KOREAN-AMERICAN VOICES: Nikki S’s Story
By Nikki Shin
Young Nikki
Backstory of a Seed
Driving to Flushing to eat at my favorite Korean BBQ restaurant - that’s my first memory of what it meant for me growing up Korean-American. They would hand me a menu that I wouldn’t bother to open because my grandpa would order everything for us anyway. Looking back, food has always been the main connector of my identity with being Korean-American.
My father is a first generation Korean-American and my mother is Puerto Rican (really a Nuyorican), both being born and raised in New York. For my dad, Korean was more of a secret language spoken between his parents. Both were fluent in speaking English so learning Korean was never a priority and in a time where he was the only Asian kid in a Long Island class filled with Italian-Americans and Irish-Americans, “Americanizing” yourself and fitting in were most important to keep the social order. Even now, my dad isn’t fluent in Korean, but always surprises me with random words he knows. Most recently it was “싸우다”, which made me laugh thinking how that word ending up sticking in his head.
My parents' relationship and marriage wasn’t immediately accepted by my grandparents. My mom has told me stories of her travelling on the LIRR to see my dad, just to get there and be sent away because my grandpa decided it was a “family day”. If my dad didn’t come home at a reasonable time, my grandpa would sit in his room in the dark with just a lamp light, saying if you won’t study at your desk I guess I will. Even four years after their marriage, while my mom was pregnant with me, she didn’t know if they would come to see me after I was born. My mom told my dad’s parents, “If you don’t go to see NIkki after she’s born, I’ll take it as you deciding you don’t want to be in her life, and then, in the future, don’t ever plan to be in her life”. With time and age, though, my grandpa has softened a lot and we all have a good relationship now. But I can only imagine how hard it was for my parents to be together. I often tell my mom I don’t think I have the patience she had but she says she knew my dad was meant for her and that all the tribulations were worth it.
My mom has always wanted me to know my heritage and to honor that. She always made sure I knew about Puerto Rican food, culture, and history and she even tried, with the limited knowledge and resources she had, to keep Korean culture close to me. However, with my dad not being not being taught about his Korean culture, my grandma passing away when I was 4 years old, and my grandpa not being the easiest person to chat with, my mom could only do so much with the dial-up internet the 90s had to offer.
Nikki with her parents
It’s interesting when I look back at how Americanized my Korean side was. I grew up referring to my mother’s parents as my “abuelo” and “abuela” but my father’s parents are “grandma” and “grandpa”. I never even thought that there’d be another way to call them. I never had a 100 day ceremony or celebrated any traditional cultural holidays. I mean, if I’m being honest, my grandpa back then was much more strict and cold. Hugging and saying “I love you” weren’t done freely and affection wasn’t given like that. Compared to when I would visit the warm island of Puerto Rico, with family pinching my cheeks and constantly throwing words of affection my way. But don’t get it twisted, my friends, I was okay and accepted my fire and ice upbringing. I mean it truthfully - I like it. Now, with age, my grandpa has become more affectionate. The other day he said, “I’m proud of you,” over the phone and instead of tearing up at his words, I wanted to check if he wasn't feeling well because it was such a left field comment.
A Rugged Sprout
Growing up, I went to an all girls Catholic school and was one of three girls who were Asian and one of two who were Hispanic. I hated standardized exams because I never knew what bubble to check: Asian, Spanish, Other. ‘Other’ felt most accurate and yet also most offensive. I was always an active student, participating in many school activities, sports, and clubs and although I knew I was a minority, my class was so small that I never felt it was a defining factor of my childhood. Sometimes I’d realize I was different in my thought process. I remember once a friend asked, “If you could live in any other time period, which would it be?” One friend said, “1920s flapper,” and another, “a hippie,” and I thought for a moment and stated firmly, “There’s no time period before this one where I exist.”
A Bud Who Doesn’t Know What Her Petals Look Like
I realized people are always trying to figure me out. Like a puzzle they cannot understand. Meanwhile, I myself am still figuring myself out. After high school with a decision packed with major disapproval from my grandpa, I studied musical theatre in college. I’ve always loved singing, ever since I was young singing “New York, New York” with my grandpa’s karaoke machine. But I didn’t realize when I chose to study theatre the constant discussion I would have to have with myself on my identity. With so much of this career being about your “type” and your physical self as part of your package, and as someone like me who struggles to bubble down who I am, it was hard to not develop a huge imposter syndrome. I have had panic attacks when playing roles of Hispanic or Asian identities - that someone of the community would be angry and upset and have qualms with me portraying that role. Not speaking *cough cough* either *cough cough* language left me voiceless in both communities, while also becoming a crutch I leaned on when feeling inferior. I began to feel defective thoughts such as, “If I’m not one and I’m not the other, I’m neither and nothing.” Thoughts like that plagued my mind and soul.
At least with my Puerto Rican family, they all look so different, since being Puerto Rican is very varied in appearance due to its history with our indigenous people, enslaved Africans, and Spaniard settlers. But with the Koreans being a more homogenous group, being was especially difficult. Not having more typical East-Asian features contributed to me feeling distant from being Korean-American. I mean, it can get taxing constantly having to reiterate to people that, “Yes that’s my dad,” when someone can’t wrap their minds around our appearances.
To add to my Mulan “reflection” moment, I worked as a performer on cruise ships for a couple of years, and with a predominant number of crew being from the Philippines, I was constantly asked if I was Filipina. I’ve been asked if I was Filipina, Indonesian, Hawaiian – the list goes on. As appreciative as I am to people seeing me as part of their community, a recurring thought I’d have was wouldn’t it be nice if someone from my actual community could see and acknowledge me. I mean, look how easy it is to see me as something I’m not. That being said, it is fun playing the guess-my-background game and seeing what people say and how many get scared to play. I’m chaotic good/neutral.
Deep Roots So a Flower Can Blossom
Times are changing, though. In more recent years, I’ve noticed a slow shift towards acceptance of mixed Korean-Americans at face value. With social media, you can find others who share similar experiences, to what growing up, felt so isolating. Taking Korean class with KCCNYC, going to festivals and events, and learning to cook Korean dishes have all been ways to help settle myself in my version of being Korean-American. I asked my grandpa to give me a Korean name and it’s “신은혜” or God’s Grace. I believe this name and its meaning is his show of love to me as his granddaughter. No longer does being Korean-American have to look and sound a certain way. I feel much more accepted by others, my grandpa, and most importantly, by myself.
Getting to write this piece has been so cathartic. It is hard to verbalize the unique, wonderful, sometimes traumatizing compound life experiences we each have and as someone who is thankful towards my family and loved ones, it can be hard sharing certain moments when you've decided to wall up and move past as if to seem ungrateful. While I’m honored, that pride comes with pangs of guilt. Guilt that I don’t deserve to represent and be a part of this community. Feeling lesser for being mixed. Growing older, I’ve come to terms with the fact that I am constantly at battle with the negativity I have of feeling like I don’t belong and that if I do show ownership to part of me, I am neglecting the other half of me. The beauty about slowly settling into yourself is not that you won’t continue to have these moments but that you learn how to navigate through them and acknowledge that those parasitic thoughts don’t represent you as a full-fledged, perfectly imperfect being.
It’s okay to be the only orange daisy surrounded by a field full of full flowered yellow and red blooms. Don’t let others pluck you or trample on you. Take your time to blossom, soak in sunlight, and hydrate in rain showers so that when you're ready you can stand tall in your existence. Because you belong wherever you grow.
