My internal conflict has been inherently bound to my identity since I was born. My mom, a second-generation American, married my father, who is a Korean through and through. Despite the difference in cultures, languages, and backgrounds, they built an intricate bridge between both cultures. A few years later, I was born at the Samsung Medical Center in Seoul, South Korea. My mom placed me in a bassinet and took me home – to the American military base a few districts over. Although we lived in Korea, we lived in an American expat neighborhood, and my mom brought American influences to our household, such as the fireworks we lit on the Fourth of July and our Saturday night barbeques with neighbors; it seemed as though we were living in Little America. Our dinners varied from night to night; on Monday we would see kimchi jjigae and steaming hot white rice on the table, but on Friday night, we’d have baked ziti for dinner. Our holidays varied as well; we celebrated Christmas with my mom’s family and Chuseok with my dad’s family. I didn’t think twice about the complex mix of cultures throughout my childhood until I started to get older.

I began to build a greater awareness and became more observant with every trip I took to the United States. I started to recognize the myriad of cultures that made up the U.S., but I also couldn’t help but acknowledge the unconscious bias, stereotyping, and racism that continues to exist in American society. Nearly everyone there was white, and as much as I wanted to fit in, I felt out of place. People there talked like me and acted like me, but they didn’t quite fit my physical description. Later, I searched for a sense of belonging in Korea. Based on my appearance, I looked like any average Korean wandering the streets of Seoul. However, when I opened my mouth, it was a different story; I could barely form words when attempting to order an item, and the culture there seemed completely new to me. I couldn’t help but wonder where I fit in between both cultures; I knew that I felt at home in America, but I wasn’t sure if America felt at home with me.

Even when answering the question of where I’m from, I constantly contemplate between stating my American nationality or my Korean ethnicity to avoid peculiar and puzzled looks. If I stated my Korean ethnicity, I felt as though I was hiding an essential aspect of my identity, but if I merely stated my American nationality, I would typically receive follow-up questions or doubtful looks in return.

I’ve come to realize that I was just like any other American. My ancestors didn’t take the Mayflower to come to the United States, but instead, my great-grandma and great-grandpa immigrated to Ellis Island in hopes of fulfilling the American dream. They built and ran a laundry business in the streets of New York for a better future for themselves, and their five children. I slowly began to learn and convince myself that even though I didn’t fit the stereotypical American profile, I was just as American.

I plan to combat the false identity of America by starting with myself. Now, when I fly over to the U.S., I am reminded that I am stepping on land that belongs to not only the slaveowners but also the slaves, not only the white colonizers but also the Native Americans, and not only the entrepreneurs but also the struggling immigrants like my great-grandparents who worked tirelessly for a sliver of hope that one day they would make their American dream a reality. When I go to college this year, I will be reminded that I am stepping on land that belongs to me too.

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