When ‘One Size Fits All’ means anyone but me (Emma Carew)

“We don’t have your size.”

I had barely set foot inside and the shopkeeper blurted out the words in Korean. Literally, the words she used translate to mean, “As for us, your size does not exist.” Not the best way to start a sales pitch.

One of the biggest culture shocks for me when I went to Korea this summer was the way Korean people judged me by my body type – which is curvy but not plus-sized by American standards.

My 5’6”, size 10 body felt huge next to the 5’0”, size 0 girls I stood next to on the subways. I was afraid if the trains stopped suddenly, I might crush the person standing next to me. I felt like my size gave me away instantly as being American. I hadn’t felt that self-conscious about my body since middle school.

In the States, I buy clothes in size medium at most stores, and my pant size is smaller than the American average for women (size 14). In Korea, I had a hard time finding clothes that fit at all, especially from street vendors, where most of the items are “one-size-fits-all.”

One of the first things my Korean grandmother said to my translator when I visited was, “you’ve gotten fatter.” My Korean isn’t great, but I distinctly heard “tdeung-tdeung-hae,” which is the word Korean kids use to call other kids fat. (Later, my Korean friends assured me that she probably was happy to see I was “healthy” and meant it endearingly, not as an insult)

In America, our movie stars and models don’t all descend from the 1960s icon Twiggy. We see women like Emme and Queen Latifah in magazine advertisements and billboards. I recently read an article in Glamour that was written by the actress who plays Dr. Callie Torres on Grey’s Anatomy. It was entitled “I’m a size 12 in a size 0 town” and talked about her experience with weight in Hollywood.

In Korea, the characters in dramas and films were usually depicted by short, skinny actresses. In one program I watched, one character’s boyfriend started a fistfight with another boy who called the girlfriend “at least 50 kilograms.” 50 kg is the equivalent of 110 lbs, which would hardly be considered an insult by US standards.

I have basically accepted that I love food as much as I hate exercise. I try to work healthier foods into my diet from time to time, but I know I’ll never buy a size 0 pair of jeans. It’s a balance that’s only gotten more difficult in college, where I eat out frequently and struggle to adapt family-sized recipes to cook for one.

In Korea, I felt as though someone had tattooed the title of that magazine article across my forehead. Women tried to sell me tea in the grocery marts, repeating in broken English, “is good for diet” as I walked by. Every time I passed a reflective surface (mirrors are everywhere in Seoul) my belly looked rounder, and my arms looked bigger than usual.

I knew from my adoption papers that my birth mother was petite, about 5 feet and 100 lbs when I was born. My half-sisters are slim and tiny like she is. I long ago out grew and outweighed not only my birth mother, but also my birth father.

And although my Korean grandmother called me fat and nicknamed me her “little piglet,” I’ve accepted that it’s only a part of their culture. (I am, however, less forgiving of those sales ladies)

I’m not sure my grandmother understands how I came to be the size that I am growing up in American. As a farmer in rural South Korea, fast food and Starbucks-to-go do not exist in her world. I learned that because of the periods of hunger in her past, my grandmother would not offer her food to just anyone. And yet, she tried to feed me time and time again when I was in Korea, me: her piglet, American granddaughter.