Foreigner in their midst - a Korean-American woman describes her life

Los Angeles, where I was born and raised, has been my home for more than 30 years. I have lived in almost every part of this city--South Central, the San Fernando Valley, the West Side, downtown, Silver Lake and Echo Park. So it's strange that several times in the past two years I've been asked, "How does it feel to be seen as a foreigner?"

Usually I wearily accept the reality of being seen as "a foreigner." But these days, because of strong anti-immigrant sentiment, the question has taken on new meaning--in part because it suggests negatives like "You don't belong here. You are alien. You are strange. You are an outsider." Sometimes the label reflects merely annoyance. At other times it reflects a rude, intolerant and hostile attitude that I believe we must overcome. It's annoying when people comment on my English ability--"Gee, you speak pretty good English!" But things go beyond annoying when I hear political or community leaders make public statements like "Things will get better between African-Americans and Korean-Americans when the Koreans stop shooting our kids." The damage that flows from such misguided pronouncements is immeasurable. The fact is, things will get better when people begin to recognize that we all have stories of pain and joy, disappointment and hope, failure and success.

My parents settled in Los Angeles in the early 1950's. Both were foreign exchange students from Seoul who met in California and decided to marry and remain there. Then only a smattering of Koreans lived in the city, perhaps a few hundred. Today the number of Koreans living in Los Angeles is estimated at more than a quarter million--the largest community outside of Seoul.

When I was born, my mother's mother decided to immigrate to America, leaving everything she had ever known in South Korea to raise me--her granddaughter. I spent most of my first four years with my grandmother while my parents worked and finished college. She has always been the source of my strength. I used to watch her as she did piecework in her apartment at the edge of the University of Southern California campus. The smell of soaking cabbage, peppers, salt and garlic from the kimchee that was her specialty are among my first visceral memories of "Koreanness." Her pleasure at receiving guests into her home for a traditional Korean meal remains a strong image of a time when language and cultural differences were not called barriers.

When I left my grandmother's safe harbor and started school, I encountered questions about where I was born, because, no doubt, I looked like "a foreigner." My impression is that others viewed me with curiosity, not hostility. My being different--in physical appearance, in speaking Korean, in the food I brought to school for lunch and in the way I was dressed--was cause for inquisitiveness: "Are you Chinese? Are you Japanese? What are you?" When I told people I was Korean, I was met with confusion, then "What's that?" My answer was "That's me!" It was a proud, unassuming and completely innocent response, expecting not praise or validation, just acceptance. I learned that some would revile me, others would never accept me, and a few would seek to learn more about me.

It was my duty (like it or not) as the eldest of four children to bring the reality of biculturalism into our home. No doubt it was painful for my parents to come to terms with the fact that raising their children in America meant a break from the rigid Confucian roots of Korean culture. It was probably harder for my parents than for me. They could not go to friends or other family members: Friends would be shocked at their inability to control their child, and family members would be as confused as they. I, at least, had a support base of friends who helped me struggle with the conflicts between family expectations and personal ones--about marriage, work, academics, religion and politics. For my parents, a daughter as "rebellious" as I was a clear example of their failure. I was "a foreigner" in their midst: I looked like their child, but I didn't act or sound like her.

I did not abandon my identity as a Korean or forget that I was born and raised in America. But this very fact gave rise to the conflicts that caused my family to disown me for years. I was too radical in my thinking and behavior about relationships and womanhood. I was too negative an influence on my younger siblings, with my talk about equality, civil disobedience and strikes. I was not going to ruin opportunities for my sisters and brother by exposing them to foreign notions that have no place in a decent Korean home.

In spite of estrangement, years later we can sit together and look back on times of uncertainty, resentment, confusion and rage. Not knowing where our different perspectives would lead us, and not able to see that differences were a natural part of growing together, we finally found our way to a new mutual respect.

I have always felt like a foreigner in a place I should have been able to call my own. My weary acceptance of this reality is strangely comforting because it reminds me that the most valuable lesson I have learned is that my sense of belonging comes from within. It is a source of strength that recalls my grandmother, and it is a part of who I am.

COPYRIGHT 1994 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2004 Gale Group