I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be “Korean.” Growing up, my parents would get made fun of at work for their smelly foods, so they would never let me bring kimchi to school. And at school, I wasn’t Korean enough, so they called me twinkie. It’s funny how some things haven’t changed at all (“can a vegan really be Korean?” they ask with barely disguised contempt), but how other things have. Namely—me. I used to care about people making fun of my smelly food and now, I’m making kimchi in the front yard of my predominantly non-Korean suburban culdesac with my entire family. Identity is tricky, especially when there are so many people who are willing to tell you “You’re not American enough,” “You’re not Korean enough.” . “You’re not enough.” . My heart is as multidimensional as this kimchi. My heart is held by every single person in this video who used their hands to make this kimchi. My heart is salty, spicy, sweet, and heavy. . My mother cracks it open with her bare hands ...