What It Was Like to Grow Up in Korea (Back Then)

 It’s hard to explain what Korea felt like when I was a student in the late 1970s and early 1980s. It wasn’t just a different time—it was a different world. Life moved slower. Days were simpler. And though I've lived most of my life in the U.S., those memories are still vivid.

🎹 A soft piano mix for quiet memories.  

Let it play gently while you read and reflect.

I remember riding the bus to school in the morning. It was often crowded and noisy, but there was something steady about the routine. After school, I usually walked home with friends. We’d laugh, take our time, and sometimes stop by a small tteokbokki or ramyeon shop near the school. The spicy scent, the hot steam rising from our bowls, the sound of friends chatting too loudly—it all felt so alive.

Our school days had a rhythm. The uniforms, the bells, the dusty chalkboards. Classrooms didn’t have much, but we made them feel full. Lunchtime was one of the best parts of the day. We opened our packed metal lunchboxes, shared side dishes, and made quiet jokes about each other’s moms’ cooking. It was messy, noisy, and warm.

Respect for Teachers Was Real

Teachers back then weren’t just instructors—they were authority figures, and we truly respected them. Some were kind, some were strict, and some honestly scared us a little. But either way, we listened. When a teacher entered the room, we stood up. When they called on us, we answered. That kind of formality may seem old-fashioned now, but at the time, it gave our days structure—and a certain pride.

After-School Academies Existed, But Life Wasn’t All Study

We did have hagwons (after-school academies), but it wasn’t like today’s intense private education culture. Some of us went, some didn’t. There wasn’t pressure to fill every evening with math drills or test prep. After school, we still had time to wander, to be with friends, or just rest. I’m glad I grew up in that window of time—where learning mattered, but so did being a kid.

Back home, the kitchen always smelled like something was cooking. My mom always had something ready—rice, soup, and a few side dishes that never changed much but never got old either. The TV was usually on in the background. We had only one in the house, and we all watched together. No rewinds, no pausing, no second screens. If you missed it, you missed it.

Phone calls were made from the one corded phone on a small table near the wall. Whenever it rang, we paused to see who it was for. And letters—real handwritten letters—were something we treasured. Folded carefully, decorated with stickers, passed between friends like secrets.

Looking back, it wasn’t a perfect time. But it was full—full of friendship, flavor, and moments that stuck. Korea in those years may be long gone, but that version still lives inside me.

It’s not the Korea of skyscrapers and high-speed internet. It’s the Korea of middle school friendships, sidewalk chats, handwritten notes, and the joy of simple routines. And even after decades in America, that quiet, everyday Korea remains close to my heart.