KOREAN-AMERICAN VOICES: Michelle W’s Story
By Michelle Wilson
“I’m half Korean,” I’d reply, correcting my classmates when they asked about my heritage. I grew up in a small town in Georgia, and most people would just ask outright if I was Chinese. Once, while my brother and I were out shopping with my dad, someone actually congratulated him for adopting us. Without my mom there to complete the picture, we didn’t exactly look like him—he had light brown hair and blue eyes—but still, I thought it was a bold assumption. In high school, horizons expanded, and it was a 50/50 chance that I would be asked if I was Chinese or Japanese, but rarely did anyone consider Korean as an option. At the time, K-pop, K-beauty, and K-dramas hadn’t yet taken the world by storm, so more often than not, I ended up giving an impromptu geography lesson. When I got to college, the question changed to, “So, where are you from?” I would answer, “I’m from Georgia,” and the follow-up was always the same: “No, like, where are you really from?” “Oh…well, I’m half-Korean.” I think most people were genuinely curious, with good intentions, but it was a constant reminder that I was the odd man out.
Michelle with her father as child
“Her father is American.” Despite never having learned Korean, I could always pick out that phrase. My mom would usually be explaining to someone why I could only smile and gaze back blankly, unable to respond when spoken to in Korean. Georgia has a pretty large Korean community just outside of Atlanta, so when my grandparents moved from Korea to stay with us, we found ourselves making the hour plus drive most Sundays to take them to church. Sometimes my mom, my brother, and I would stay, but I was always overwhelmed by the language, the food, and the endless socializing after the service had ended. I get it. My grandparents were stuck at home all week, with a household of (mostly) non-Korean speakers and often had to resort to miming to communicate, so they looked forward to Sundays. At the “Korean Church” no one my age ever seemed interested in hanging out, especially because it meant getting stuck as a translator. Even in a community, where I felt like I could at least find people who looked a little more like me, I was still the outsider. And I can’t deny it, I was “too American.”
Michelle with her parents
For much of my early life, I felt caught between two worlds, stuck in a kind of limbo when it came to my heritage. I didn’t look the part to be accepted as American, yet when I described myself as Korean-American, I’d raise eyebrows. (“I mean, do you even speak Korean?”) Neither label seemed to capture who I truly was. "I’m half Korean" became an easy explanation for why I looked one way but acted another.
Then, in 2012, I moved to NYC. In a sea of people who came and went before me, I was a blip on the screen–I didn’t stand out at all–and I loved it. The city gave me space, a welcome break from the constant questioning and the pressure to fit into a predefined box. Yes, I’m half Korean, but I’m also just…me.
I’m looking forward to my future self as I continue to blend both sides of my identity together, rather than trying to compartmentalize them—Korean OR American. For years, it felt like I could only claim one or the other. In 1998, being Korean wasn’t “cool.” But now, it’s easier than ever to connect with different aspects of my Korean heritage. In 2025 K-Dramas, K-Pop, and K-Beauty are everywhere. Just in the last few years, Squid Game was the #1 show on Netflix, Black Pink has been a headliner at Coachella, and K-Beauty products are getting “Best of” write-up in The New York Times. And I’d like to see you convince a 15-year-old Michelle that she would see a time when Kimchi would be topping or a sauce for almost everything.
I hope that Korean-Americans will continue to share their stories to create an even broader community, because being Korean-American isn’t a one-size-fits-all experience. It’s a rich, diverse journey, and one that’s worth celebrating in all its complexity.
