Doors
I hate doors. I hated them ever since I stepped out the door to say bye to my father for four and a half years, sixteen hours away from each other. Every time I turn the knob, I face a different situation in a different universe. Beyond the door, my parents are arguing in the living room; their angry shadows reflect on the hardwood floor. Beyond another door, I’m in the United States with the red, white, and blue American flag waving in the midst of the charcoal-colored cement streets with identical suburban houses twelve miles down the street. Later, I open another door to find myself in a new school full of new faces with different skin colors I’ve only read about in children’s books. All the doors beyond my room force me to face the unexpected. Outside my door, I am no longer Sumin Seo; instead, I had to be Ashley Seo.
At first, I did not even realize the blatant racism I encountered when I opened the door. I somehow did not notice the weird stares and nose scrunches I received when I innocently zip-opened my My Little Pony lunchbox from Target as my mom’s attempt to help me fit in with the American kids at my school. However, as my shoes from Korea eventually grew too small, I soon became aware of the glaring stares on my back and the snuffling noises of the other kids, mixed in with a burst of silent but ear-piercing laughter. During those lunch periods, I opened the door to the bathroom to eat lunch away from everyone–away from their silent laughs and scoffs. It was almost as if I was an alien on this planet that no one, even at NASA, was interested in. The only thing the other kids and I had “somewhat” in common, apart from the My Little Pony lunchbox, was our names. “Ashley” Seo. The name written on my name tag felt like a stranger, and I always had a feeling in the bottom of my stomach that I was stealing someone else’s name tag to force myself into the jigsaw. The pin of the name tag “Ashley Seo” tagged to the left side of my chest felt like a piercing directly through my heart.
I had to open another door with fear when I moved to a prominently more “white” school for my sister, who wanted to attend the same school with her friend. The other kids played together near the monkey bars and the colorful playground while I sat in the classroom behind the door with a pencil gripped in my hands. The door failed to serve its purpose as it was no longer an entrance to a different setting; it was a wall that separated me from everyone else. No one came through the door and invited me to play in the brightly painted swings. They would glance at my drawings every time they returned to the classroom and say out loud, “She wouldn’t want to be invited. She’s too busy drawing in the classroom.”
Every afternoon when I returned to the safety and comfort of my bedroom, I started to draw my feelings down. I did not want to hold a pencil anymore, but it seemed like the only thing I could let out of my body. Given one of the two bedrooms of our small apartment condo, I locked myself out from everyone with the key given to no one else. I clicked Clip Studio Paint, an art program, and scribbled my heart away on the small Wacom tablet, illustrating characters I found within myself.
On a bright summer day before summer break, I opened the door to the classroom to be greeted with a new announcement—an art contest held by the County of San Diego. The winner would have a chance to meet the mayor of San Diego and receive an award from him. I was given the flier with all the requirements and topics the drawn poster should include. All the kids in the classroom rotated their heads toward me, their eyes filled with excitement and expectations that I would bring the classroom a blessed award.
After the grand announcement was presented, I started drawing the poster with my prized possession of colored pencils. Every recess, other kids would walk through the door to examine my drawings. They would even compliment my art! The boy who refused to invite me to recess said, “She’s so good at drawing!” The other kids nodded in agreement. Every time the door opened, the pounding in my heart got louder, and I was excited to see what new words would follow the creaking of the opening door. Sometimes, the other kids would sit around me and draw with me. Their silent laughs and scoffs gradually became audible, distinct laughter and compliments.
A few pages on the calendar flipped away, and the door slowly built up to its purpose each day. Doors led to a surprise. A new event. A golden, blonde spark. One day, the spark itself hit me on the head. I looked at the whiteboard of the classroom to see my name written on it. Sumin Seo. Sumin Seo! Everyone looked around the room, wondering who the owner of the name could be. I could feel my eyes widen twice the size. I froze like a statue in the middle of the perplexed class. I looked up to see my hand in the air. My hands were tempted to grab the prize before my mind even recognized the eight foreign characters written on the whiteboard. The palm of my hands pierced through the air to stand high and proud, and tiny sweat drops formed simultaneously.
The teacher congratulated me in front of the staring eyes of the children. She exclaimed, “Congratulations! You won first place in the San Diego County art competition!” During recess, all of the kids swarmed over to my table, cornering me into a puddle of questions and excitement. They asked, “Are you actually going to meet the mayor now? Please tell me how it goes!” When I held the paper with my proud Korean name against my chest, I felt as if it was a blanket warming up my heart. The pride and warmth were contagious as they quickly spread to my entire family. My mom hugged me and exclaimed, “I didn’t even know you were doing this! I’m so beyond proud of you.” Knowing how alienated she must have felt, just like me in a foreign country, I hugged her tighter and tighter.
The anticipated day came at the same speed as a jet. I opened a massive double door leading me into the great city hall of San Diego. I stood next to my mom as the ceremony began. The mayor handed me the award written, “San Diego City County. Winner of Young Youth Art Contest. Sumin Seo.” The picture with the mayor still exists a few pages down from my mom’s Kakaostory profile, the most prominent Korean social media app. Since then, the city that once felt so foreign felt like home. Opening the door was no longer a fear but an excitement. I thought to myself: Maybe. Just maybe. Doors aren’t that bad.
Author Statement: In the narrative “Doors,” I recount my immigrant experience, facing racism and a struggle for identity. Art becomes my solace, leading to recognition and acceptance. Doors, once feared, become opportunities. The essay explores resilience, self-discovery, and the transformative power of art, inspiring readers to embrace new experiences and find belonging.