Not the Worst Kind
By: Nancy Cho
Tags: Asian American, Immigrant American, Korean American

Not the cafeteria where this happened. Just a cafeteria picture found on the web to give you reference.

When I took a class at a community college in my twenties after moving out of San Francisco to Oakland, I was eager to meet new people. While eating lunch alone at the school dining hall, a group of girls asked if they could sit at my table. I nodded and as they resumed their chat, I recognized that they were speaking in Korean. I perked up and said to one of the girls, “Oh! You’re Korean! So am I!”

“Yes, we are. But you’re Korean American,” she replied.

I smiled, finished my lunch, and went on my way. When we were kids, there were so few Koreans in the area where we grew up that whenever we ran into one, the excitement of meeting each other instantly bonded us together. So, I was quite taken aback from the response from the cafeteria girl that day.

At the time, I attended a piano ensemble class and my duet partner, (who moved to the states from Seoul as a teenager), was taking this class while he was home visiting during the summer break. He was studying composition from the Berklee College of Music, and was the very “emo” and moody sort, (no surprise). When I told him about lunch and what the girl said to me, he shrugged and didn’t seem surprised.

“Don’t you think that was a weird thing to say?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Because I am Korean. My parents are Korean,” I went on.

“Yeah, but you’re Korean American. You’re the worst kind.”

I stopped for a second with a look of confusion all over my face. You know, with the furrowed brows, a slightly tilted head, and the corner of the left side of my mouth moving increasingly toward my left ear.

“What? Worst?”

“You guys are lost. You don’t look Korean in Korea, and you don’t look American in America. You don’t know where you fit in,” he explained.

And there he said it. Something I had felt that I couldn’t explain for so long. A feeling of always wanting to “fit in” somewhere and to blend, but never could. Arg!!! Stupid composer guy who already thought he was the shit because he went to Berklee was totally right about this identity crisis.

Note: If you’re asking why I don’t look Korean in Korea, it’s because they can instantly tell we aren’t from around there. The way we walk, the way we speak, the clothes we wear. They know. But it goes both ways too. I can instantly tell most Asians who are visiting here from abroad.

But here I am, almost twenty years later and I can finally say that I’m struggling less. I can attribute most of it to where I live because I blend in around here. Around here, I am mostly judged by the kind or stupid things I do instead of how I look. I live in what I jokingly but also lovingly call “the country” 25-miles away from San Francisco. It is made up of neighborhoods of suburban tract homes, and most of the people here are middle class families who commute into the city. It’s not cool. The architecture is hideous. It’s not hip. I would also say it’s not even “woke” like our very close city, Berkeley. It’s as normal and average as an American town can be… except for the fact that it is pretty darn diverse. Honestly, it looks like one of those religious pamphlets you get with the illustrations of people in a garden all smiling and getting along from all different ethnic backgrounds. That or an Old Navy commercial.

I still do get dinged up here and there. People asking me if I can help translate for someone who is Chinese or calling me dumb racist names. People wondering if I can speak fluent Korean (I can’t. I’m like, kindergarten level), and then being criticized that I can’t. The constant questioning if my food is authentic enough. Where am I really from. You know, things like that that make me feel a little small again.

However, there’s been movement since the 70s, 80s, 90s. It’s not where it should be, but it’s moving. At least I hope it keeps moving toward the positive direction. But the struggle became less when I started not giving a crap about giving excuses (btw, a fantastic side effect of being in your 40s), and defining what this was. If we have to argue on what and who is authentic, then I am authentically American with an incredible background of having grown up with immigrant parents. I mean, come on. I ate ramen and rice with slices of American cheese on it, for crying out loud.

I still call people out. Just means that when I call you out, it’s because I’m calling you out as an KOREAN AMERICAN instead of a korean american.

Authentically American with an incredible background of being an immigrant, or having immigrant parents, or grandparents, or great grandparents. That’s most of us. Even my authentically pale husband has people in his family that immigrated here from somewhere else.

Cue the Old Navy ad.