Gochujang Stains on the Torah

by Spencer Brownstein

The walls and floors of my Brooklyn Synagogue 
Are made of the whitest Jerusalem limestone. 
They glow in skylit sun, overexposed, made pale. 
The Cantor always told me that limestone was special, 
The same material the Wailing Wall is made of. 
A white so sacred it can connect you straight to God. 

In this holiest of spaces, my skin is the darkest thing in the room. 

To be Half-Korean and Jewish 
Is to be a joke, 
The one that goes like “Jewish men just love Asian women” 
my birth, the punchline. 

A speck on the limestone, white hands
But because from the bimah, I look like a moth drawn to the white skylight. 
Not because my faith is stronger, 
I speak them just a little bit louder than the crowd.  
In Synagogue, I still know all of the prayers by heart, and try to crush me. 

I pray loud to tell them “I belong here.” 
And I’m still not convinced that I do.  
I say the prayers, don’t know what the words mean, 
Can’t speak Hebrew, 
Can’t speak Korean, either. 

I’ve never even been to Korea,  
All I know is, all the white kids at college would tell me 
“Just walk down Snelling to Kim’s Oriental Market, it’s so authentic there.” 
O’ to only be a real Korean through white authentification 
O’ to only know a connection to my heritage 
By carrying jars of kimchi out the Korean Supermarket. 

And there’s that joke again, the one about the boy whose birth promised two cultures

Made invisible to both. 
The closest I’ve ever felt to being a real Korean 
Is that this body, like Korea itself, is divided in two. 
Two tongues, both silent. 

I know the prayers,  
Kids at Hebrew School always asked 

If me and the other half asian kid were related. 
I know a body divided. 
Grandma never let me get to know her Korean friends. 
They met at Church, and Grandma told me a Jew would never fit in there. 

You’ve boiled me down, made me
America, great melting pot, resin 
Clinging to the bottom of the saucepan, 
Something to be scraped away under steel wool. 

I’m a fun house glass reflection of my parents, 
Eyes just a little too big, the audience laughs, 
nose a bit too compressed, the audience laughs. 

My hands are caked in gochujang, never meant to handle the Torah, ascroll like limestone,

That which can connect you straight to God. 
My fingers smear the ink, make the entire scroll unholy. 
Unusable, the whole thing must be reprinted, 
And watch as any trace of me is erased, rewritten, pretend I was never there. 
Remove the dark smears from the pale parchment to make it holy again.  

The walls of my synagogue are made of the whitest Jerusalem limestone. 
The aisles of the Korean supermarket are lined with jars of kimchi. 
Everyone inside become blood cells pumped through the heart, 
Two chambers separated by a Demilitarized zone, a Wailing Wall. 

I pray loud, but all they hear is the punchline, so they laugh. 
I tell them “I belong here.” 
No one is convinced that I do.