Today, my left-hand travels down the paper effortlessly and almost instinctively. I can feel the smooth surface of the notebook caress the side of my palm as I navigate the tip of my new pen through a series of curves and lines to turn my thoughts into something tangible. There isn’t a chaotic smear of lead anymore. No longer will my thoughts be troublesome to read. No longer will I need to wash the aftereffects of writing off my hand. Just letters, words, and sentences that show what churns inside my head. Over the past few years, I’ve slid my hand over an array of black inks, trying one after another to find the one that doesn’t leave a trace of uncertainty or the remains of ignorance. By experimenting with all these pens, I’ve finally found a pen that lets me write with clarity. This is not a product placement; it is a recommendation. Invest in experience.

 

        Only gaining independence in 1945, Korea has had an identity of inexperience. After WW2, they walked free from the Japanese Empire but quickly became a chessboard for other world powers like the U.S., China, and the Soviet Union. An ideological conflict between the U.S. and the Soviet Union ripped open the wound of the newly healed country, leaving the peninsula with 5 million dead bodies and a land of rubble. Korea was now split into two different countries, both sides being unofficially controlled by complete outsiders. Consequently, this disorder caused South Korea’s political insecurity and high unemployment rate, and between 1965 and 1990, a large wave of immigrants relocated to the U.S. The children of these immigrants make up a large population of the Korean American community today, and though my parents made their way to the States in 1992, I proudly consider myself a part of that population.

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        I am Korean American, and I’ve said those four words with pride, hesitance, uncertainty, and many more, but whatever tone I’ve used, the phrase’s meaning has never changed. I have always been Korean American, and I always will be. I will never be solely Korean, nor will I ever be singularly American. What ​has changed, though, is my understanding of the phrase. Its literal meaning has stayed the same, but its significance has differed throughout various stages of my life.

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        Like the majority of multicultural adolescents, I was confused. Confused because I sat in a classroom with the English alphabet on my desk but came home to tell my parents about my school day in Korean. Confused because I spent every vacation in Korea but used my American passport to board the plane. Confused because I grew up around white-skinned friends but seldom felt out of place. By the time I was thirteen, my confusion had snowballed into insecurity. The Asians I saw in media were antisocial nerds who only looked up from their books to push up their glasses. If not, they spoke with broken English accents and fought with flying karate kicks and chopsticks. Other kids my age worried about pimples, shoe sizes, and outgrown clothing, but I was worried that I would fit into those stereotypes. “I’m not a typical Asian,” I would tell myself, but there weren’t Asians I could relate to in media, books, or music, so it slowly had me accepting the desire to be white. Soon enough, I didn’t feel confused. I was certain that I wanted to be as white as possible.

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        I had thought I found my pen, but in reality, that pen wasn’t for me. I was still confused and my cultural identity was still smudged. The Korean side of me wasn’t just something I could scrunch up and toss in the trash. The more I ran away from it, the more it seemed to find me. So, I began to give my Korean roots more attention. I watched historical K-dramas with my dad, as he described my grandparents’ past as if they, too, belonged in the show. I listened to Asian American podcasters who shared bits and pieces of their childhood, like how bad they were at math or how embarrassed they were to bring their home-made lunches to school. I even started working at a Korean restaurant, sharing parts of my culture that I had sealed off for years. Each experience I lived through taught me how to understand my own thoughts and actions and how to find my own identity. Eventually, I realized the intricate beauty of living between two different cultures. Every difference was something I could learn from, but I wouldn’t find these differences without listening to other people’s experiences or living through more of my own.

 

        That is why I write. There is a pen for everyone but only found after trying a variety of them. I want people to find their pen, their identities. I enjoy writing about my experiences or someone else’s because each experience has differences that my readers can learn from. I want people to learn something new about others while learning more about themselves. I want people to read about my experiences, your experiences, and their experiences because these experiences are what allow people to grow. That was my ancestor’s history. This was my experience. And Korean AND American is my identity. Invest in experience. Because with experience, comes clarity. Find your pen. Find your identity.