Growing up, my parents tried to teach me that I was special, that my unique mix of races was something to embrace and cherish. And for a while, I felt that way. I liked my voluminous hair and my macchiato skin tone. I loved eating warm chapatis smothered in mango jam, kalbi wrapped in fresh lettuce leaves, or pani puri stuffed with tamarind chutney and chickpeas. I felt so lucky to be part of two rich and beautiful cultures. I stood out in my predominantly white town in South Jersey, but I never felt like an outsider.
One day in fourth grade, I had sushi for lunch. It was the cheap kind you buy from the local Shoprite that’s made with fake crab and tiny cucumber slices. One of my Korean-American classmates sneered at me,“You’re not a true Korean if you’re eating sushi!”
I was hurt and shocked by her comment. It forced me to think to myself, “What other parts of me aren’t ‘truly’ Korean?” As I grew older, I learned my grandparents initially didn’t want my father to marry my mother because of the darker skin tone their grandchildren (my brother and me) would have. I saw the Youtube videos of people applying “Korean skin whitening products” and I no longer admired the way I looked in the mirror. I wanted the creamy porcelain complexion that my full-Korean cousin had. I wanted the hair that shifted like silk when you ran your hands through it. I wanted to fit in when my white friend group giggled about getting tans and compared forearms by the pool.
I turned to my Indian side for any sliver of reassurance that I had a part of me that I felt worthy of. But even at the Indian community gatherings, dressed in my detailed lehenga with a shimmering bindi on my forehead, I was pierced with a bitter sensation of estrangement. As the other girls performed a classical dance piece, I stood to the side, wishing the mendhi on my palms could seep beneath the surface of my skin and fill me with an affinity for my heritage. But I felt as out of place as ever. The other kids ask, “Did you play Carrom growing up?” and I want to scream at them “No, I don’t know that game. I’m a fake! I’m not Indian, I’m not Korean, I don’t know what I am anymore!” They had already moved on to chatting about a Bollywood film I’d never heard of.
I hoped going to boarding school would make me feel more accepting of who I was. Unfortunately, if anything, the greater diversity enhanced the mindset that I was a fraud. When I explained my race to others, their comments and questions overwhelmed my fragile sense of self.
“You must speak so many languages then!”
I felt inadequate for only knowing English when so many students spoke different languages in the dorm and dining hall.
“Do you watch K-dramas?” or “Do you listen to K-pop?”
I did not. Should I be doing that? Was this another way I wasn’t a “true” Korean, like my classmate mentioned to me all those years ago?
“Have you had this Korean snack or this meal or this street food before?”
No. No. No. I could barely keep track of the few dishes my halmeoni made for me at family gatherings.
“You must’ve heard of this sitar player – everyone knows him in India!”
All Indians, excluding me, I guess.
“I never would’ve guessed you were Asian.”
I was disconnected from the language, pop culture, food, and music of my two races, and this comment pointed out that my physical characteristics didn’t fit into the traditional mold either.
I’m sure these innocent comments weren’t meant to alienate me from my heritage, but each day, the feelings of faultiness and humiliation permeated my thoughts at night. A moment that struck me the most, however, occurred one morning when I was sitting in the dining hall with a group of my peers. Several of the girls were discussing their dorm and, for some reason, they decided to count the number of Asians living there. They started listing names and tallying on their fingers. One girl’s name was mentioned and somebody replied with, “Oh, she’s only half Asian, so she can count as half, I guess.”
It was hurtful beyond words that they felt it was reasonable to count someone as half a human being just because their blood percentage of a certain race was not 100. The other girls nodded in agreement and continued their calculations, unbothered. Appalled, I was silent. When the name of another girl came up, and someone else responded with, “So-and-so is Indian, that doesn’t count,” I really couldn’t stand it. I picked up my plate and left the table, wondering how many times people thought I wasn’t worthy of my race just because I was half of something or because my culture wasn’t seen as the traditional “Asian.” It was one of the hardest concerns I had to grapple with, and that moment only confirmed what I had feared others thought of me.
It’s lonely having to exist in a place where I feel others don’t understand me and I don’t truly understand how to define myself either. I’m told I’m “overreacting” and that people don’t mean to upset me. I wish they could grasp the idea that it was never about what their intention was, it’s about how their words make me feel. I feel crushed and pained. I feel disappointed and angry. I feel lost and confused. I honestly can’t say that I’ve made significant growth in accepting myself as who I am, rather than what society wants to categorize me as, but I try to create new opinions about myself that aren’t based on what I feel others expect from me. I want to feel like a rare blend of my cultures, so that the description of my racial background rolls as easily off my tongue as my name. I want to see someone who looks like me in a movie. I want the feeling of being a foreigner in my own skin to seem like a fleeting nightmare of my childhood. I want to feel special again, like I did when I was young. One day, I hope the “want” can fade away from those phrases, and I won’t have to feel like I’m stuck in an isolated zone, kicked out of my two cultures. Maybe that middle of nowhere just becomes my own, because I’m never going to feel like I belong anywhere else, but I hope I’ll be proud to say, “This is me.”
About the Author:
Supriya Chang
Hi! I’m Supriya Chang, born and raised in South Jersey, but currently living in Connecticut, where I attend boarding school. Growing up half Indian-Portuguese and half Korean, I’ve realized how deep and rich different cultures can be. I love to travel around the world, try new foods, take photos, write poetry, play the oboe, dance for fun, listen to music, and hit around some squash balls. You can reach me at supriyaichang@gmail.com or through my Instagram @supriya.chang.
The Big Duck 