Chopsticks: A Personal Narrative about Korean-American Identity
It’s lunchtime. Great. As a fourth grader, I walk through the lunch line, rolling my eyes at the lame excuse for “Asian” food. The lunch lady waits impatiently and asks, “Well, what do you want? How about some lo mein and orange chicken?” Ignoring my hesitation, the lady smacks the food down on the tray, obviously displeased with my distaste for fake Chinese food. After grabbing my lunch, I walk to the utensil station and pause—my hand in midair. In the corner of my eye, I spot them: chopsticks. But they weren’t just chopsticks. They were a challenge—those two pieces of wood stuck together and wrapped in red paper, calling for me to pick them up. What do I choose? I turn my back on the bamboo utensils and grab a fork. Confidently I stroll over to my table where my friends sit, a mix of Korean and Caucasian girls. As I start to eat, I make sure that people notice my choice of utensil. My Korean friends look at me with surprise, and I feel triumph in showing that I am not one of those stereotypical Koreans.
My identity could be summed up with the word “banana”: white on the inside and yellow on the outside. I was born in America, and I only knew how to speak English; however, people still wouldn’t see me first as an American. Above all else, my appearance set me apart. Even then, I clung to the fact that I had freckles, a unique feature for Asians, and assured myself that I was not to be associated with or compared to the other Korean girls in my grade. Sure I was neglecting my Korean heritage. So what?!
Deep inside though, a small tinge of guilt tugged at me. At home, I was so happy to be Korean. I loved eating traditional foods like kimchi and thought it was weird that people wore shoes in the house. I was living a two-faced life: proud to be Korean at home but shunning my ethnicity at school. Like a chameleon, I constantly tried to change my appearance. My attempt to fit in with the Caucasians made me feel even more like an outsider, leaving me feeling ostracized and out of place in both groups.
One day, I sat down with my grandma to express my annoyance. Unsurprised, my halmoni smiled, knowing that this day would come. She told me about her own life, sharing her hardships to escape North Korea, come to America, and face the racism that came with being a minority. Yet in the face of opposition, she persevered and prospered.
Since that talk, I have come to think more about my Korean heritage. As I continued learning about what my grandparents went through to give me an opportunity for a better life in America, I grew to understand my identity more and more. Six years later, I am finally content with my place. Yes, I’m a Texan who overuses y’all, but I’m also a Korean who proudly sings Blackpink at the top of my lungs. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. I am a Korean American, and I’m proud of it. To me, chopsticks aren’t just a means of picking up food anymore, but a symbol to remind me how proud I am of my ethnicity.
