- I am the child of immigrants
- this niche empty
- I don’t believe in god
1. I am the child of immigrants
My name is Bonwoo Kuh and I am a child of immigrants. I grew up in a small, suburban town called Santa Clara-- a couple of miles away from San Jose and maybe a couple of more miles away from San Francisco. My father, like many fathers in the Silicon Valley was an engineer-- doing something everyday I wasn't too sure what to say he did and my mother, a preschool teacher. I love the arts and as a child, I wanted to become an artist or designer until my mother told me about how expensive art school would be.
Growing up in proximity to the Silicon Valley, I was told by my teachers and peers that the only path to succession is in STEM. As a young person, the world can be so small. Who I thought I could be was so small. While I waited for my prefrontal cortex to develop, I tried to envision my future where I pursued something in the STEM field in an effort to make my parents and peers proud of something they never asked me to be.
Before my mother immigrated to the US she loved history and literature, spending her time at museums, libraries, temples, and palaces that were so carefully preserved in her home country. Upon immigrating to the US, she went to fashion school in attempts to pursue something creative yet practical, to kind of fulfill her love for humanities and also something that didn't require exceptional English skills. My mother spoke of her life in America as a place where she had to compromise what she loved to do with something she could be good at. And also get paid well to do.
While growing up, I never heard my father tell me to do what he did. He never spoke too much about his work, his numerous years of school where he studied physics, computers, and other things I still can't wrap my mind around. For some reason, I assumed that as a product of my environment, I would only succeed if I followed in his footsteps.
By the time I was applying to college, I did not have a dream school or a plan of where and what I wanted to do.
One day my mother told me a story. When her and my father met, he had just finished is PHD in Physics-- working at a local IT company in Los Angeles. My mother asked him: what would you want your child to grow up to be? He told her: a poet.
While I am not a poet, I wanted to pursue a path that my parents could not walk down. A path where creativity could see success and triumph. A path where I could learn without fear or the need for survival.
2. this niche empty
3. I don’t believe in god
I don’t believe in god. I don’t believe in a higher power, divine timing, or fate. I don’t believe in a blind faith, like trusting a god with what happens, should happen, and it’s out of my control.
When I walk to class, I put on my headphones and listen to my Liked Songs in order. Walking in anticipation of every note and lyric. Anticipating every step and curve on the street. All in order. In a way this is my own form of prayer— ritual. A blind faith that the same songs will play, the same notes will be sung, the same lyrics will be written, and the same route will be taken. The only difference is that I’ve memorized the order of my Liked Songs. And I know exactly what’s coming.
I stopped praying in 8th grade. I remember trying to say the right words when I prayed. The words that were the best, the words that sounded the most impressive, the words that were tied up in those shiny red ribbons. I realized in 8th grade god wasn’t a magic genie that would grant my wishes— let alone hear my prayers. All that effort to make sure my prayers were heard loud and clear just for them to fall onto ears that didn’t exist.
And even after all these years I can’t forget everything I learned in church. Every good word, every good prayer, every good deed, every verse in the bible— committed to memory. Maybe that’s why I stopped praying because maybe one of these days he’d ask for something in return.
But god isn’t all chalked up to be a good, kind, fair god. Letting babies die, creating disease, war, and every permutation of evil that comes in between. So maybe it’s better I don’t think he’s real. But lately I’ve been questioning if there is something out there. Whether or not there is a god. Whether he is good or bad. Whether or not it was a sign. Whether or not my heart will drop when I read the letters of your name. Whether or not I’ll see you again.
The flip of a coin. The fault of flesh. A black box. The burden of man. A blind faith. A brief probability. The day of judgment.
If I had stayed would I be listening to the same songs? Walking the same route to class? Practicing these rituals to protect my sanity? I see you everywhere I go. Like fire burning down a forest and the lingering smoke, stinging my eyes and filling my lungs.
Hot. Fast. Everywhere. And on the news.
I guess there’s no anticipation in a burning forest. No order or calculation on the next tree to catch fire. No religion or fancy prayers that can control it either. No way to get close to the fire without getting engulfed like the trees around it. So what’s the use in trying?
Now I think god is punishing me for leaving when it's most convenient. Punishing me for worshiping lesser gods and loving flesh as it comes to me. Punishing me for making myself a martyr at best and a lover at worst just so I could prove them wrong. Punishing me for always wanting the last laugh just so I can know I wasn’t wrong. I’m selfish, I know. I guess I wasn’t made in the image of god. So what’s the use in trying?
But lately I’m still on the fence, wishing those hiccups in routine were signs from god. Thinking that fate would have pointed us in the same direction. Praying that god would bring us together again. But I’m still doing everything I can to get over that fence. Desperately listening to my Liked Songs in order over and over again— praying that maybe it could grant me my final wishes.
Throwing pennies in pools. Crossing my fingers. Praying at night. Holding my breath in tunnels. 11:11. Tarot cards. Praying again.
But I can’t believe god is real because there isn’t a higher power or divine timing or fate. No ritual or prayer. Just blind faith that maybe they felt the same.