On being Korean-American: The ever undefined.

Originally written January 21, 2019. Published January 8, 2021. // I went on a solo walking tour of our nation’s monuments during my trip to D.C. I have a complicated relationship with the only country I’ve known, but I had decided the night before that I needed to at least do the tourist thing and try to be a “good American”. Ever since I was young, I had an acute awareness that no country is “mine” and that I don’t fully belong to one. Sure, my papers say I’m fully American because I was born here, but I think all children born in the U.S. to first generation immigrant families identify with this experience. I can only speak from my own life growing up as a “Korean-American” or an “American with Korean heritage” or “Asian-American” or whatever the newest iteration of self-identification is used today. Every Asian-American knows the feeling of not being “enough”. Of course, there are the stereotypes of Asian-American kids having to live up to the lofty expectations of their “tiger” parents. A lot of those stereotypes are true. After all, not all of us are CRAs (@crazyrichasians) - most of our parents came to this country with nothing and busted their asses to make it here. Of course they want better for us than what they had to endure to make a life for themselves and their families here. It’s why they want us all to be doctors or lawyers – or at least marry one.

Lots of second generation Asian-American kids feel the weight of those expectations and that contributes to the feeling of “not enough”. But, then there’s the other sense of being stuck in a perpetual state of “not enough” – the not “Asian” – or in my case, not “Korean” enough and definitely not “American” enough. If you’re like me, you know what I’m talking about. As kids, we asked our parents to pack us all-American PB&J sandwiches on that all-American white Wonder Bread so we could get through the lunch hour without the other kids making a scene out of what weird, “smelly”, non-White-American thing that was hiding in our lunch boxes. Or the times we sat in class feeling like everyone else was smarter and cooler than us as they sat around and discussed some American cultural reference that you had zero clue about. They knew all the words to songs you had never heard before and did things like Girl Scouts and “cotillion” (I still don’t know what the hell that is). Those kids never let you forget you weren’t American like them and thus, you were not cool. Being Korean was not cool. It’s weird to me now that it’s become “cool” to be Korean. Everyone likes Korean food, skincare products, technology, and music. I mean, you can even find gentrified, flavorless kimchi (which, for the record, I only tried because it was an emergency and I ran out of actual Korean kimchi that day) and frozen bulgogi at Trader Joes now. This was not the case back in the day.

Then, on the flipside if you’re like me, you went to church on Sunday and the Korean kids there let you know that you were not like them either. They were born here, but they were *way more legit Korean* than you. They owned Korean culture. They spoke Korean at home and with their friends. Your name was not “Esther” or “Grace” (come on my Korean folks, y’all know you have at least 5 friends named “Grace Lee” and “Esther Kim”). They listened to Korean pop before it became a “thing”. But you – you were inferior because you spoke differently from them. You had broken Korean, went to a different school, were not part of their crowd. You were not enough. Neither American nor Korean. To them, you’re “Americanized”, “white-washed”, “hah-yang-bbang” or “white bread” – a banana: yellow on the outside, white on the inside. You certainly didn’t feel American when kids were using their grubby, little fingers to poke and prod at your lunch in the school yard. Still, you’re not “one of us” anywhere you go.

But, I digress; coming back to why I’m writing this. As I walked through the park of monuments in D.C., I was walking toward the MLK Memorial when I heard a song being played. My ears perked up and I was drawn into it. It was the Korean National Anthem. I was surprised that I recognized it so quickly. I have never sung it and couldn’t even if I wanted to because I don’t know the words. I can probably count the

few times in life I’ve heard it and most of those times, it was during the Olympic medal ceremonies. I walked toward the music and I stumbled upon a little service in progress in front of the Korean War Memorial. I hadn’t intended to visit it; I know so little about it beyond what I’ve learned in school. But, there I was. A small group of Korean folks were gathered in military regalia. They were standing before a flower arrangement with an American flag and a Korean flag on either side. What a coincidence to have stumbled upon the visual representation of the very conversation that had been happening in my brain for the past hour. I watched the ceremony for a few minutes. Some tourists gathered and watched respectfully as the ceremony continued. I kind of wanted the Korean in the ceremony to notice I was there. I wanted them to pick me out of the crowd of onlookers. In any other situation, I would have simply gone up and introduced myself. But, I was too self-conscious about how I would even approach them. My Korean sucks and I thought I would just end up embarrassing myself. I was thinking of why I wanted them to see me and I realized that I wanted them to acknowledge that I was one of them – Korean. The ceremony finished and the group stayed a few minutes for photos and then quickly dispersed. I just stood there lost in my own thoughts about where and who I was. I just stared at the two flags and thought, “maybe I’m the flower arrangement in the middle”. I’d be lying if I said that the whole scene didn’t make me feel a bit emotional. After they all left, I stood there for a while longer and watched the American flag waving softly over the memorial site.

I’m not sure what I feel when I hear the American anthem or see the American flag, especially now. Lately, I feel pissed off at the state of this country. I can’t count how many “WTF AMERICA?!” moments I’ve had in my conscious memory. I feel disappointment – a lot. But, disappointment, unlike apathy, is a lover’s word. Disappointment exists only when there is a deep-rooted sense of caring. I can’t say definitively that I “love” this country. Love is a strong word and I’m not sure that’s the emotion I feel. I do have to say that I’m grateful for opportunities this country made possible for my family, particularly my mom, to come and succeed here. I guess I love it? I don’t really know. But, I do care a great deal about it.

I often reflect on what role I should play to help make this country, this world a more just and equal place to live. But, I’m not sure that’s tied to a sense of love for this country more so than my passions for equity and social justice. I am a realist, but an optimistic one. A lot of things are shitty, but I feel a strong “pull” to be a part of making things better. Maybe it’s the aspirations and ideals of this country, as far off as it is from them, that inspire me. Maybe that’s why I felt most moved and inspired while I was walking around the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Lincoln Memorial sites. We are not there yet, but like my favorite quote by Dr. King says, “We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice”. When I reflect upon what it means to be “American”, I think of people like him. I believe strongly that people like President Lincoln and Dr. King were true Americans. They gave their lives in pursuit of a vision of freedom and equality for all. They were trying to build the America that I believe in; an America I actually do love.

But then, there’s the even more confusing sentiment I feel when I see the Korean flag and hear the Korean anthem. In fact, me not knowing the Korean anthem is the perfect example. I 100% know it is the Korean anthem when I hear it. But, ask me if I know the words. Nope. Sometimes, my husband asks me what something is in Korean and sometimes, I don’t know (though, I have to say I often surprise myself with how much I actually do know...). I feel embarrassed by this, but honestly, how the hell am I supposed to know? I didn’t grow up in Korea. We mostly spoke English (and Spanish) at home. Korean school sucked because those kids (same ones from church) were so mean and I never wanted to be

there. Yea, I am Korean, but am I actually a “real Korean”? I don’t know. It feels like I need to find the answer to these questions. What am I? Who am I? What does my identity even mean to me? What will my eventual kids (not happening yet, so everyone relax) be? Are they going to be as confused as me? Are kids going to make fun of them as being banana-flavored pochos? Let’s not forget that they are also going to have the added confusion that their dad is a first generation Mexican immigrant. What boxes are they going to check off when they are asked to indicate their ethnicity?

I don’t know the answers. These are deep questions of race and identity. Of culture and heritage. Of self and belonging. These are questions that many fellow “hyphenated Americans” live with daily. I just felt compelled to document the struggle to see if it would help me gain some clarity. It’s like that hyphen is a symbol of the perpetual distance between our labels and ourselves - while seemingly inconsequential, it’s ever-present and ever-growing. Ever-undefined.

I think where I’ve landed is that there truly is a uniquely “hyphenated American”, post-first generation immigrant, and Korean-American (or Asian-American) identity that is neither fully Korean nor fully American. It is what “Chicanx” is to Latinx culture - a unique phenomenon, a combustion of the mother country and this country. It’s something else entirely and it shapes who we are and how we want to live in the world. It is what makes people like us open to new and other cultures. It’s also what allows us to identify with people from lots of different backgrounds. We find community and have deep compassion for those of us who live as “others” because we have lived as “others” our entire lives. It compels us to always consider how we can make a room, a place, a community, a society, and the world a more inclusive space because we understand what it is to feel excluded. We can find common ground where maybe people without our backgrounds may not. We carry in us the conflict of American society and identity, but also contribute to expanding the meaning of what it means to be American. I’m still figuring out how it all fits together, but I see these as unique qualities that I possess having lived as an “other” type of American.