Introduction: Two Worlds, One Thread

When I wore my kilt into my grandmother’s apartment for the first time, I expected questions—but not the kind that would lead to one of the most meaningful conversations we’d ever have. She squinted, adjusted her glasses, and asked, “Why are you wearing a Scottish skirt?” I paused. To me, it was more than just an outfit. It was a symbol of my mixed heritage, a statement of self in a family where East met West.

This article explores that powerful moment—when my Korean grandmother, steeped in hanbok tradition and Confucian values, met my Scottish side in tartan. It’s a story about identity, generational differences, heritage, and finding connection through curiosity.

1. The Intersection of Identities

I’m half-Korean, half-Scottish. Growing up in California, I often felt caught between two cultural expectations. In my grandmother’s home, we removed shoes, bowed deeply, and shared kimchi over rice. At home with my father, I learned about ceilidhs, Highland clans, and how to wear a sporran. Neither side rejected me—but neither fully overlapped either.

Wearing a kilt that day wasn’t rebellion. It was reclamation.

2. Her Reaction: Tradition Meets Surprise

My grandmother sat quietly as I stood there in my kilt. She’d seen me wear jeans and suits—but this was different. “Is this for a play?” she asked. “No,” I replied, “It’s for me.”

She studied the fabric, touched the pleats, and finally said, “It’s nice. Strong. Heavy.” Her next words surprised me: “It reminds me of something.”

3. Cloth as Cultural Memory

She stood up, went to her closet, and returned with her wedding hanbok—a faded, pink-jeweled silk garment from the 1950s. “This was mine,” she said, “when I married your grandfather.”

There we were: her in silk, me in wool. Two garments separated by language, geography, and war—but united by heritage and memory.

4. A Conversation Across Generations

Over tea, we talked—not just about the kilt, but about tradition. She explained what the hanbok meant: modesty, celebration, family honor. I explained the tartan: clan identity, survival, pride. We realized both were worn in resistance to assimilation, both meant to say: We are still here.

5. The Shared Weight of Fabric

She lifted my kilt gently. “This is not skirt,” she said with finality. “This is history.”
I smiled. She got it. Maybe not all the words, but the meaning. Fabric can carry stories—especially when families lose homes, cross oceans, or marry across cultures.

6. Wearing Identity, Not Just Clothes

In that moment, I saw how clothing becomes language. My grandmother could not fully read English, and I never became fluent in Korean. But through hanbok and kilt, we understood each other.

What we wear can be a question, a flag, a memory, or a declaration.

7. The Challenges of Hyphenated Identity

Being mixed often meant questions like:

• “What are you?”

• “Where are you really from?”

• “Do you feel more Korean or Scottish?”

I never had answers. But now, I simply say: Both. I am a tartan folded into silk. A hanbok with pleats. I am a woven identity.

8. Her Final Blessing

Before I left that day, my grandmother handed me a silk pouch from her hanbok set. “You wear this too,” she said. I tied it onto my sporran belt.

That evening, I walked through the city carrying both lines of my family—not as separate histories, but interwoven futures.

9. Cultural Blending and Belonging

We live in a world where identities mix. Yet culture doesn’t get weaker when shared—it gets deeper. My kilt wasn’t just a Scottish relic. It became a conversation starter, a bridge, a comfort.

And my grandmother, who once believed in keeping traditions sealed tight, began to see that mixing doesn’t dilute meaning—it renews it.

10. What I Carry Now

I wear my kilt on special days, and I still have her pouch tied inside the waistband. It’s my way of carrying her with me, of honoring both sides. Every time someone asks me about my “Scottish skirt,” I get to tell them this story—of a Korean grandmother, a Scottish grandson, and a table where tea and whisky both had a place.

Conclusion: When Threads Meet

When my Korean grandmother asked about my Scottish skirt, she wasn’t just questioning an outfit. She was opening a door. And through that door, we found understanding, connection, and the quiet power of tradition.

What started with confusion ended with communion—and a reminder that identity, like tartan and silk, is strongest when it’s woven.