In 7th grade, I entered a new school, located in the Florida panhandle. I was the only Korean—the only Asian—in the entire school, and I was very aware of the difficulties I would face in trying to assimilate. Daily attendance was a waiting game. I dreaded the awkward pause interrupting the steady flow of Name, "Present," Name, "Present," which meant that I would need to help my teacher with the pronunciation of my name. Then there were the genuinely curious students who, without bad intentions, nevertheless managed to ask me the three questions that everyone always asks. My answers: "No, I’m not Chinese, I’m Korean. Yes, I can speak Korean. Hello is annyeong-haseyo.”
Even after the "new kid" phase had worn off, there were still the jokes. Whether it was the daily "harmless" teasing about my sharp eyes, or affinity for math, or traditional lunches from home, they added up. But at the time, my priority was making friends, not defending my cultural pride. No one wanted to be friends with someone who couldn't take a joke, right? In fact, I was willing to sacrifice my heritage; I laughed off the jokes and even played along in a very heavy Asian accent.
Hiding my Asian identity was key; I started trying to think of myself as being American sans Asian when at school. My goal was to convince everyone else that I wasn't Korean by convincing myself that I wasn't Korean. I traded in my rice and kimchi for burgers and fries.
Then, in 9th grade, I moved again to New York. In most respects, Great Neck was the polar opposite of my old town. The streets were busier, the school more competitive, and the sheer diversity was enough to induce culture shock.
Consequently, being the "new kid” was a completely different experience. The lines separating minorities from majorities had never been blurrier, and for the first time in my life my race did not instantly make me an outlier. I was able to continue the rhythmic Name, "Present," Name "Present,” flow, English wasn't the only language I heard in the halls now, and people didn't ask if I was Korean, they just knew.
All logic should have led me to be content in this environment. Finally, I had everything that I had ever wanted: a community of multicultural, understanding people where I didn't feel out of place.
However, now that I was like so many others I found myself having the impulse to be an outlier again and to define myself against the crowd to claim my individuality. Before, being the outlier was a consequence of others’ feelings and something that I simply had to deal with; after my move, I was purposely separating from my own in-group, which I would never have expected.
The complexity of my thoughts regarding the situation compelled me to look for answers, and I found part of that in Beverly Tatum's “Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?”. She states that when it comes to what and how we think of ourselves, “the parts that… capture our attention are those that other people notice, and that reflects back to us.” In Florida, people only noticed the most obvious aspect of me: my race. This made me want to repress those characteristics. In New York, it seems as if nothing is particularly noticeable about me so nothing gets reflected back to me; this drives my yearning to establish my own individualism.
In college, I not only want to explore my major in the sciences, but also the science of human relationships and how self-perception plays into that. I plan to use college, not to find answers to these questions, but to find new and different ways to think about all of it, all that’s around me, and I cannot wait to see what I think of myself after college.