In the summer of 1997, my sister, my mother, and I locked arms as we walked through Seoul’s Dongdaemun market. We looked like any other Korean family—except my sister and I gave it away with our American swagger in our Tommy Hilfiger zip-ups and Jansport backpacks, pinching our nostrils like clothespins. “What’s that smell?” we whispered, trying not to laugh. I tugged my mother’s sleeve. “Moyah?” The word for “what’s that” slipped out in my American-accented Korean.