By Andrew Kim
“What is your race?”
The question seemed to weigh me down as I stared at the dim screen of my school-issued chromebook. My eyes flickered briefly across the five selections:
American Indian or Alaska Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander, White
I paused for a while, thinking about how to answer. Of course I was of Asian ancestry, but I had never felt truly Asian. Maybe it was because I had been immensely Americanized as a second generation Korean-American. I knew very little Korean, had only been to Asia once, and followed few traditions and customs. Maybe it was because I could not really consider myself Korean after my grandparents left the country. They immigrated during the Korean War, which was the lowest point of the country. Perhaps I felt a bit guilty to consider myself Korean, as if I were almost “taking credit” for the country’s recovery and rise.
Regardless of the reason, I felt very little connection to my Asian heritage, which was hindering my ability to answer the question. I gritted my teeth before forcefully bringing down my clenched fist onto the soft wooden surface of my desk. It left a small imprint next to my computer, a faded oval where my knuckles had hit. Defeated, I set my head down on the desk. Why was it so hard for me to answer this question?
“What is your race?”
As the pilot slowly lowered the plane towards solid land, its large metal frame vibrating violently as it made contact with the ground, I felt a strange sensation bubbling up from my stomach. I brushed it off as either post-flight nerves or excitement. Desperate to stretch out after hours of flying, I stared impatiently at the faintly illuminated seatbelt sign.
“Welcome to South Korea. Hangug-e osin geos-eul hwan-yeonghabnida.”
“Local time is 4:17 PM. Hyeonji sigan-eun ohu 4si 17bun-ibnida.”
The year was 2019, and I was visiting Asia for the first time with my family. Other than being an amazing vacation and experience, it was the first time I would be able to really connect with my Korean culture.
I maneuvered my way into the aisle, squeezed tightly between my siblings. We slowly shuffled towards the front of the plane, thanking the airline staff in broken Korean.
“Gamsahabnida.”
After a short taxi ride, we arrived at the hotel. It was a small building with tinted windows on either side of the door. It went up seven, maybe eight floors, distinguishing itself from the otherwise very modest buildings nearby. A green overhang protruded subtly from the side of the building, giving it a cozy feel despite its massive footprint.
The lobby was carpeted with a navy blue ornamental design. Paired with the low ceilings, the place felt cramped and stifled.
I allowed my eyes to wander around the room. A sea of familiar yet unfamiliar faces with black, straight hair, on their phones, gazing around, stretching their legs, looking like me, acting like me. It was as if I were staring into a broken mirror. Based on looks alone, those people could very well have been my cousins, my siblings, my aunts and uncles, or my grandparents. But we were not totally alike.
On the outside, I was them. On the inside, I was not.
Sure, I had a vastly similar appearance, with my black hair and brown eyes, with my similar heritage. Yes, I had spent years absorbing the smells of the traditional dishes my grandmother would make and had dedicated hours to Korean language school each week. Yes, I had my name in my family’s jokbo, cementing myself as a descendant of my ancestors. Yet, why did I feel so different? Why did I feel as though I could not consider myself Korean at that moment? Why did I feel like an impostor, a fake in a room full of people who were supposedly so similar to me?
The room began to spin, and I leaned against the wall to regain my balance. Small beads of sweat trickled down my ghostly, pale face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a woman exiting the elevator, pushing a light green cart filled with various toiletries. I assumed she was part of the housekeeping team. She began walking towards me.
She was shorter than me and looked to be about sixty years old, her face wrinkled with age and wisdom. Her black hair, streaked with various gray strands, was in a low ponytail, held together by a maroon plastic hair clip.
She began speaking to me in Korean. With the little amount that I could pick up, I figured she was trying to make small talk with me. It did not matter what she was saying. My mind was too occupied with my insecurities, my disconnect from my Asian heritage reaffirmed by her every foreign word. My legs wobbled under my fragile weight. If it had not been for the wall, I would have toppled over completely. With what little strength I had left, I managed to squeak out some broken Korean.
“Hangugmal-anjalmotayo,” meaning “I do not speak Korean.”
Each syllable I spoke felt like a stab to the chest, my heavy American accent making the phrase almost incomprehensible. The lady began to understand what was going on, then politely apologized and walked away. However, the knife of humiliation was still stabbed deep inside my body, tearing at my gut with my every move. I scurried off to the bathroom, desperate to calm down and regain my composure.
In the mirror, I saw a boy, his face and ears hot with embarrassment. His dark brown eyes welled up with a pool of salty tears, an impending wave ready to erupt at any moment. I saw someone who was Korean. That was what the lady saw when she approached me; in fact, that was what everyone in the lobby saw.
That was what was bothering me the most.
It bothered me how I could look Asian, pretend to act Asian, and nobody would know otherwise. It bothered me how people like the cleaning lady could approach me, fully thinking that I was one of them. It bothered me how I could just consider myself Korean, even though I did not know the language or live in the country. It bothered me how I could just reclaim my Asian heritage decades after my grandparents left, no, abandoned the country during its lowest point. Who was I to embrace my Korean side after my ancestors had tried so hard to leave, tried so hard to bury their culture deep down and assimilate, tried so hard to become American? How could I include “Asian” in my title of “American” without being there for the country’s struggles, and only being there during its successes?
I suddenly felt nauseous, like I was going to throw up any second. I found a vacant stall and locked it behind me. I sat down on the toilet, its heated seats providing me with a little sense of comfort. With every doubt that resurfaced, however, that nauseous feeling returned. How could I be angry at my grandparents for leaving? They had no choice but to flee and were only in pursuit of a better life. How could I blame them for that? A knot formed in the pit of my stomach, and I could feel my tear ducts giving out. Once I could finally hold it in no longer, I buried my head in my arms and let the waterfall loose.
“What is your race?”
As I snapped back to reality, the knot returned, this time in the back of my throat. My face got hot as I realized, I genuinely did not know how to answer. Where did I belong? Where was my place? Why was there no checkbox to encompass how I was feeling? Where was the "Asian yet not Asian" box? As I pondered these questions, my finger tentatively moved the trackpad until the cursor was hovering over the option titled "Asian." I clicked it, submitted the survey, then closed my laptop.
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