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I grew up with my parents telling me not to do seemingly random things like shaking my leg or leaving the fan on before I sleep at night. Back in Florida, I thought it was just my parents who had these oddly specific superstitions. But when we moved here, I heard ahjummas at a seolleongtang restaurant gossiping about fan death and realized those beliefs are part of what made my parents Korean in ways that I’m not.
I half pay attention to the commercials before the premiere, alternating between looking at my phone and the TV. When I first moved to Korea, the ads fascinated me since they’re all visually stunning. But they also disturbed me a little bit since everyone looks unnaturally bright and happy, like they live in some alternative utopian society. And everything is so “perfect,” too, with grandparents sitting at tables with two parents and two children—a boy and a girl, of course.
Sure, my own family is pretty heteronormative and nuclear, but that doesn’t mean I for sure want a family like that in the future. I’m bi, and I don’t know who I’ll end up with yet. And I’m nowhere close to even thinking about kids. I wish Korean media had more flexibility for other lifestyles.
When the last ad fades into black at exactly nine p.m., I sit up straight, with one hand in Mom’s and the other in Dad’s.
“It’s going to be great,” Mom says. “Appa and I are so proud of you.”
Dad squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his back. His handsare a little sweatier than normal, but I smile and hold on tight.
Four months and counting of rehearsals and shooting days. Endless days and nights of filming. All the blood, sweat, and tears that the other members of the cast and crew, my parents, and I have put into this show so far. Everything has come down to this.
I let out one last slow breath and watch the show unfold.
