I became a Korean American at a parent-teacher conference in a rural elementary classroom in Pennsylvania. My 5th grade teacher was a very passionate, emotional woman. She cried during the conference, saying how much she believed in my potential. Looking back, her response was probably non-unique. Ms. Hart loved all her students passionately and gave out compliments generously. However her tears taught me something that I hadn't realized during my 4 years in America, Americans were capable of loving another.
Fast forward one year. Ms.Hart's love for me made me excel in school. I spent my days trying to glean knowledge from decades old textbooks that I "borrowed" from the school. I skipped 6th grade entirely. During the start of middle school however, my family moved from rural PA in search of work. We eventually found employment under my uncle in a Hispanic-majority suburb in central WA.
My uncle had built his business up from the money cheated out of us when we first came to America. My father endured for a year before he quit out of frustration produced by the fact that that his work helped someone he despised, out of frustration that he wasn't bringing home enough. Luckily, I was tall(i.e working height) by the time I was in 8th grade. It was a hard life: working by night, going to school by the day. The pity that I had for my father was converted to anger as my proud Korean engineer devolved to a shell of man who was drinking away our family's money, drinking away my money.
The summer of my freshmen year of high school, my life changed when an anonymous donor told me that he/she would pay me a wage as long as I applied myself at the local community college. I was reminded again of the human capacity for giving. Inspired, I took a demanding Biology course with lab and got the highest grade in the class.
Sophomore year of high school, my father's condition worsened. His brothers back in Korea(who are easily in the upper class), went back on an earlier promise and refused to loan him any money. They went as far as demonizing my father, saying that his life was a bane to the world.My father is weak-hearted man. He responded by immersing himself into alcohol by the weekdays and praying fervently by the weekends. My days soon became filled with restraining my father on a weekly basis when he went on one of his drunken rages. It wasn't uncommon for me to jump into the back of my father's truck and bang the windows wildly like a madman as he drove in his drunken state in search of more booze. Suppressing my father, calming down my mother, acting as a shield to my scared brother took a toll on me. Depression set in.
Suicide was never on my mind. The idea of suicide was a luxury I couldn't afford; I had to take care of my family. I owed it to my mother who put up with my father when he was unpleasant. I owed it to my little brother who loves learning so much. I even owed it to my father who still displays glimpses of his love by taking dangerous side-jobs that were offered so kindly by the generous local Korean community.
My senior year of high school, I reread something that I threw away years ago: the Bible. I finished the text in a month. As I read, the connections that I made, the implications that I identified were so profound that I was enveloped by an uplifting, visceral feeling that I can't fully explain to this day. With my new found strength, I applied to colleges despite my lackluster junior grades. The next months flew by, all each full of life, reflection, and joy.
When my parents found out that I was going to college, my mother told me to become a doctor. I casually told my mother that I would consider it. I remembered that -after hearing my reply- my father cracked a grin for the first time in years. In fact, he stopped drinking for an entire month.The implications were clear and I was torn.
I had received an acceptance letter from one of the colleges of my dreams. But deep in my heart, I knew that that path was a selfish one. I realized that my father had been vicariously living through me and that his life would be complete if I became an American doctor. I spent the next few days in quiet, tormented anguish. I ended up going to Emory University instead, a college renowned for its strong pre-professional environment.
The purpose of this long piece of text is to represent the subset of Korean Americans who never had the stereotypical Korean American experience. Even though I am part of the mainstream male Korean American college student (premed, Christian) on paper, the lessons I learned and internalized in my journey will be applied far into the future.
My Korean heritage is my impetus; my American journey serves as my guide. I am definitely Korean American.
