Stella Honey Yoon, 2010 

I truly thought I'd be the last one to say this, this shy attempt at admittance. I am surprised that these words are pouring out of the most sincere parts of my soul. Today I sit here marvelling at the power of Love. Those who know me well enough would have noticed that I have been a skeptic of the ferocious epidemic. I never vouched full faith as I shamefully uttered the L-word to people whom I wondered whether they really deserved it. Or if they actually knew what it meant. For me, I could not really fathom what the concept actually encompassed, what it repelled and what was its core founded of. Numerous conjectures and academic discourse by the famous and the dead only left me in greater doubt, that in reality, none of these intellectuals had any idea of what was really going on. 

Then it came one day. It crept up behind me and showered me wet with its tide of mirth. I was shocked, to say the least, as its spray of luminous moisture was like none other, and the serendipity of the situation had left me stark naked and helpless. What are you? How dare you leave me so exposed, bare? I crept in a tight wound, my heart like a pink foetus learning to breathe. The womb enclosed upon me. I felt the greatest change implode within me as I felt Warmth drench every inch and feather. 

The feeling of Love was as such.

Only that and none other. 

I opened my eyes to the Warmth and mingled with its breadth upon me. Then I began to see things--what I mean by this is that I began to see things Anew. The elements of daily life that I subconsciously forgot or failed to grasp meaning of now shone with newfound significance. 

How sharing the same blue-sky shelter could feel so special in itself.

How blurting out the same exclamations or bursting out in laughter at the exact same moment becomes natural.

How parting even just for moments is a stone wedged into the ends of your stomach. 

How spiritual disconnect feels so much more painful than physical distractions. 

How little differences and discord does not change the unconditional feeling underneath. 

How everything in life begins to have Reason--no, they always must have had Reason, yet you only see it now as you realise that everything that exists evolves around your universe. 

How you see that Love is now your emblem of Truth that guides you through midnight and dawn. How he is indeed the Truth that keeps the heart at flight. 

Love is truth. Truth is Love. 

from synesthesia to sedaris : an ode to writing

(c) stella honey yoon, 2009

I found you, not in a darkened alley of life's truancies or in midst of midnight meditation by the
charcoal fireside. I found you, perched upon the unpopular stacks of young-adult fiction when I was
four-feet and ignorant. Mother, horrified at the prospect of taking care of two noisy, demanding
children instead of indulging in daily tea-parties with septuagenarian neighbours, left us in the local
library every morning of our school holidays. It is a great place, she'd say, as she justified her obvious
delinquency as another unappreciated favour. We parted with shocked lips and hurt expressions, and
she drove away in her dusty Range Rover to a life outside childcare without looking back once.

So it was there I found you, first floundering among age-old classics. I had crossed boarders
and swum seas to meet Dostoyevsky and Marquez, only to turn away in frustration, baffled by their
complexities. Eyes dry and mind tired, I leaned back on the shelves for a peace of mind–and out of the
periphery you whispered, come, look, rest your head on mine. Encased in a balding plastic wrap and
flaunting cheap covers, you beckoned. And I whispered back, I don't usually do this sort of thing, but–
like a guilty lover's cliché, parted you with my quivering fingertips.

You were never excellent, or well known by any means–for I cannot even remember your
name– but you were memorable. For the first time I saw the world come alive, layer by layer. You told
through an eyes of a boy who saw things through a thousand lenses; when he saw yellow he felt the lips
of daffodils brush past his ears; the sound of trombones were to him a swarm of brown rushing through
like chocolate; the sky, a colour of misty sadness dripping feathered tears. Senses crossed borders and
intertwined, calling for the most beautiful pictures to be painted in my mind. Much later I realised that
there was a term for this magic, Synesthesia, but at the time I could only call it Genius. I wanted to do it
too, to make words come alive before an unassuming child's eyes, paint your monochrome print in
shades of purple and blue, make sweet bees buzz thick honey in your eardrums.

It was that afternoon I picked up the ink and pen.

I wrote, my initial footsteps heavy and uncouth. Through sharing bad limericks and metaphors
with fellow desperate souls for the first few years, I learnt how not to write rhyme or alliterate
intentionally. Poets and writers would stare hard into my manuscript smudged with a twelve-year-old's
sighs, and draw cruel lines of red across my late night melisma; the only line that survived the massacre
was a sole phrase I still remember: “The wind chafed bare ankles peeking from pinafores.”
Eight short words out of a hundred, yet I was gratified. Eight out of a hundred.

I didn't keep diaries or journals, but I kept poetry. On some days, the miniscule full stop at the
end of an angry stanza dropped like an atomic bomb, singing Wrath between the lines. On others, the
simple phrase –my breath smells like burning garlic–would perpetually engrave in my mind the spice
of the pasta he and I shared, the dim table-side lights, and the caresses that melted midnight frostbites.
I began exploring genres: the narrative, the theatrical, the technical and the expository. As less
of my humble phrases underwent scrutiny, and as I began to play the villain lashing with a red pen on
others' works, I felt more unsteady, raw. What was I, a lamenting lyricist or a stoic satirist? Was I to
paint pictures in monotone or in surrealist visions? What colours did my sweet and sour stories seep?

To find myself I knelt down before the greats, erasing my footsteps before them. I read Toni
Morrison like the bible, eager to breathe in her rich array of imagery. I retraced my roots to visit works
of Aotearoa New Zealand, where writers blurted unpowdered truths in blunt Te Reo Maori. Reading
Frank Sargeson I felt his subdued yet impassioned longing for his gay lover, though all he wrote about
were fishing whitebait in Hokitika and his nanna; as I felt the soul of the auteur trickle through
nonchalance, I too, wanted to drench your body and mind in my scent. I found how David Sedaris used
himself and his family to laugh at the silliness of day-to-day happenings, so I even tried buffoonery;

My nose is allergic to anything verging on the malodorous. It was born with the curse of sniffing out unwashed shirts, mossy feet and blue cheese from miles away. Mother thinks it's because she pulled on it too much during my infanthood, hoping it would grow more “sculpted” like those of movie stars. Instead she got a red-nosed daughter who smells out unwashed hockey socks in her brother's bag.

O Love, I have seen you short and long, boisterous and quiet. I have seen you transcend time
and genre as you play your harp and release the Muse–even amongst this wretched 'college essay'
struggle where I fail to squeeze my soul in a mere one thousand syllables–yet you are always a mystery,
refusing to be known in entirety. In seeking for your truest form, I forgo weekend sleep-ins to be
romanced by Ginsberg's sensual lulling of pull my daisy, tip my cup. I refuse to prove my meagre
scholastic aptitude by cramming test-worthy vocabulary, and instead spend time rendezvousing with
Sontag and Octavio Paz. And late at night, as I lie back on the softest downe laughing at Donald
Barthelme's wordplay on Death,
I listen again to find you softly chuckling along with me.

(c) stella honey yoon 2010

I heard that there was a book out written by this Chinese American high school kid about the 'stereotypical' Asian kid's life in the States. While I commend her for writing something at her age, I hate the actual concept of the book because it only strengthens this stereotype of Asian/Asian-American kids that I am not a part of, and frankly, abhore. A little lead introducing this book describes Asian households as something similar to "GPA obsessed, Ivy League aiming, Piano-lessons and competitions submerged, Chinatown volunteering."While this may be the case for many Asian kids, I am appalled that I have to be stigmatized as this poor, parents-controlled Asian kid when I'm not.

I guess my family isn't too conventional, but my parents have never seen my report card, or my scores, or my college applications, or anything else concerning my academics since I entered sixth grade. They don't know what "standardized testing" is about and thought HYPS was a school name, not an abbreviation. They don't give me piano lessons (although I would love to learn jazz piano from a teacher, not by ear) and they want me to go to a school where I can "relax and have fun", and not just choose a school with a good name to it.They've given me all the independence that an eighteen year old could want and more trust than I deserve.

Growing up in this liberal environment meant that I could enjoy many things that my friends couldn't, but also had to learn at a young age how to take responsibility for my own consequences. Troubles at school, with other people and whatnot, I was forced to figure it out for myself no matter how dire or serious the situation was. I guess I sometimes craved for the 'safety net' that other kids got when they were unwell, scared or afraid. They had parents doing all the work for them, and I can't deny I envied the convenience of that. Over time I realised I did have the strongest safety net ever; my parents were my strongest supporters, the people who would love me even if I made the biggest mistakes, and the mentors who'd show me a better way to carry things out. While they "watched my back", they were also letting me play the game, have a go and learn to fly my own horizons.

Overall I see myself as a stronger person, maybe not so much academically, but spiritually, than those "stereotypical Asian" kids with lives dictated by their own parents. Because I have become a tough cookie through my own struggles, I refuse to be categorised as just another stereotype that people assume when they first meet Asian kids. I guess this is why I emphasize the Kiwi side of myself more than my Asian side; as well as identifying more with the culture and lifestyle of NZ, I also want to be seen more as a New Zealander than someone from the education-stifling hub of Seoul.

It doesn't mean I've neglected my Korean roots though. I chose to leave NZ, Rangi Ruru and all the connections, foundations and opportunities I established to come to this alien place called Korea and KMLA, because I was Korean and I wanted to re-discover this side of myself. The three years have confirmed my belief that being a Kiwirean was not an ambiguity but a unique identity that only I could treasure. The only fear I have about the Asian side of me is the fact that people do make initial judgments by my looks (more Asian than Caucasian, obviously) and that is far from a portrayal of who I really am. But I guess that's really not up to me to control or to complain over. That's just life, ain't it? And if people are not mature enough to dismantle stereotypes, than maybe they're not worth the worrying after all. All I sincerely hope for is that after a smile, a conversation and a lunch together, people will see the odd Kiwirean in me that I see in myself every day. 

Wow. What started as a short attack against someone's low-key publication turned out to be a longer, deeper yet satisfying reflection of my identity. It's a big issue for me, figuring out who I am and being honest to how I feel about it. I guess I was afraid to approach the subject in its entirety for many years, and I am only beginning to do so very recently. I am still in my baby steps of seeing the big picture of myself in this world. Though challenging, it has been a humbling and enlightening experience I will always be grateful for.

consumerist pleasures versus aesthetical honesty

(c) stella honey yoon 2010

I went out last night to uplift my mood, went shopping and bought some American Appparel & MAC goodies. It instantly made my night. It's funny how shopping can become such a pleasurable activity although you're inevitably grilling out cash. When I tell people I love to shop they look at me with either disgust or controlled sympathy, as if I were some "victim" of consumerism. With axioms shuddering with hatred of materialism or looks, such as "There is more than what meets the eye" or "Don't judge a book by its cover", it seems that society sometimes is even compelled to deny the pleasures that aestheticism brings us. Yes, yes, it is important to be beautiful in the inside; but wouldn't it rock to be beautiful in the inside and outside?

I am an aestheticist in a bigger sense. (I once mistook the term 'atheist' for this term, which brought on a lot of confusion on the part of others.) I am painfully, acutely attuned to my senses and their pleasures. I invest in good speakers, earphones, sound systems and CDs because I like to hear good music. My ears love it when they are treated with good sound, good harmony, an amazing voice and a ripping sax solo. I am also very sensitive to smell. I am unfortunately very good at smelling out rank things. But I'm also good at recognizing perfumes just by their whiffs. I invest in buying sample bottles and new fragrances once in a while to add to my little collection, because I like to choose what kind of perfume I want to wear based on how I am feeling. Coming back to the topic, I also care a lot about how things look. I love interior and graphic design because it gives the creator (me) to arrange things in a pleasing way. If you visit my room you'll see that nearly every object in here has been carefully put in its "rightful" place, and that the seemingly random objects lying here and there are not randomly placed after all. Everything is scrutinised, colour-matched and shaped by how my eyes smile, nod or frown. And at the end of the day, it gives my senses immense pleasure to see things put 'in the right way'.

A celebrity once said in an interview,

"Everything I do has to be visually appealing to me."

I completely emphathise with this notion. It's not because I am vain, (okay, maybe I am sometimes, but it's more than vanity.) but because things that look, smell, taste, sound and feel good, ultimately are pleasing to me. And seeking that small speck of happiness derived from aesthetic pleasures by rearranging, scrutinising, listening or consuming, in my opinion, is an act that is only too honest to one's senses. Isn't sensory pleasure one of the most basic and universal pleasures that any man derives out of his environs? What is wrong with seeking for this pleasure? I ask. Why should we be forced to only seek for happiness from the inside? I say we ought to seek for happiness coming from all sides, because in this world we certainly need more of it, in any way we can. Thus I delve into my aesthetic sensibilities time and time again, listening to good music or loving the smell of syrup and honey on my pancakes, or even indulging in consumerism from time to time.

Of course, I am never proposing that it is okay to become a victim of consumerism, to be defined only by the things we buy. If that happened, the broke, meek and lowly Stella Honey Yoon of January would be nothing but a couple of thongs. And that certainly doesn't look good, figuratively and literally. However, to indulge in a little pleasure by spending the money you have earned with your effort, I see no problem with that. I don't see the rather defensive "You're only covering up your flailing self-consciousness with these materialistic things" as correct. This, is rather called now look who's the miss-self-consious now, feeling better about your non-consuming self by demeaning others? I can't call myself a 'good' person, because that would be stretching it a bit, but I think I am an 'okay' person overall. Most importantly I am very comfortable with who I am and am confident enough I will put myself out there whenever and wherever. The looks, the bling-bling, such things are there to add a little edge to the already beautiful me whom I love very much regardless. And I don't think there's a problem with that. I mean, everyone loves that extra sprinkle of sugar on top, don't they?

So having ended this long discourse that attempts to vindicate all guilty shoppers taunted by jealous, ugly (in the inside and out) and paranoid anti-consumerists, and more importantly make the point that it is okay to be honest to your sensibilities (and it is very important to do so, in fact), I will trudge off to the gym, sporting my brand new baby-blue gym bag I picked up last night. Toodles!

PS: I am getting abs. And it looks good, feels good. Surprising? No. ;)

a rather irreverent discourse on religion and faith
(c) stella honey yoon 2009

    I am a deeply non-religious person. At the same time, I'm also one of the most religious people. My family is the only one in our whole extended family (except for my Buddhist grandmother) that does not attend church on Sundays. While we tried out different religions, we found ourselves ill-suited to memorising prayers and waking up at the crack of dawn for Service. Our “un-religiousness” soon became a target for my fundamentalist relatives, whose greetings at family gatherings weren't simple “How have you been?”s but “Are you going to church yet?” When they stayed over during the night, my overly pious cousins used to poke me as I was just about to fall asleep and whisper, “Do you know that God parted seas and fed hundreds of the poor? There's scientific evidence, too.” I eventually became to hate this Jesus guy, who looked so kind yet made my life devoid of peace, as his believers damned me to Hell in front of everyone on the subway, rapped on our front door at seven in the morning every Saturday to grace me with His greetings, and made our family a traitor among our relatives. I withstood this spiritual unrest for seven or so years, but one Thanksgiving, I screamed at my obnoxious relatives to “shut it about Jesus or leave”, which ended their ineffective crusades to save my soul.

    This ironic aversion to a certain religion inadvertently caused by its own believers continued for ten long years. I refused to tread the dangerous waters of not only Christianity but religion in general because I didn't want to be restrained in my faith (or lack thereof) by the insistent or offend those who believed by doubting the existence of their God. My reunion with religion came serendipitously when I was talking to a close friend of mine, David. David was one of the most open, honest and understanding people I had ever met. He'd be the one trying to empathise with me even if I told him that I just killed someone (not that I ever will.) I was surprised when he told me that he was a devout Christian; the bulk of Christians I was unfortunate to encounter were never as lenient or tolerant. I asked him if he wasn't angry that I wasn't religious. I received the surprising reply of,
    “Not at all. What's really important is the fact that I believe, not that I believe in Jesus in particular. Religion can't be forced, it just comes to you one day. And if it doesn't, then that's fine too.” Now this was a reply I'd never expect from someone who had tearful revelations and spoke in tongues during prayer. I became curious to explore this stance so I prodded him about his experience with God. He told me that when he believed, he became so full of love for himself and others, he cried because he was thankful for having a great force guide him, and that he wouldn't be able to live without his Jesus. A stream of frankly spoken words struck me, for this was exactly how I felt when I was with Music. I wore a quarter-note pendant for my cross. I relied on Music to guide me through the hardest times and lift me up when my soul needed salvation. When I listened to Quarantotto, a Maori waiata or the national anthem I sometimes cried for no reason at all. I had the biggest Faith in this most wonderful gift I received throughout my life–and this feeling I had shared with David and his Jesus.

    I came to the realisation that religion is a wonderful thing. It is wonderful not because Moses parted the sea or because Jesus cured a cripple, but because religion itself causes one to Believe. It calms one's soul, awakens one of love and elicits the strongest sense of Faith in oneself and in others. This power can be extant through any means, be it through Islam or Jazz. Religion per se is simply a manifestation of this Faith. I finally understood what being “truly religious” meant. It was about the appreciation of not only the lessons and doctrines but understanding the virtue of Faith. The “truly religious” would respect those who Believed (any religion or other) and be able to share the joys of Faith together. Like the Dalai Lama praying for peace in a cathedral and like David and I clicking, it's about interconnecting with the same source of magic, revealed in slightly different ways.

    I wonder if the various Gods up there know that people on earth are killing their next-door neighbours, calling each other “the axis of evil” and resorting to terrorism just because one guy happens to believe in Allah and the other in Christ. If They did, They'd be very disappointed with our ignorance, for all we mortals are doing is arguing for the exact same idea: Faith. I bet they're laughing at us humans for never realising that They're best mates and jolly old neighbours up in “heaven”. I bet even at this moment Jesus is playing golf with Muhammad and Siva is drinking green tea with Siddhartha Gauthama. The biggest joke for them would be the fact that they actually co-wrote their respective bestsellers–the Bible, the Qur'an and all that jazz–in the common language of Love. (They only printed different copies because there were book sales to consider.)

    I hope God, in an all-embracing sense, can forgive me for not believing in Him in particular. He is kind and loving, but I guess my Faith is spelled out in melodies and rhythm, not the Tanakh or the Qu'ran. But I know I can celebrate a family friend's Bar Mitzvah or pray to God with my relatives with the greatest sincerity, because I now understand and empathize with the same strength of Faith. I know that in whatever form, it unites and inspires. So forgive me God, for this rather irreverent discourse on religion and faith I have dared to carry out.

    Love, a buffooning heretic that Believes.

The Jay Park issue has come to light yet again in the last few days with a Korean professor writing for a local magazine arguing for "tolerance" of his situation. Opinions vary, from "he is completely right" to "Jay Park still should never set foot in this country". I, for one, think that there is nothing to "tolerate" for Jay didn't do something so wrong he should be banned from this nation. Though my words do not have half the authority as any of the news articles, or the professor, I'm really tired of this debate going on, and on, and on forever and wish to shed a point of view that "normal" Koreans don't see. This is a viewpoint of a former Korean-expat / Kiwirean /Someone who is Adjusting to Korean Culture again. 

For those of you who are not acquainted with the issue, Jay Park is the leader of the pop-idol group 2PM signed under JYP Entertainment. He is actually a Korean-American, with his family, friends and hometown in Seattle. He came to South Korea to get signed and work under the group 2PM. A few months ago, someone "discovered" that Jay posted some messages on a networking website-MySpace-to his American friends four years ago about how "Korea was so gay" and that "no-one understood him" and so on and so forth. The person who "discovered" this did it by illegal means (probably hacking) and spread this piece of info around the main Korean portals so that it became such a big issue. Four days after the blowup, Jay Park left Korea and his pop-idol career to return home, and hasn't made any plans to come back yet. Apparently it was an act of apologising and self-reproachment, or something like that. Fans are angry that JYP entertainment has not made any prompt plans or actions to defend Jay or to convince him to rejoin the group, but JYP remains strong in the decision that it will let "Jay figure it out for himself."

the consensus reached within this nation are generally split right down the middle.

*(The Sympathy Vote) Jay was young, lonely and scared at the time. Everyone makes mistakes and Jay is no exception.

*There is no excuse for someone who defaces his own motherland. Thus he should "go back to where he came from."

I don't exactly agree with either of them, for many reasons. Let's look at the case one by one.

1) People with Opinion #2 judge Jay Park by a double standard. Jay is an American by citizenship. He is not Korean, just because he looks that way. Korea, is a place where he works, not "his own motherland". He is culturally and socially alien to Korea and its customs. Yet people like to assume that he has that unwarranted affinity towards their motherland just because he looks Korean.

And then they tell him to "go back to where you came from"?

So I see forced acceptance on one side, and then complete non-acceptance on the other side. Make up your minds people. Isn't it natural that he has more affinity towards America, since that's basically where he has grown up for the most of his life?Get over it.

2) Korean people have this weird stigma that just because you work in Korea, you have to "fulfill your duties towards the nation". This is the same argument that people use to force Korean celebrities who hold American citizenships to revoke their American citizenship status and go to the Korean army? (Men w Korean citizenship have to spend nearly two years serving compulsory military service time.) Why does the "You make money off us, so you should do good for our nation" argument work? Does Simon Cowell have to pledge allegiance to the American flag because he did a few seasons of American Idol? Does Nick Khun (a member of 2PM originally from Thailand) have to also serve military time because he's working in Korea? NO. So why is Jay forced to show this unceasing loyalty to a nation that once alienated him, laughed at him and made him feel down, just because he is working in Korea?

Jay is allowed to dislike this country though he makes money off here.  So get over that too.

3) What that anonymous reporter did to divulge the news was stupid. And illegal.

The Myspace message between Jay and his mate in the US was private, so this person would have had to somehow hack into Jay's account or something.

Secondly, the message was written in 2005, over 4 years ago, which means this hacker had a HELLUVA LOT OF TIME ON HIS HANDS.

Don't people have more useful things to do in their lives? Apparently not.

4) But what the issue ultimately comes down to is that the action of divulging such news is a breach against someone's freedom of speech/expression. Anyone is allowed to express their opinions in any way, if it is not against national security or it is so offensive to others that it causes consequent action.

i) The message was private. Thus it was never meant for a public audience. Thus it was never meant to offend anyone, in fact it was meant to have the security of it being "private".

ii) All Jay said was "Korea is so gay." This was said when all the Koreans were being nastily hostile to a Fresh-Off-The-Boat American kid who didn't know what the Korean scene was all about. I think I can say "I hate my mum /brother/ teacher/ best friend" or "She's a histrionic biatch", as THIS IS ONLY MY OPINION. And I, like Jay and everyone else, am allowed to have opinions. Even if this opinion may be contrary to your opinion. I think we are mature enough to accept differences, aren't we? 

While there may be an issue with the word 'gay', the only people that could be possibly offended with Jay's comments is the gay community, not some angry Koreans that think "Jay is a traitor." Oh come on, everyone. Haven't they hated this blessed motherland for having too many "goddamn traffic" / "military service months" / "plastic surgery places" / "hakwons" / and "an obsession with education"? We've criticised our own nation sometime or another, so why are we being so harsh on a kid who was like, fifteen when he said those words to a fellow teenaged friend?

The thing is, (and I've seen this at TASP happening) just because someone 'disagrees' with something, it does not give you permission to "be offended at his/her disagreement". As much as you value your beliefs, let them do it too.

Really, all I can say is

-Jay is allowed to have feelings. And express them.

-Jay is also allowed to have his freedom of speech in private settings RESPECTED. AND KEPT.

-Jay should not have had to be chased out of this country. This is a witch hunt.

-And all you fiery Koreans should get over yourselves already.

Just to add, I know Jay must have felt when he first came to Korea. Many in general and especially the more conservative Koreans are still not so open to the Western modes of thought and beliefs. I have felt myself being labelled as "wrong" and "radical" so many times during my three years at KMLA, purportedly the "best school in the nation". If this "best school in the nation" holds bigots who oppose diversity and difference, who refuse to accept viewpoints from different parts of the nation and continue to alienate those who are only trying to fit in, then imagine how other people in this society would have acted. In MANY points during my three years in this nation and in my high school, I have hated both many, many times, for trying to make me a circle when I was a square. I bet if I ever get famous some Korean "netizen warrior" is going to dig up this essay and burn me for his/her witch hunt once more. Admit it people. As much as you say "it's getting better", I still feel the difference in treatment and I still feel like a New Zealander when I am in this nation. And this is not necessarily because I want to, but because I can't pass as a "normal" Korean because of what I think, how I act and what I believe.

Knowing this, I understand Jay exactly when he said those words to his friends, because I know how he felt. I feel really bad as there are many nice Koreans out here too, but he's being massacred by the ones that made him feel so out of place five years ago. Hold on Jay. There are many people feelin' for ya.

And this nation should stop with its obsessive jingoism that oftentimes crosses lines of 'pride' and 'insensibility'.