2020 BAAFN Creativity Award
Sellina Yoo - click on the image to view the recording
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My Puzzle Pieces
by Sellina Yoo
A pink cow, dancing strawberries across a cotton candy bridge, Winnie the Pooh simplified version, and a giant red gummy bear with a tiny red balloon. Jigsaw puzzles classified as weird have always been my favorite pastime activity. The satisfying click of the last piece and the bizarre puzzle proudly displayed in front of me makes me feel like the smartest person in the world for about two seconds. Of course, my intellectual prowess limits me to puzzles with 45-67 pieces. The true beauty of each seemingly strange puzzle is when I can see the vital clue: the piece that shows the whole. A branch tilted left with a blue smudge of sky at the top and a squirrel’s tail to the right, or the curvature of the red balloon and the pinky finger reaching up towards it. Direction, flow, connection. For 16 years, two puzzle pieces confused me because there was no direction, flow, or connection. Instead, they were perfectly divided, smoothed into little squares forced light years apart so that they would never click. It was the only puzzle I never wanted to complete. To me, I had two distinct identities. Crisp fall and reddened noses meant Sellina, and sticky summer nights with hot breezes meant Seoyeon. But I made mistakes. I found myself wearing half tucked in shirts and long paddings as Sellina, and forgetting to change out of sport shorts and faded flip flops as Seoyeon. The more I tried to separate Korean and American, the more I was reminded that I was Korean-American. This angered me. Why couldn’t I shift seamlessly between two characters? It ruined my puzzle, because it just didn’t make sense. How could I eat red bean tteok with banana milk in Nike joggers while watching Iron Man for the umpteenth time? As I grew older, the puzzle pieces started straining together and colliding at the worst times. In eighth grade, my aunt started buying me Korean makeup: rosy pink blushes, soft brown eye pencils, pale foundation, and coral lip gloss. This was probably due to her intense fear that I would live upon my desire to wear blue glittery eyeshadow to school one day. I remember muttering how I would wear it in Korea, avoiding my aunt’s piercing eyes as she asked me why. Nervously laughing it off, I quickly explained that I was tired in the mornings and didn’t have the energy to put it on. I pretended not to notice her pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows as she turned away. Later that night, I snuck to the bathroom with an armful of Korean and American makeup and did half my face with Korean makeup, and half my face with American. I looked horrendous, but I loved it. I loved how equal it was, but how I could control how distinct they were. Yet, I also felt fear. A deep-rooted part of me felt tearing guilt at how I was so scared to let them interact. I wish I could say there was that moment where I had a revelation that I loved being Korean-American, and wanted to mix the two puzzle pieces. No, it was gradual. I first grudgingly started packing my Korea-only clothes back to America, justifying that they were new and it was a waste of space to only wear them in summer. Then, it was wearing platform sneakers with leggings, eating fried chicken with kimchi-jjigae, and trying see-through bangs and failing to curl them (tip: don’t wait till they start smelling like burnt toast). These little things accumulated, and I started to resist them less. I would find myself subconsciously reaching for a glass of milk and a plate of songpyeon, realize, but still continue. Hesitating, but not stopping.
Over time, I gained more confidence in my ability to fit together the puzzle without breaking it apart. I broke down this thick wall of fear, and understood that it would always be weird and a little bit funny, but it was also right. It did fit. My whole life, I had been fitting puzzles side by side. Perfectly, evenly, click. These two puzzle pieces sometimes fit neatly, and other times squish and pull and poke into each other. It all messily works. I am not complete yet. I still hesitate. But slowly, through my life, I will build a beautiful puzzle through the connection of two different, perfect, but not always equal, puzzle pieces that comprise the one unified me.
Over time, I gained more confidence in my ability to fit together the puzzle without breaking it apart. I broke down this thick wall of fear, and understood that it would always be weird and a little bit funny, but it was also right. It did fit. My whole life, I had been fitting puzzles side by side. Perfectly, evenly, click. These two puzzle pieces sometimes fit neatly, and other times squish and pull and poke into each other. It all messily works. I am not complete yet. I still hesitate. But slowly, through my life, I will build a beautiful puzzle through the connection of two different, perfect, but not always equal, puzzle pieces that comprise the one unified me.
