Banana Fish

"Banana fish?"

The marketplace frozen around Min-jae. Twelve pairs of eyes locked onto him in various stages of shock, confusion, and – worst of all – amusement. The halmeoni behind the fish counter set down her cleaver with deliberate slowness, her weathered face unreadable behind her face mask.

"What did you say?" she asked in Korean, her tone dangerously measured.

Min-jae's throat constricted. That familiar sensation of being trapped between worlds – too Korean to be American, too American to be Korean – crashed over him like icy water. He'd only wanted to order yellow croaker. Specifically, jogi, the small yellow croaker his mother used in her soups back in Los Angeles. But somehow, in his nervousness, jogi had transformed into banana fish in his broken, American-accented Korean.

"I'm sorry," he stammered in English, then caught himself. "Joesonghamnida. I meant jogi."

The halmeoni's eyes narrowed, taking in his face – undeniably Korean in its features, yet somehow wrong. His hair, dyed a sandy brown instead of the respectable black most men his age wore. His posture, too casual, lacking the subtle bow of deference Koreans instinctively adopted with elders. And when he spoke, his Korean stumbled out malformed, like a child's drawing of a language.

"You're one of those gyopo," she said, not a question but an accusation. "Korean face, American inside."

The handful of customers waiting in line shifted uncomfortably. A middle-aged man in a pressed suit glanced at his watch, radiating impatience. Two high school girls giggled behind their hands.

Min-jae had been in Seoul exactly nine days. Nine days of attempting to reconnect with a homeland he'd left at age four. Nine days of strangers recoiling slightly at his imperfect Korean, their initial welcomes cooling when they realized he was Korean-American, not the mythical returning son but something more complicated – a banana, as his college roommates had once taunted. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside.

"Ne," he admitted. "I was born here but raised in California."

Something in the halmeoni's face shifted. Not softening exactly, but recalibrating. "California," she repeated, as if tasting an unfamiliar spice. "My daughter's friend went to university there."

Min-jae recognized the conversational opening, the chance to move past his linguistic blunder. "It's beautiful," he offered. "But I wanted to come home, to understand where I'm from."

As he spoke, he sensed movement beside him. A young woman had slipped next to him in line, close enough that he caught the faint scent of honeysuckle. Unlike the others, she wasn't staring at him with curiosity or judgment. Instead, she addressed the halmeoni in rapid-fire Korean that Min-jae couldn't fully follow.

The halmeoni responded, gesturing toward Min-jae with her chin while wrapping what appeared to be his yellow croaker in paper. The young woman laughed – not mockingly, but with genuine amusement – and handed over some bills.

"Come on, banana fish," she said to Min-jae in perfect English. "I just saved you from becoming the neighborhood's newest entertainment."

"You said 'I would like a fish that doesn't exist in reality but exists in a famous American short story by J.D. Salinger about suicide,'" Hye-jin explained as they sat at a small table in a nearby coffee shop. She stirred her iced Americano, amusement dancing in her eyes. "And you said it with such confidence."

Min-jae groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I was trying so hard to get the pronunciation right."

"That's probably why Halmeoni Park didn't just laugh you out of her stall. Your sincerity was endearing."

The paper-wrapped fish sat between them, a monument to Min-jae's failure to navigate even the simplest interaction in his parents' homeland. He'd spent twenty-six years being told he wasn't American enough, only to discover he wasn't Korean enough either.

"Why did you help me?" he asked.

Hye-jin tilted her head, studying him with curious eyes. Unlike most Koreans he'd encountered, she wore her hair in a messy bob with subtle purple highlights – not the trendy pastel purple popular among Korean youth, but a deeper, almost subversive shade. Her clothes were simple but deliberately mismatched in a way that suggested artistic intention rather than carelessness.

"Because I know what it's like," she said finally. "To exist in the in-between."

"You're gyopo too?" he asked, surprised. Her Korean had sounded native to his untrained ear.

"No," she laughed. "I'm as Korean as kimchi. But I lived in Boston for five years. Came back with too many foreign ideas." She gestured to her hair. "And questionable fashion choices, according to my mother."

Min-jae found himself smiling for what felt like the first time since he'd arrived in Seoul. "So we're both disappointments to our respective cultures."

"Exactly." She raised her coffee cup in a mock toast. "To cultural disappointments everywhere."

They wandered through Gwangjang Market afterward, Hye-jin guiding him through the labyrinth of stalls with the ease of a local. She paused at a pojangmacha selling hotteok, ordering two of the sweet pancakes with the rapid confidence that Min-jae envied.

"So why Korea?" she asked as they waited. "Most gyopo I've met can't wait to escape back to America after visiting relatives."

The question hit a nerve Min-jae hadn't realized was exposed. "My grandmother is dying," he said, the words emerging before he could filter them. "She refused to leave Korea when my parents emigrated. I've never met her in person."

Hye-jin accepted this with a nod, as if serious family matters naturally belonged in conversations between near-strangers. "Terminal?"

"Pancreatic cancer. Weeks, maybe days left."

"I'm sorry." She handed him a hotteok wrapped in paper. "Does she know you're here?"

"I'm going to see her tomorrow. My mother arranged it."

Hye-jin bit into her pancake, ginger-honey filling dripping slightly. She wiped it away with her thumb in a gesture so casually elegant it momentarily distracted Min-jae from the weight of his imminent meeting.

"And your Korean is..."

"Terrible," he finished. "I've been studying for months, but it's not enough. How do you connect with someone whose language you can barely speak? Especially when it's the last chance you'll ever have."

A group of middle school students pushed past them, laughing and shoving each other playfully. One boy glanced at Min-jae, then did a double-take, his eyes lingering on Min-jae's hair and clothes before whispering something to his friends.

"They're wondering if you're a K-pop idol," Hye-jin translated, amusement evident in her voice. "Your foreign vibe works for some industries here."

"I'm a graphic designer, not a singer."

"Pity. We could have monetized your cultural confusion."

Despite himself, Min-jae laughed. Hye-jin had an uncanny ability to make his situation seem less tragic and more absurdly comedic – a perspective he desperately needed.

"What did you mean before," he asked, "about existing in the in-between?"

Hye-jin's expression shifted, a subtle withdrawal behind her easy demeanor. "When you've lived elsewhere, you come back changed. Korea doesn't like change. We pretend to embrace globalization, but only on our terms."

She guided him toward a quieter alley, away from the market's bustle. "In Boston, I was the exotic Asian girl who impressed everyone with her perfect English. Here, I'm the weird one who 'thinks like a foreigner.' Too progressive, too outspoken. Not Korean enough."

"At least you can order fish without referencing obscure American literature," Min-jae offered.

Her laugh echoed against the narrow walls. "True. My humiliations are more sophisticated."

They ended up in a pojangmacha – a small tent bar – nursing cups of soju as evening descended. The cramped space hummed with conversations, mostly middle-aged men unwinding after work, occasionally glancing curiously at the unusual pair.

"What will you say to her?" Hye-jin asked after they'd moved from casual topics to the heavier matter of his grandmother. "Tomorrow, I mean."

Min-jae stared into his half-empty cup. "I've been practicing basic phrases – 'nice to meet you,' 'I'm sorry I never visited sooner,' that sort of thing. But it feels..." He searched for the word. "Inadequate."

"It is inadequate," Hye-jin said bluntly. "But she won't expect eloquence. Just sincerity."

"That's what I'm afraid of. What if she sees through me? What if she realizes I came because I felt obligated, not because I felt connected to her?"

Hye-jin refilled his cup with practiced precision, holding the bottle with two hands in the traditional manner. "Why did you really come, Min-jae?"

The question hung between them, heavier than it should have been from someone he'd met just hours ago. The soju loosened something in him – not just his tongue but the careful barriers he'd constructed around his motivations.

"I've spent my whole life being told I'm Korean. My parents insisted on it – Korean food, Korean values, Korean expectations. But I never felt it. I was the kid with the weird lunch who couldn't relate to American pop culture because I wasn't allowed to. Then in college, I tried embracing being American, but other students made sure I knew I wasn't that either." He swallowed hard. "My grandmother is my last connection to whatever authentic Korean identity I might have had."

"And you think meeting her will suddenly make you feel Korean?"

"I think not meeting her would mean giving up on ever understanding that part of myself."

A middle-aged businessman at the next table swayed slightly, eyeing Min-jae with the unfocused stare of the moderately drunk. "Ya," he called out in Korean. "You. American boy with Korean face."

Min-jae tensed. Hye-jin placed a warning hand on his arm.

The man switched to heavily accented English. "Why you color hair? Try to be American? Be proud Korean!"

Before Min-jae could respond, Hye-jin addressed the man in rapid Korean. Min-jae caught only fragments – something about respect and assumptions. Whatever she said made the man's companions laugh and the man himself look momentarily chastened before returning to his drink.

"What did you tell him?" Min-jae asked when she turned back.

"That you're actually a famous Korean-American artist researching traditional markets for your next exhibition, and that your hair is that color because you donated bone marrow to your little sister."

"None of that is true!"

"Of course not. But it fits a narrative they understand – the sacrificial Korean son. They'll leave you alone now."

Min-jae shook his head, equal parts amused and unsettled by how easily she navigated these social currents that left him floundering.

"Tomorrow," Hye-jin said, refocusing, "don't try to be perfectly Korean for your grandmother. Be exactly who you are – the Korean-American grandson who came halfway around the world to meet her before it's too late. That authenticity will mean more than perfect pronunciation."

"You make it sound simple."

"It is. And it isn't." She smiled enigmatically. "Like ordering fish."

Min-jae stood outside his grandmother's hanok, the traditional Korean house tucked behind modern high-rises like a stubborn memory refusing to fade. Beside him, surprisingly, stood Hye-jin. She'd insisted on accompanying him at least to the door, arguing that he might need an emergency translator.

"You don't have to wait," he told her for the third time.

"I know. But I want to hear how the banana fish story ends." Her teasing tone barely masked what seemed like genuine concern.

The door opened before he could knock. A thin elderly woman emerged, her back slightly bent but her gaze sharp as it traveled from Min-jae to Hye-jin and back.

"Annyeonghaseyo," Min-jae began carefully. "Jeo-neun Min-jae imnida."

The woman – his aunt, he presumed – nodded once. "She's waiting." Her English was accented but clear, an unexpected accommodation that both relieved and disappointed him. Even here, he would be treated as a foreigner.

Hye-jin squeezed his arm. "Remember, be yourself. Banana fish and all."

His aunt led him through the house – smaller inside than it had appeared, but immaculately maintained, with traditional paper doors and a wooden floor that creaked beneath his feet. The scent of medicinal herbs hung in the air, mingling with something cooking – doenjang jjigae, he realized, the soybean paste stew his mother made on cold days.

They entered a room where a hospital bed had been installed, incongruously modern against the traditional setting. In it lay a tiny figure, so small beneath the blankets that Min-jae might have missed her if not for the face – wrinkled and pale, but with eyes startlingly like his own.

"Halmeoni," his aunt said softly. "Min-jae-ga wass-eo."

The old woman's eyes flickered open, focusing on Min-jae with unnerving intensity. He stood frozen, all his practiced Korean evaporating under her gaze.

"Annyeonghaseyo, Halmeoni," he managed finally, bowing deeply.

When he straightened, she was still watching him, her expression unreadable. Then, to his shock, she spoke in halting English.

"You look... like your grandfather."

Min-jae's chest tightened. He hadn't expected her to speak English – hadn't known she could. He moved closer, taking the chair his aunt indicated beside the bed.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to visit," he said, unsure whether to continue in English or attempt Korean.

His grandmother's papery hand emerged from beneath the blanket, reaching for him with surprising strength. He took it carefully, feeling bones like delicate twigs beneath tissue-thin skin.

"Tell me," she said in Korean, then switched back to English, "about America."

Min-jae glanced at his aunt, who nodded encouragingly. "She learned English phrases for you. Has been practicing for weeks."

Something cracked open inside Min-jae's chest – not breaking but expanding, making room for a truth he hadn't anticipated. His grandmother had been preparing for him just as he had for her, bridging the gap from her side while he struggled from his.

He began to speak – haltingly at first, then with growing confidence. About California sunshine, his design work, his apartment with the lemon tree outside. She listened intently, occasionally asking questions in her limited English or through his aunt's translation.

An hour passed this way, the space between them filling not with the perfect communication he'd imagined but with something more authentic – the genuine effort of connection across boundaries of language, culture, and time.

When he finally rose to leave, promising to return tomorrow, his grandmother spoke again, this time entirely in Korean. His aunt translated: "She says you are a true Son. Not Korean, not American. Just her grandson, carrying both worlds inside you."

Hye-jin waited at a café across the street, sketching absent-mindedly in a notebook. She looked up as Min-jae approached, her eyebrows raised in silent question.

"She speaks some English," he said, dropping into the chair across from her. "She learned it for me."

"And?"

"And we talked. Not perfectly, but we... connected." He struggled to articulate the experience. "She sees me – not as Korean or American, but as her grandson."

Hye-jin smiled, a genuine expression that transformed her face. "That's the thing about being caught between cultures," she said. "Everyone focuses on what you're not, rarely on what you uniquely are."

Min-jae thought about the yellow croaker that had started this journey – the banana fish that didn't exist but had somehow led him here. A mistake that became a metaphor for his entire experience: misunderstood, out of place, and yet somehow exactly where he needed to be.

"I'm going back tomorrow," he said. "Would you come with me? Not as a translator, just... as a friend?"

Hye-jin closed her sketchbook. Inside, Min-jae caught a glimpse of what looked like his own profile, rendered in quick, confident strokes.

"Of course," she said. "Some stories deserve to be witnessed."

Outside the café window, Seoul continued its relentless pace – neither fully the traditional Korea of his parents' memories nor the gleaming futuristic metropolis of Western imagination, but something complex and contradictory. Like him. Like Hye-jin with her purple hair and traditional values. Like his grandmother learning English at eighty-seven.

All of them, in their way, banana fish – creatures that existed precisely because they had been mistranslated into being.