During my early twenties, to make my parents stop feeling angry, and simply to escape, I decided to live in my birthplace for a period of time, something I'd sworn I would never do. My parents were thrilled. They prayed that I'd come back triumphantly with a picture-perfect bridegroom. That was the furthest thing from my mind as I packed my faded jeans, tank tops, boots, and a photo of my freckle-faced then-boyfriend who was of Scottish descent. The moment I landed in Seoul, I was aware of how much I felt like a misfit. All my life I had tried to blend into the dominant culture and couldn't. And finally, when I was in a place where everyone looked like me, I still stood out. I took it for granted that I'd feel a sense of freedom. I thought I'd blend into the landscape. This was not the case. People stared at me with curious eyes. I became conscious of my American-girl swaggering body movements and inappropriate dress. Collecting my courage, I traveled to the demilitarized zone on my own. I touched the high barbed-wire fence that stretched across the belly of the peninsula , dividing Korea in half. I visited thousand-year-old temples and magnificent palace gates that had survived modernization and centuries of battle. I met with distant cousins who welcomed me with outstretched arms into their homes and related heroic tales about my mother and Halmoni (Grandmother) during the war. How Halmoni had led her young children out of north to the United Nation-backed south. How my mother, at the age of thirteen, saved the life of her baby sister. I listened with such an overwhelming thirst that when I returned to the States a year and a half later, I began to ask my parents and Halmoni (who had immigrated to the States some time after we did) all about the past. The past was no longer a time gone by, a dead weight. I now saw that it held ancient treasures. And the more I dug and discovered, the more I felt myself being steered toward a future I had never imagined for myself. I began to write. I didn't even know I could write. My family helped me knit stories into a book using Halmoni's voice. As her powerful words moved through me I was able to reflect and meditate on the ridiculous life I had fashioned for myself. I could feel my sense of self rising. This sparked a newfound awareness and excitement. I became a spokeswoman on Korean culture, traveling to various college campuses across the country. "Be proud. Embrace your heritage." I said to young Korean American students wearing extra-large, trendy sportswear. But the whole time I was lecturing, I had very little understanding of what that self-concept meant. I was merely talking the talk. I hadn't yet fully embraced my own identity. What was the author's attitude toward the ancient monuments she visited in Korea?
She was curious about their original functions. She was astonished at their size. She admired their capacity to endure. She was surprised at their beauty.
Question: During my early twenties, to make my parents stop feeling angry, and simply to escape, I decided to live in my birthplace for a period of time, something I'd sworn I would never do. My parents were thrilled. They prayed that I'd come back triumphantly with a picture-perfect bridegroom. That was the furthest thing from my mind as I packed my faded jeans, tank tops, boots, and a photo of my freckle-faced then-boyfriend who was of Scottish descent. The moment I landed in Seoul, I was aware of how much I felt like a misfit. All my life I had tried to blend into the dominant culture and couldn't. And finally, when I was in a place where everyone looked like me, I still stood out. I took it for granted that I'd feel a sense of freedom. I thought I'd blend into the landscape. This was not the case. People stared at me with curious eyes. I became conscious of my American-girl swaggering body movements and inappropriate dress. Collecting my courage, I traveled to the demilitarized zone on my own. I touched the high barbed-wire fence that stretched across the belly of the peninsula , dividing Korea in half. I visited thousand-year-old temples and magnificent palace gates that had survived modernization and centuries of battle. I met with distant cousins who welcomed me with outstretched arms into their homes and related heroic tales about my mother and Halmoni (Grandmother) during the war. How Halmoni had led her young children out of north to the United Nation-backed south. How my mother, at the age of thirteen, saved the life of her baby sister. I listened with such an overwhelming thirst that when I returned to the States a year and a half later, I began to ask my parents and Halmoni (who had immigrated to the States some time after we did) all about the past. The past was no longer a time gone by, a dead weight. I now saw that it held ancient treasures. And the more I dug and discovered, the more I felt myself being steered toward a future I had never imagined for myself. I began to write. I didn't even know I could write. My family helped me knit stories into a book using Halmoni's voice. As her powerful words moved through me I was able to reflect and meditate on the ridiculous life I had fashioned for myself. I could feel my sense of self rising. This sparked a newfound awareness and excitement. I became a spokeswoman on Korean culture, traveling to various college campuses across the country. "Be proud. Embrace your heritage." I said to young Korean American students wearing extra-large, trendy sportswear. But the whole time I was lecturing, I had very little understanding of what that self-concept meant. I was merely talking the talk. I hadn't yet fully embraced my own identity. What was the author's attitude toward the ancient monuments she visited in Korea?
A. She was curious about their original functions.
B. She was astonished at their size.
C. She admired their capacity to endure.
D. She was surprised at their beauty.
Answer: