I was born in Chicago. When I was three years old, my family moved to Okinawa. Two years later, we would move to Tokyo. I spent two years in Tokyo before moving to South Korea, where I lived for a year. For the summers, I lived in China with my mother’s side of the family. It wasn’t until right before I turned nine that I found myself in the United States again, though I never returned to Chicago. The Pacific Northwest has been home base for several years now. At one point, I also lived in the American South (which is a rather long story of its own). I will never forget my formative years in East Asia. I was always slightly confused about where I was and who I was. Was I an immigrant? An emigrant? An international traveler being dragged from country to country by my parents? What I did know and remember was having to cross linguistic barriers on a day-to-day basis. Translation was something I couldn’t live without; it was a natural part of my every day need to communicate. It wasn’t until I came to Smith that I was finally able to see the artistry in translation and how it brought together different cultures and languages. Before, I had perceived it first and foremost as a tool for survival.
In Okinawa, I was homeschooled. In Tokyo, I attended three different schools–a Japanese kindergarten, a Catholic Montessori school, and a school on an American military base. In the first space, I had to communicate in Japanese, in the second and third spaces I communicated in English. However, I spoke more Chinese at home than either English or Japanese. During the summers in China, I went to a Chinese school, where I spoke only Chinese. I knew a smattering of Korean, but it never quite reached the same level as the other languages, because I only spent a year there and was homeschooled. Only after I came to the United States, did English become my language of highest proficiency, simply because I was now required to use it the most in everyday conversation.
Being half-Caucasian and half-Chinese, moving to Japan, and then to South Korea, required me to be constantly aware of the customs, culture, and languages around me.
I remember strangers staring at me as I walked down the street. They cast curious glances at me and my parents as mixed race couples still weren’t a very common sight in the various places where I lived back then. It seemed that everyone assigned me to a different category based on my features. When I spoke Chinese in China, I didn’t have an accent, and this startled many people. Still, I passed as a Caucasian person, despite being half-Chinese. And in mostly Caucasian spaces, I was simply Chinese, despite being half-Caucasian. The latter was most evident when I was living in the American South where I was the only student with Chinese heritage in the entire school. Looking back on it all, I was constantly considered someone who did not fit in any of the pre-determined categories, someone who was something of a question mark in almost all spaces. I had to learn how to blend in linguistically- speaking Japanese, Chinese, and English, all with varying levels of proficiency. I was a jack of all trades, adapting as needed to constantly changing environments. Like a chameleon that changes color, my appearance never seemed to be truly static in other people’s eyes. Yet this mobility–immigration, migration, emigration, each move across a cultural or linguistic border–shaped my identity. I now have a passion for language, travel, and bringing communities together. Most importantly, growing up among various customs, cultures, and languages, I’ve learned the value of being a global citizen.
Kela is a junior with a major in East Asian Languages and Literature. She also has a concentration in Translation Studies and a minor in Neuroscience. She is interested in doing research on how the brain processes linguistic information.
by 
I hailed down a cobalt blue taxi with its signature 6552-1111 Comfort imprinted on its side. The air was thick and humid, as it is every day in Singapore, and I was running late for a family dinner. I jumped in the cab. Hi Uncle, Tanglin Road in front of Tanglin Mall please. A few minutes had passed as I cooled down in the air conditioned vehicle, when the conversation began. You Korean ah? Yes, yes I am. Ahn-yeong-ha-sei-yo (hello in Korean)! Oh wow that was very good! So how many year you live in Korea before coming to Singapore mm? This is the typical conversation I have had with Singaporean taxi drivers during my 19 years of living there. Singapore is an incredibly diverse country, not just amongst its citizens, but also with its array of expatriates who move to live there for the long term like myself. Because of Singapore’s diversity and constant influx and flux of expatriates and travelers, there tends to be an interest in one’s origins and ethnicity. I lived in Korea for a few years but moved to Singapore when I was five. Wow! You like Singapore more? Yes, yes I do. While I lived in Singapore, I was comfortable and even at home. I loved the heat and humidity, the greenery everywhere, the food, the people, the transportation. I have such longing when I see photos of Singapore’s skyline, feel an intense humidity like Singapore’s, and eat dishes with similar flavors as those of Singapore. But it was these day to day conversations with taxi drivers, cooks at hawker centers, and locals that caused me to feel so out of place in a country where I felt so at home. It was a daily reminder that, no, I was not Singaporean and would never be. I did not have any local friends and neither did my parents. We stayed in our expatriate bubble, with our expatriate friends and expatriate schools. I was never asked if I was from Singapore. It was always assumed that I was from South Korea, because I was Korean.
I sat in my own shame and embarrassment for the rest of the ride. I had learned throughout my life that being Korean and not being able to speak the language is an incredible disgrace. My mom has been berated by her aunt-in-law for not teaching me the language. I have been called ‘not Korean enough,’ ‘fake Korean,’ ‘not really Korean,’ and ‘you’re just American’ by Korean peers in both high school and college. There are times when I wonder how different my life and identity would have been if I was fluent in Korean. The conversations I could have joined, the nuances of a culture I could have understood, the possible connection and relationship to my grandparents are all what-ifs. But then I realize the prejudice, shame, and disgrace I have felt by a country and very group of people I could have been a part of. Is language a requirement for belonging to a country? When I speak aloud in Korea, I speak English, my only language, my native tongue. When I’m with my Korean friends, I am called their mee-gook-sah-dam-ching-goo (American friend).
