“Sir. Do you know what this means?” Pointing to the bold Korean words on top of the paper written 국적이탈 (Gook Jeok-E tal). I was standing alone in front of a glass shield separating me from the lady at the Consulate General of the Republic of Korea in New York. I was taken aback. I had never been called “sir” by an adult. The label felt a little foreign and uncomfortable like a wet shirt clinging to your skin on a hot, humid day.
I tried to think of the definition, but my mind suddenly froze. I was normally fluent in Korean as I spoke it at home and with my cousins, aunts, and uncles—basically my entire family. But at that moment, when she asked me to define what renouncing my Korean dual citizenship meant, I froze.
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There are currently over 330 million people living in the United States. Out of those 330 million, there are approximately two million who are Korean-American citizens.
South Korean law grants dual citizenship to anyone born in another country if his or her parents are of Korean citizenship.
However, a new law was passed declaring any South Korean dual citizen must renounce his Korean citizenship by the March 31 of their 18th birthday or else they must attend mandatory military service in South Korea should they enter the country or wait several years to be immune to the military service laws.
In a mutual agreement, my parents and I decided to renounce my Korean citizenship.
Although it was mutual, it was my father who was truly adamant. He attended mandatory military training as a young adult and didn’t want to put me through the same grueling experience. Whenever he talked about his days in training, he brought up how he had to stand outside in the cold shirtless because he was a couple seconds late getting ready in the morning or how his friends were physically beaten by their superiors for no apparent reason. Plus, waiting for me to be legally eligible to enter Korea without being dragged off to the army seemed like a hassle.
I always had mixed feelings being a Korean-American. Was I truly Korean because of my roots or was I truly American because of where I lived?
Oftentimes, I came up with categories and thought which end of the spectrum I belonged to. Some of them, I felt heavily polarized to one, but there were the confusing times where I felt like I was stuck in between.
When it came to food, I was Korean. If my mom asked what I wanted for breakfast such as cereal and a bagel or kimchi fried rice, I would have chosen the latter.
As I did my homework up in my room, I salivated, hearing the sizzling of the pan as slabs of pork belly massaged with gochujang paste were grilled. I could hear my mom’s movement of her feet as she waltzed from one corner of the kitchen to another as if she was in a rhythmic dance. She would pour a spoonful of sesame oil for the shininess and savory warmth in the fried rice, gliding over to another part of the kitchen to check up on the grilling meat, occasionally flipping it over to get the perfect golden-brown color. Finally, she reached over the stove top to add in some ddoenjang to the bubbling stew replete with vegetables and tofu.
Sometimes, my own interests conflicted with those of others. I quickly and painfully discovered not all of my white friends at school appreciated the smell of dumplings handmade by myself, my mom, and my dad. We would dedicate an entire day preparing the wrapping and stuffing, gingerly folding the dumpling in half after wetting the edges to make sure they stuck. In fifteen minutes of a hot steam bath, the dumplings would come out, ready to be frozen for the long winter. Knowing the effort my family put into the dumplings, I never understood why my friends preferred Lunchables where you can build your own sandwich with pepperoni, cheese, and crackers in a matter of seconds.
Seeing the wrinkly noses and side glances when I opened my Thermos container of still steaming dumplings, I tried to make a show that I no longer liked them by dumping each one into the trash, feeling the stab in my stomach as the dumplings, made with the sweat and aches of my family’s hands, were sucked into the black Hefty emptiness. After a few unpleasant encounters, I decided I was going to be more “American” by taking out the all-American peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a Ziploc from my lunch bag. When I began to eat, I noticed a clear difference.
There was no response.
That was all I wanted: to blend in. Part of me felt like I was a fraud as I inhaled the Korean dishes at home but showed up to school with five dollars, waiting in line to get a slice of pizza and some funny-looking chicken nuggets.
On the other hand, I identified as an American because I was born and raised here.
Having spent most of my life in the States, I never really experienced what it was like to be a “true Korean” besides my parents being immigrants.
Growing up in a predominantly white town, I was introduced to the Memorial Day barbecue or games such as tag or Sharks and Minnows as opposed to Korean traditions of making sweet rice cakes or playing jegichagi, Korean hacky sack.
At school, rather than solving math problems or reading classical texts like the elementary school kids in South Korea, I was too busy coloring in shapes and animals to my mother’s dismay.
“Aigoo,” my mother would sigh. “How do you get any learning done with silly nonsense like this?” she’d ask as she held up my hand-traced turkey.
I had my first Trick-or-Treating experience in first grade, running around the street with my friends in my Harry Potter costume, asking for candy. I celebrated the 4th of July by going out to town with my family and watching the fireworks like what all the “typical” American families would do.
But of course, there are times when I didn’t even feel Korean or American. Whenever we went to South Korea to visit my extended family, I was called a Yankee. I didn’t understand the cryptic Korean slang my cousins spoke nor did I know what the trending foods or games were. Physically, I looked like a Korean but internally, I felt far from truly being one. But then in America, I was given the identity as the Korean, and my classmates expected me to confine myself to the typical Asian stereotypes.
“Hey! You’re Asian. Can you help me with my math homework?” It was always the math and science subjects but never classes like English or history.
“Wait, if you’re Korean does that mean you guys eat dogs?”
And of course, my favorite one of them all: “Is Kim Jong-Un like your uncle or something?”
At first, I was offended, but eventually, I learned to play into the joke, telling them how yummy golden retrievers were or how I saw Kim at our last Thanksgiving dinner. I hated saying these things, but it was the only way I could get away from the conversation without confrontation. If I tried to explain these comments weren’t really as funny as they seemed, I would get called out for being too uptight or sensitive.
“Relax,” they would say. “It’s just a joke.”
Being Korean-American never worked out. There was always a polarization. I was either Korean in this or American in that. I felt like a better label for me would’ve been “Korean sometimes, American sometimes.” Yet, while I never felt like I was straying away from my American culture, I feared I was drifting away from my Korean heritage. Would playing too much freeze tag scrub my yellow skin until it turned white?
———
I looked up at the lady. Her brows were burrowing as I stalled time trying to think of an answer. I think she was suspecting I was forced to come and renounce my citizenship like a hostage.
I asked myself, doIreallywanttodothis?WillIstillbeaKoreanevenafterIgothroughthisprocess? My mind was swimming like fish scurrying away from a shark.
But I knew even though I might not be legally Korean anymore, I was always going to be Korean at heart. I will always like the spicy rice cakes my mom would make over a ham and cheese sandwich. I will always speak the tongue my parents taught me from a young age. But most importantly, I will always identify myself as Korean-American. Not Korean. Not American. But Korean-American.
“It means to give up my Korean dual citizenship.” I spoke perfectly in my slightly Americanized accent.
