Culture Shock--Revised

Korean flight attendants hold employment of prestige in their culture. With glossy black hair, flawless crimson lipstick smiles, and sharp turquoise suits, they give off the brisk aura of a CEO--or perhaps some type of royalty. In their sovereignty, with gracious voices and meek requests, they prove the greatest among all shall be a servant. But we left behind the Korean attendants fourteen hours ago.

As my husband and I exit the doors of our plane, the heat waves of Georgia, USA, seethe outside the windows of our terminal. My ears only recently started perceiving sounds again after the pressure pop from descending, and they find the clamor hailing us to this country unsettling. A throng of weary travelers mob the lone uniformed worker in sight, asking, pulling, and competing for assistance. The worker lifts her hands. “I can’t help y’all.” Her answer rebuffs half the crowd, but some others and I persist with a measure of desperation—we have a transferring flight to catch. Obtaining vague directions, my husband and I eventually discover the line appearing to lead to customs. Another uniformed worker, equally as brash as the first, waves people from our line into various other lines. Only one couple, a Korean man and woman, now stand between us and the next level of lines. One tier to go. My momentary thought of progression gets paused as the Korean travelers in front of us, politely and in broken English, deliver a query to the worker. She glances at their paperwork. Without reading the papers, she lifts her eyes back to the Koreans and sighs, “Pih Kline, Pee Pow.”

Startled, the Koreans nod with uncertainty. They continue to stand in place.

I nudge my husband. “They don’t understand her.” He smiles, bearing marks of sympathy, having arrived in the US only a few years prior with minimal English on tongue.

“Pick a line, people,” he whispers, imitating the worker’s deep Southern accent.

When she notices the Koreans have not moved, the member of staff repeats her original demand. This time she raises her voice, but otherwise the words fly from her mouth in the same unintelligible manner as before. Hesitating, the Korean man takes a few steps away from the yelling, toward a new set of diverging lines. Seeing his walking go unchecked, his partner joins him and the two of them hurry to a line marked “immigration.” I helplessly wonder if it is the line they need.

I also find myself wondering if immigration is what I need. Marrying a man whose face and family belong to China gives me pause to consider the language and culture I want for our children someday. We have more options than most. These Southern workers did not choose their manners and accent, while the Koreans now attempt to alter theirs—but all three are currently a product of their country of origin, worlds away from each other.

My husband becomes separated from me when another worker directs us to diverging customs booths. Shrugging as we part, I continue forward and hand my declaration form to the agent on duty. He narrows his eyes at me.
“How long was your trip?"
Was it ten days or fourteen?
"Why did you travel there? How long have you been married? Where is your husband from? Why isn’t he with you now?” I flush, stammering over my answers, and in my nervousness give abundantly more information than is necessary: “Our anniversary, because we were married, and visiting family, plus also vacationing, because school starts tomorrow for us—we go to BYU, in Utah, and that is where we are going now…and my husband is with me…” I trail off as I notice the agent’s attention no longer needs my stuttering. He is staring at the booth next to us, and my eyes follow his line of vision.

“Yes, that’s him.” I see my husband backing away from his customs booth as the agent there gestures toward me. Apparently my husband and I should declare as one unit. Of course, the paperwork states it right here. I finish prattling to the agent at my booth, but he ignores me while he scrutinizes my husband’s green card. When finally allowed to pass, my husband and I laugh together, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and shaking heads: nope, no Korean attendants here.

We find our luggage and join another queue, not seeing the Korean couple in that line—but trusting their absence means they have moved ahead in their journey. I realize with some measure of surprise that culture shock at entering my own country feels more intense than the feelings produced by my time spent in Asia. Again I reflect, wondering what I want for our future children, but I feel at least one certainty; they will have more options than most.