Culture

Last week I received the terribly sad news that my friend Aimee Bang, one of the first Korean adoptees I met in NYC, had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. We weren’t incredibly close: we weren’t “we go back 10 years” or “bye, call me in the morning!” kind of friends, but she made a lasting impact on my life. In 2012, being new to the city and not having family in the area, Aimee was the very first person to visit me after I had my daughter, who then wore the sweater Aimee gave her in her passport picture six months later.

It’s not the visit or the baby gift, though, that I will remember most about Aimee. What will stick with me forever is our conversations about being KADs and finding our places within the community.

Aimee wasn’t the kind of adoptee who would meet you, then immediately bombard you with information and save-the-dates about adoptee events. She wasn’t the kind of person who constantly introduced you as her “adoptee friend” or assumed that every time you’d get together, you wanted to eat Korean food or throw back some soju. She just wanted to be a friend—no modifiers—and, over time, we bonded over our mutual annoyance of the aforementioned personality types. Back in 2012, Aimee blogged about that, and what I especially like about that post is when she concluded “My story is my own. It is distinct and exclusively flawed. Please do not try and take this away from me. I am not you and you are not me.”

Back in 2012 when I started this journey, Aimee showed me that it’s entirely possible and okay to be involved in the KAD community without—and I’m going to be frank here—letting everyone else’s experience, expectations, and, well, baggage weigh me down or determine how I’d continue on my own journey. In those days, I confided a lot in Aimee because she never suggested that I “see someone” or blamed my own identity crisis on my adoptive parents or told me that I should feel like a victim… she would just let me talk; she let my story be my own.

So when I say, “Thanks, Aimee, for your quiet independence and strength,” I imagine her looking right at me, smiling, shrugging her shoulders and saying, “It’s okay.”

Jinny Chang, a real live Korean, writes about Korean Koreanness, American influence, and wonders what the big fucking deal is anyway.

“Itsy-bitsy spider went up the waterspout. Down came the rain and…” and there goes my son. A 14-month-old boy who just learned to ~~walk~~ run. Thank goodness this baby storytime happens on a well-padded floor of the library; I can let him go and explore with other kids. As he runs to the other side of the room, he almost crashes into another boy. I grab him just in time and chide, “살살 (salsal),” which means gentle in Korean. The boy’s mom takes that as a cue and starts a conversation… in Korean. “I was pretty sure you were Korean, then I heard you say salsal… hahaha.” We immediately hit it off and talk about everything Korean: food, restaurants, baby products, flying to Korea, Korean spouses, the ups and downs of raising a child in the US, and so on. Later, I learn that she lives in Astoria, Queens: so close to me! It is a comforting, caring, and pleasant conversation with someone whom I have an instant connection with. We exchange phone numbers as if we are going to call each other for playdates every day (this hasn’t happened though — at least, not yet).

Identity is a powerful thing. It’s a safety net for you to stealthily rely on among the people who (usually) look, talk, think, and eat like you. It’s also a convenient tool for the rest of the world to instantly categorize you – a lovely one that directs you how to act around them, what to expect, and what kinds of questions to ask. It’s like your brain quickly goes through the library of human categories and then, “Woman! Asian! Korean! Ding!” Before you can even think, you say, “An-nyung-ha-se-yo!”

Usually we (Asians) hate it when we get categorized and someone says “Ni-hao!” on the street. I used to get annoyed by that too, but mostly because of the generalization that all Asians are Chinese, not because they saw me as an Asian person. In fact, I want people to see me as an Asian woman, a Korean woman. But I realize that this is because I am actually Korean-born and raised, with family members and relatives still living there. If you are US-born and raised, and identify as an American who is physically Asian, I can understand the general “Um, fuck off?!” response.

So yes, I am Korean. But only partially. Identifying me as merely ‘Korean’ is a gross miscalculation. I came to the US when I was 16 to attend a boarding school, then college, grad school, and work; later I got married and settled in New York. I am turning 34 next month (shit), and I have officially lived in the US for a longer period of time than I lived in Korea. I was born and raised in Korea but spent my important teenage years in the US and was thereby shaped by both. I know that I should bow and pay unconditional respect to the elderly in Korea, but I also know to shake hands firmly and look straight into someone’s eyes in the US. I know to always play modest and never show off, but I also know how to openly discuss my talents and achievements. I know to shut my mouth when being lectured to by an elderly person, but I also know how to speak up and start a debate. Thanks to my Korean upbringing and American education, I now have the ability to see both cultures objectively — how certain Korean things would look irrational to Americans and vice versa. With this dual knowledge and experience, how could I call myself just a K O R E A N? That sounds so one-dimensional to me.

During my dating days, I made one of the biggest decisions of my life: I wanted to marry a “partially” Korean man — someone whom I could have an instant connection with, like the mom at the storytime, but who had different layers. I vowed to look for someone who had a similar background as me, or a Korean-American who appreciates and practices both cultures comfortably (ideally without judgement). And I did (pat myself on the back)! Well, close. He turned out to be an American-Korean, not Korean-American.

My husband is a second-generation son of a hard-working, Korean family who immigrated to the US in the 70’s. He and his brother are, to me, Americans with great appetites for Korean food. They don’t speak the language — though my husband is trying and getting better — nor do they particularly care for or enjoy the Korean mindset; sometimes, they flat-out hate it.

Fortunately for me, the culture of my in-laws had some influence over my husband. Being the older of the two brothers, he was able to appreciate Korean culture more. With a little encouragement from his lover, moi, he was even open to taking Korean language classes and seemed to enjoy the fact that we might occasionally travel to Korea if we got married. He does get annoyed and finds it hard to follow Korean customs when it comes to respecting, and ultimately understanding, his parents and why they are the way they are. I, on the other hand, understand their thought processes and often witness the cultural gap (normally a misunderstood dialogue) from both sides. Ignoring the usual in-law stress, I can follow the reasonings they take that may look ridiculous to their sons.

How did it happen? How did such a void grow within a single family, sons not even understanding the words their parents used? There are many Korean immigrants who immerse their children in Korean culture and put great importance on speaking the language. Obviously, that was not the case for my husband and his brother. Both parents held jobs and they worked day and night to keep food on the table. They’d started out teaching them Korean, but as they watched their son struggling to socialize at a daycare, they decided to just let it go — let ’em learn English and flourish. However, they didn’t give up on the cultural aspects of Koreanness. Despite the lack of time spent with their sons, they expected that Korean etiquette and a Korean mindset would be instilled in their sons. My husband says:

“Growing up, it was confusing because I didn’t see my parents that much, so I was learning American culture, American etiquette, American ways to do things most of the time outside of home. When I saw my parents, it was on the weekends and, even then, we didn’t spend that much time together. Our conversations happened mainly during meal times or when watching TV together: ‘How are you doing at school? Who are your friends? Don’t have sex before marriage. Are you gonna take care of me when I get old?’ My mom was all of a sudden trying to teach me things. It was an awkward and defensive time for me. I didn’t really see myself as Korean but, at the same time, I found myself trying to fit into the Korean norms — whatever that was.”

Today, he is comfortable with who he is. He identifies himself as an American first, then Korean, and his desire to learn and practice Korean culture is at its peak.

This effort has proven to me his multi-dimensionality. He speaks English, loves pizza, beer, and football — the Superbowl is the most important day of the year — but he bows to my parents and knows that it is polite and respectful to receive a drink with two hands instead of one. When we go out with my younger cousins, he now knows that the oldest person in the group should pay for dinner. I can’t get enough of the fact that I succeeded in meeting someone who is (now) comfortable in both cultures. This is exactly what I dreamt my household would look like; this is exactly what I want to cultivate in my household. I want both — not just kimchi, not just the Superbowl, but both co-existing.

In fact, who wants to be one-dimensional anyway? To know only one culture, be exposed to only one language, see only one people, one type of food, live only one way? Maybe if you are a member of the Abashankwe tribe in Zimbabwe, I guess. I want my son to learn to speak Korean for this very reason. I want him to not only be influenced by his parents’ identities, but also have a seed of diversity within himself — be international, be multi-dimensional.

Why are we trying to find purity in our identities? Why are we trying to find simplicity in our histories? I do not know, and I believe that it should be the opposite. We should avoid simplicity and stop trying to fit ourselves or, even worse, fit others into a box labeled with one word. I am not Korean; I am not American. I am Korean; I am American. I am Jinny Chang: born and raised in Korea for 16 years, educated in the US, and now living in NYC with an American-Korean husband and a son. I love the complexity of my background, the complexity of my identity, and the fact that I will never fit neatly into any box.

Jinny Chang is from Seoul. She is a proud graduate of both Smith College and Tufts University. Before becoming a mother to her 15-month-old son, she taught at one of New York City’s premier private schools. Jinny enjoys both eating and dieting, cooking, ~~gossiping~~ attending play dates with other moms, Mad Men, SNL, going to K-town, and starting and re-starting Dr. Oz’s 3-Day Cleanse.