Joy amid the pain
This pain, what I call my Korean American pain, was what I felt from compromising my authentic self for the sake of preserving normalcy and a state of peace for my white peers.
After years of keeping memories hidden, I’ve recently opened up about my experiences with identity as a student at Farmington High School, which I attended from 2010 to 2014. Not having my legal Korean name, Seungah, pronounced properly by my teachers and classmates was a form of searing pain that hurt every day. I would have to explain myself and defend my presence to classmates and teachers who found the name “Seungah” difficult to pronounce. Raising my hand, I would say, “That’s me — but I go by Justine” whenever the dreaded attendance sheet was called out during class. And every time the name butchering and then my “I go by Justine” happened, laughter ensued.
I’ve been overwhelmed with the amount of pain that has resurfaced, a lot of which I have repressed for so long that I truthfully almost forgot this actually happened. This pain, what I call my Korean American pain, was what I felt from compromising my authentic self for the sake of preserving normalcy and a state of peace for my white peers. I laughed it off, swallowed back tears, and stayed silent because I was hungry for acceptance.
When I was 16, the opportunity to legally change my name presented itself, so I took it. And so in one afternoon, I went from being Seungah Lee to Justine S. Lee. Seungah became a stand alone “S” in my new legal name. I reduced it to an initial so I could no longer give people the power to reduce me.
But despite these moments of pain, as I confronted my time at Farmington High, I realized that alongside the pain that defined my adolescence I found Korean American joy in the Connecticut suburbs. I found joy every afternoon running inside my house into the arms of my Korean American immigrant mom. No matter her schedule, she was always at the kitchen table waiting for me to come in through the garage door. I found joy going to my Korean Catholic church every Sunday to congregate with my Korean American friends from neighboring towns. Going to have breakfast at a charming American diner run by an older Korean couple our family knew and eating banana pancakes while conversing in Hanguk-eu. I found joy dancing in my basement with my friends to both Taylor Swift and
Girls Generation.
I found joy going to tae kwon do practice, releasing my teenage angst with every kick, scream, punch and dollop of sweat I released on the foam mat of the dojang.
Learning how to push through the pain brought its own special joy. Those moments I gathered with my mom and dad at our dinner table in silence, eating heaping plates of tteokbokki or bowls of Chapagetti instant noodles at the end of another long week navigating life in the Connecticut suburbs. A plate of cut fruit was what my mom prepared for us to take some of the edge off. There is nothing sweeter than a perfectly peeled Asian pear perspiring with crispness.
I also found joy in my flaws as a Korean American. I was definitely not what some view as the stereotypical model student. I was great at playing the viola but far from being a prodigy. My report cards of grades past will show a handful of B’s. I found joy in accepting that I wouldn’t take AP Stats and that I’m not all that great at math. I was perfectly fine with that.
Joy exists in the larger Asian American community as well. We have our very first vice president of the United States, Kamala Harris, who is of Asian American descent. The film “Minari,” a semi-autobiographical account of a Korean American family in 1980s Arkansas, was recently nominated for several Oscars.
But, unfortunately, a larger Asian American pain has become far too familiar and frequent. There has
been a surge in crimes targeting Asian Americans since the beginning of the coronavirus pandemic, perhaps ignited by fear-mongering rhetoric from political leaders. Asian-operated businesses are being vandalized and broken into. Asian Americans are being beaten, stabbed and abused. On March
16, six Asian women working at various massage parlors in Georgia were murdered by a white man.
It’s hard not to take this pain personally. In light of it, I’ve been reckoning with the bitter facets of my experience as a young Korean American in Farmington. I don’t think I’ve been more of an emotional wreck. I worry about who will get hurt next.
Will it be my mom or dad, my younger brother? My friends? Me? I’ve never been in this type of persistent panic and crippling anxiety over racial identity, over the hurt I felt in my past and the hurt that is definitely coming tomorrow.
In spite of that, I refuse to dim the golden glow I choose to cast on my childhood. I felt a lot of sadness growing up. But I felt a lot of happiness too — and don’t I deserve that? It was a really good, beautiful childhood.
I found Korean American joy in the Connecticut suburbs. And the most joyful part is that I carry it with me and no one, no one, can ever take that away from me.