Studying Abroad in Korea as a Very American Korean American

My parents immigrated to the United States from South Korea before they began elementary school and grew up learning English. They raised me in southern California, where I learned that annyeonghaseyo means "Hello" in Korean, we call grandma and grandpa halmeoni and harabeoji, and my favorite food is kimchi bokkeumbap. But beyond these basic terms and the names of my favorite dishes, my connection to my Korean identity felt extremely limited. I never learned how to speak or read Hangul until I took a class the summer before leaving for my semester abroad, which was the first time I ever stepped foot in the country. 

Initially, I didn't see this detachment as an issue. In my hometown, I had the privilege of being surrounded by Asian Americans who, like me, were second-, third-, and even fourth-generation immigrants that also felt limited association to the Asian part of their identity. It wasn't until I moved to college and experienced living among a substantially smaller Asian population that I began to realize how much I had underestimated the weight that the "Korean" in Korean American actually holds.

I saw studying abroad as the opportunity to finally leave California and ultimately decided on Seoul, South Korea as a return to my motherland, a lifelong dream of mine to visit. I really wasn't sure what I was expecting, but a large part of me simply wanted to see where I came from, and I thought that doing so would perhaps allow me to feel more connection to my Korean heritage. Surely, by getting closer to the root I could see the branches more clearly.  

What a culture shock that was! My friends from home would ask me how studying abroad was going and whether I felt more Korean. Every time, I gave them the same answer: "I've never felt more American in my life." I watched as other Americans, Europeans, and non-Koreans spoke my supposed language with more fluency than I could ever imagine. I nodded my head and pretended to understand what restaurant and store owners would try to communicate to me when they saw my appearance and seemingly mistook me as a native speaker. Even my Korean 1 language class couldn't mask my illiteracy in the language I felt like I was expected to know by heart.

Two months out and many, many language miscommunications later, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that much of the disconnect I felt came from my own conceptions of what it means to be Korean. I had unknowingly constructed a biased image of what I believed to be a true Korean: the language they speak, how they look, the clothes they wear. When I looked at myself and compared it to this ideal, Korean archetype, I couldn’t help but notice all of the points at which I fell short, the points at which I felt most American. 

Whether this is out of a pure necessity to move on or some grand self-discovery is unclear to me, but I do know that I’ve found solace in the realization that no amount of change or growth could magically transform me into a “true” Korean; I’ll always fall short of my own expectations. It’s easy to blame my discomfort and isolation on my parents for not teaching me enough about my culture or forcing me to attend a school to learn, but even then I wouldn’t wake up in a Korean American body with a Korean American brain, different and all the more superior to the American Korean vessels I believed I was given at birth. Yet still, I am both American and Korean. 

To any Korean American student in a similar position, who might have the same desire of a reconnection to their Korean heritage, I hope that this does not alarm you, nor prevent you from pursuing your goal. Instead, I hope you come to realize that you might already know much more about your identity from where you are right now. What does it even mean to be Korean, and must that answer be so different from who you are today? 

Sometimes the answer lies within you, and not necessarily beyond the reef.