Internalizing the Model Minority Myth as a Korean-American
By: Ashley Park
Tags: Identity, Asian American, Korean American, Immigrants

Breaking the mirage of “Strong America.”

My grandfather carrying my father with my two aunts walking beside them in Fort Washington Park.

In a time where hate crimes against Asian Americans have risen exponentially and every social media platform is flooded with traumatizing evidence to the statistics, I find myself returning to a December phone call with my grandfather.

In the middle of working on some projects, he asked me, like a true Korean grandfather, if I’ve been studying hard and if I needed him to drop off any food. At this point in the pandemic, I felt like I was in a false quiet. Any fears for my safety as an Asian-American became the voice in the back of my head and my primary concern was only the spread of the new coronavirus and keeping my at-risk family at home safe. He told me that we needed to stay strong because, while grandma and grandpa were old, I was young and I still needed to go back to New York City to study and later travel the world. I could not help but tear up when he promised me “We need to get through this so we can become ‘Strong America’ again.”

At the moment, I did not know exactly why I was so affected by my grandfather’s words. I already knew it was a vain hope but the extent was murky and hidden away. It wasn’t until I watched video after video of the Asian elderly being attacked, witnessed through the news and social media the targeted mass shooting of Asian women, and followed the resulting nationwide protests that it truly registered with me: this “Strong America” was something that could never belong to us. It was merely the long-lasting intangible dream of the Asian American community.

A video of elected official Lee Wong received explosive response last month. At a board meeting in Ohio, the Chinese-American man stood up and stripped himself of his shirt, revealing the grotesque scars he gained from his service in the U.S. Army. Wong asked the group “Is this patriot enough?” Moments before, he shared his experiences in dealing with discrimination while living in America, citing “ignorant people” who questioned his patriotism and loyalty. Towards the end of the clip, Wong drew on the Constitution, reminding of its promises of equality. He then finished with: “Prejudice is hate…We need to be kinder, gentler to one another because we are all the same. We are one human being on this earth.”

Wong’s words echo my grandfather’s hope for “Strong America.” A principled country that we can return to if we just learned to accept one another. It’s an idealistic hope that has been permeated throughout our community for decades. But it must be finally said that this isn’t enough and we need to stop believing that it is. The focusing of prejudice towards Asian Americans as purely interpersonal hate postures it as a superficial issue rather than an expression of an America that has embraced us only for and at its convenience. In order to truly “Stop Asian Hate,” we must first confront the truth that Asian hate in America is another manifestation of a history built on the abuse of racial minorities. To do this is to confront our own internalization of the model minority myth. America is not going to grant us American-ness for hard work and good behavior. It never has. Believing that it will is dangerous.

Growing up as a Korean-American, I inherited the idea that I had a unique proximity to America. I did not believe I was white or that I had the privilege afforded to white people but I had a sort of affinity for this country. America was not just South Korea’s closest ally, it was its savior and its patron. My grandfather’s generation kissed the American tanks as they rolled into the streets. Their younger siblings shrieked with joy at the sight of the bubble gum and chocolate bars the American soldiers would so generously share. American soldiers and Korean soldiers fought valiantly side-by-side even at the brink of defeat in an effort to protect the country from Communist forces and, when the war ended and South Korea fell under dictatorship, America would save our families again by opening its arms to give us the opportunity to flourish. As a member of a Korean traditional performance group, I attended numerous galas and concerts where Korean folk music was used to celebrate the strong friendship between the two countries. The 2010 Little Angels performance at the Kennedy Center comes to mind especially.

It was through these experiences that I was taught to always look at America with rose-tinted glasses. If somebody was ignorant about my country, if they asked if I was Chinese or Japanese, that was on them. They weren’t educated and I just needed to work harder to represent my homeland and be that education. I needed to be like my grandparents, who worked to provide the best service with their gas station and gained acceptance from our predominantly white city. America would still accept me if I just tried hard enough, just as they did in the past. Above all, I needed to be grateful. If I was called a chink, if somebody stretched their eyes at the sight of me, they were just ignorant and I needed to move on. My grandparents survived the brutality of Japanese occupation and the bleakness of the Korean war. They treasured the opportunities America gave them. Who was I to throw a fit over something as minuscule as this?

In my passive childhood, I internalized a deprecation about my own race and ethnicity and trusted in a myth perpetuated by the people around me. It is only as I reflect upon it now that I realize how cruel America was to the child me. While I was instilled with the belief that my country bore great importance and intimacy to America, my country’s history was ignored in the years of my education. Any mention of South Korea would be a minute-long summary of the Korean War in history class and it wouldn’t be until the explosion of Gangnam Style in the eighth grade that I would know what it meant to be recognized. As much of a mockery the recognition was in reality. It felt as if I was taught to love America because I was Korean when I learned to hate being Asian because I was American. The reconciliation between these identities was a violent clash in the union of a Korean-American identity.

Now I am nearing twenty-one years old and I am finally processing and rebuilding my relationship with my own identity. The truth is that America did not care for my country’s people. They accepted waves of Korean immigrants when the country went under authoritarian leadership and offered safety and freedom. But, at the same time, America was the enabler to the very reason Koreans had to flee from their homes. In the wavering between their contradictory desires for South Korea to be a democratic stronghold in East Asia and an anti-communist buffer state, America supported three generations of violent dictatorships. Despite being aware of the repressive tactics of Korea’s dictators, of the torture of the dictator’s dissenters and the massacres of the civilians who demanded democracy, America ultimately prized the anti-communist value of the dictatorships above Korean life (see: The US Role in Korean Democracy and Security Since Cold War Era).

I was ten years old when my church invited Senator Paull Shin to share his testimony with the congregation. The first Korean-American elected to the Washington State Legislature, his story was an ultimate telling of the American dream and finding one’s own American identity. However, what had stuck out to me the most was when he told his experience of the segregation era as an Asian man. Despite entering into the restaurant as an American soldier, accompanied by several others from his base, he was thrown out by the proprietor like trash. I was amazed to hear that this event only strengthened his desire for assimilation into America and his sense of duty for the country. Shin ended his testimony with a message of faith in God and converting despair into a motivation to believe in oneself. As a mere elementary school student at the time, I was shielded from America’s racist history and I could not process this clear act of hate against my people by a country that I was taught to love and revere. But Paull Shin forgave America, and so I moved on.

But we are at a point where we can no longer just move on, to continue to forgive and forget, to preserve this image of “Strong America.”

The Chinese Massacre of 1871, The Chinese Exclusion Act, Ozawa v. The United States, the internment of Japanese-Americans, the killing of Vincent Chin. The innumerable stains that have been left as a result of America’s imperialist whims and resulting invasions of Asian countries; the erasure of Asian languages, the uplifting of eurocentric standards in Asian societies and the simultaneous fetishization of our women and emasculation of our men. Yellow peril has thrived within America and Asians have been Othered. It is undeniable that all of these became factors in the violence the Asian community faces today, only further saturated by the emergence of the new coronavirus.

Writing this piece, I found myself opening up a well of frustration and grief I did not realize sat so heavily within me. I was grieving for the lives that were terrorized and lost but I was also frustrated at the language I saw used by my community during the height of the “Stop Asian/AAPI Hate” movement. Asking for assimilation and uploading thousands of testimonies proving our worth to this country only circles us back to the very root of our oppression. Anti-Asian hate crime bills have been passed after hearing the outcries that came from our community, yes, but our justice will not come from seeking protection from the component of the white supremacy machine that terrorizes Black and Brown communities and neglects our own, and we cannot believe that it will. The model minority myth is a false hope that furthers the illusion of America being a stronghold of democracy, a savior that offers justice and liberty for all. It is yet another method of white supremacy that not only turns and pits Asians against other racial minorities but also erases the diversity within our own community and erases our experiences.

As we protest the increase in anti-Asian hate crimes and uplift our community, it is imperative that we recognize America’s imperialism first- the white supremacy that is its weapon and its lies of democracy. It is imperative that we take an active stance. We must unlearn our belief in the model minority myth and our personal ignorance that blinds us from fully confronting the deep roots of racism within America.

“미나리는 어디서든 잘 자라.”

Minari (2020) is a Korean-American story that has been lauded by critics and the public alike, receiving six nominations at the Oscars with veteran Korean actress Youn Yuh-jung taking home the award for Best Supporting Actress. It is often described as a telling of the American dream from a Korean-American perspective.

The most quoted line from the film comes to me as I write this closing: “Minari thrives wherever.” Driving through the mini-Koreatowns of my state, I don’t see an identity that flourishes but an identity that survives. Three Asian-owned restaurants were targeted during Lunar New Years.

I went to see my grandparents last week. My grandpa told me that he’s been going only to Lotte Market when he goes out of the house.