Lumi Kim
Lumi Kim is an incoming freshman at Lincoln High. Her one true passion is musical theater. Along with writing about her experiences, Lumi loves singing, being with her friends, and eating good food.
Embedded Files
Opening Night
The grand drape billows against the breeze of hushed voices. Its red folds sway ominously, our only separation from an eager crowd. Through the wings and behind a heavy, gaff-taped door, a cast of 20… 30… maybe even 40 keeps one ear open for the long-awaited call of “Places, Everyone!” A chorus of “Break a leg!” and “Thank you, places!” follows immediately. Actors shuffle backstage, staying mindful of neon-spiked sightlines that glow under the dim light of a ghost lamp, and far away from the forbidden flylines. Last dress was not entirely up to par, but no one worries. The random superstitions we all believe in are there to reassure us. The curtain rises, stage lights blinding. Deep breath. All that’s left to do is step out on stage.
Umma's Gimbap
The staple dish for potlucks or parties
A time-consuming process, but never once not worth it
Smells drift along the kitchen walls
The comforting aroma of sesame oil
The sharp tang of pickled radish, danmuji.
Sounds, too.
The sizzle of a roughly beaten egg as it hits the hot, oiled pan
Boiling water for blanching, threatening to bubble over the edge of a well-worn pot
And the steady hum of a rice cooker in the background.
The seasoned rice spread thinly across a large sheet of dried seaweed
A colorful array of ingredients, gingerly placed on top
Rolled into a perfect log, just waiting to be served.
(Bitter)sweet Learning
I’ve flown to Korea every summer of my life to visit my family, since before I was old enough to form genuine memories. My mom, sister, and I are the only ones living in the States. My dad works as a professor at Jeonbuk National University in South Korea, and flies in to visit during winter and summer break. One of my favorite parts of visiting Korea, besides the food, has always been driving up to the mountains in Suanbo where my grandpa, harabeoji, lived. I remember his warm, welcoming smile, greeting us as we came through the door. He would embrace me and my sister, consistently telling us how much we’ve grown. He always took us on a tour around his land, where he grew everything from potatoes to maesil, or Korean green plum, as if it was our first time and not the hundredth. Though we never complained because we loved his gardens and orchards as much as he did. We would, without fail, run to the borisu tree after dinner and pick as many glistening red berries as our baskets and comparatively tiny hands could hold. Most of the time, we’d eat them right then and there, shoving handfuls in our mouths and feeling the outer layer pop against our tongues, the sharp, sweet juice escaping. We’d laugh at each other’s faces when we simultaneously ate a not-so-ripe, sour berry before racing back to the house. Once the sun was fully set, our harabeoji would lead us on walks up a familiar mountain path, jokingly warning us about the creatures that would come out at night. Eventually, my sister and I would latch on to each of harabeoji’s hands, knowing we would be safe if we just kept him close. During these nighttime walks, I felt like the world was lifted off my shoulders, the clear mountain air cooling the emotions inside me as I breathed it in, harabeoji’s hand in mine. When he became sick, we stopped visiting his mountain home as often. Instead, we would visit him in the hospital, in a drafty, bleak room, a breathing tube hooked around his ears. This man, who used to breathe the cool mountain air right alongside me, suddenly needed the help of an artificial tank. It was all happening too quickly. When he died, I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. It just didn’t feel real. My harabeoji was a strong, resilient man whose end came much too soon. His passing taught me to cherish every moment with someone you love because you never know when it might be the last.
A Dedication to Popcorn
The buttery scent of popcorn fills my nose as soon as we step through the door. My mother tries to drag us away from concessions, but she’s out numbered, three to one. “Who goes to the movie theater and doesn’t buy popcorn?!” we ask.
“Okay, just this once,” she replies. She says this every time, so we know she’s secretly glad. She buys a bucket to share and we laugh at the cartoonish size, practically bigger than my head and overflowing with salty, concerningly yellow kernels. We race to grab handfuls, and stuff
The bucket is empty long before the movie begins to play.
An Unexpected Karaoke Love Poem
To the late nights in Seoul, South Korea
To the K-Pop blasting from speakers, luring us in
To the fluorescent lights and LEDs
To the complete 180 from midnight dark to blinding light
To the room not quite large enough for the seven of us
To the fact that we squeeze in anyway
To the mic in my hand and my sister beside me
To the lyrics flashing on screen, our voices clashing harmoniously
To the endless laughter in the background
To the way-too-competitive game of trying to receive the highest score
To the memories we’ll treasure forever
I love you.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse