An Open Letter to Ajummas

You may not read this, but I felt compelled to write anyway just to get this off my chest. I hesitated; really, I did, because I thought about the repercussions of how this letter may be received and how it may result in a walking stick to the back of my head, an elbow to the side, or perhaps a good old fashioned tongue lashing complete with waving arms and dramatic shouts. Still, I decided to forge ahead because, basically, someone has to say something.


So here goes, ajummas, let me calmly and clearly state what everyone in the country is thinking: you need to chill.

On the subway platform while waiting for the train you barge ahead of everyone in your way to stand so close to the edge that I’m surprised the oncoming train doesn’t clip your nose. On the sidewalk you plow through the crowds leaning into the people with elbows out to the side like deadly weapons and a grim determination set on your face as if daring anyone to even think of not getting out of your way. And on the flight to Thailand you hopped out of your seat as soon as that Seatbelt On sign blinked off so you could stretch out in the aisle to sleep. I know the seats are uncomfortable, but I bet that pregnant lady in 5A would’ve liked to get to the bathroom without navigating an obstacle course. And when the plane was delayed on the return flight and you all plopped right down smack in the middle of the airport lounge and whipped out your homemade food to eat, well, I’m confident you saved a bundle, but those foul smelling, though I’m sure tasty, Korean delicacies just about caused a Terror alert.

And don’t get me started on the 7-11 when you body checked my friend Rebecca to get in the door, followed by a shove to get a coke despite the fact she was standing at the cooler before you, and then the mad dash to reach the register to pay before her. Seriously, all of that for a coke?

Now I’m not talking about all ajummas. That would be silly. I’m talking about the perm sporting ajummas clad in purple pants, flower print shirts and flats whose unflappable cold hard stare sweeps the crowd for the opening to barrel through full throttle. You scare me.

I get it. After putting up with making sixty cents to the dollar, patriarchal Confucianism, MIA husbands and putting everyone in your family first for so long that now with the kids finally married and out of the house and the husband is camped out on the sofa instead of at the soju bar that you’re practically bursting with a sense of IT’S MY TURN NOW that it just comes out in the wrong way.


Might I suggest a long vacation, a spa treatment, or stitch and bitch knitting club? Perhaps a pottery class can really let you exorcise those feelings by really manhandling that clay and pounding it into something beautiful? I hear yoga is soothing as well as therapeutic. I’m just concerned. I don’t want to flip on the channel and see a When Ajummas attack clip on the evening news. So, for your own sake and ours, take a minute to breathe, relax, and chill. You might like it.