I am a foreigner in Korea.  Like other foreigners, I am frustrated when elderly Koreans cut in front of me in line.  I am amused by the fashion and impracticality of wobbling around in sequined silver stilettos on crooked cobblestone sidewalks. I have difficulty communicating in a language I don’t speak fluently.  Store clerks shoot looks of frustration and dismay at me when I pull out my Korean phrasebook.  Locals ask me where I am from and we have a few moments of confusion as we try to work through the language barrier.


The difference between other foreigners and I?  I am Korean. 


I’m a Korean-American adoptee and often forget that I look Asian.  It’s hard to explain the startled feeling when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the elevator, surrounded by people that look similar. I’m not used to seeing many Asians.  I grew up in the American Midwest as many people are a hybrid of British or German stock, including my adopted family. My parents recall the day they brought me home with humor when my sister, who was six at the time, misheard the word, “Korean”.  She ran excitedly throughout the neighborhood, announcing my arrival.  “We’re getting a ‘green’ baby!” she shouted, which alarmed the neighbors until it was explained that my parents adopted a Korean baby, not an alien.  Still, I was something of a curiosity in our largely white-bread town.


In grade school, I was taunted with cries of “flat nose” which was more than upsetting.   I didn’t see much difference between our noses. I couldn’t see any reason why I was different.  I liked to play games of four square and kick-the-can, enjoyed hotdogs, pizza and all the things that make the typical American child happy. So I spent my adolescent years feeling like an oddity and wishing I had a Caucasian face. I wanted desperately to look like everyone else.


When I went to Washington University in St. Louis, I could finally mingle with people from diverse backgrounds.  I had friends who were Filipino, Taiwanese, and Indian.  It was refreshing to hang around others who were American but just happened to have black hair and tan skin.  I liked Twinkies.  They’re a delicious, cream-filled snack but for the first time, snack words took new meaning as I heard “Twinkie”,  “Banana” and “Oreo” as a reference to the disparity between how we felt and how we looked. But after graduation, I would find myself in places where I was stared at and asked, “So, what are you?”  I would reply, sarcastically, “I’m a human being.”

Them:  “No, really.  Where are you from?  You speak good English.”

Me:  “I’m from here.”

Them:  “No, I mean, what’s your nationality?” 

Me:  “I’m American.”

Them:  “No, really!  Where are you from?”

Me (exasperated):  “I was born in Korea, but lived in America since I was a baby.”

This prompted discussions about every “Oriental” this person has known, how “Orientals” are nice and hardworking, and occasionally, how the mighty USA helped the Koreans in the war.  I spent most of these conversations trying to politely maneuver away. Several years ago, when I worked for The Tennessean newspaper in Nashville, an advertiser told me, in his thick, Southern drawl, “Ah heard you was Thai or sumpthin’ but ah don’ hold that aginst ya!” I thanked him for his generous compliment.  It’s funny that in Korea, I have similar conversations with locals.  When I am heard speaking English, I am asked where I am from and still, they are confused because of my appearance. I imagine they are wondering, “but what IS she?” because they tell me that I look Japanese.


What am I?  I’m still trying to figure that out.  For years, I wanted to blend in with my surroundings. But here, I want it to be immediately obvious that I don’t speak the language fluently, don’t know where things are (having been stopped for directions numerous times), and I’d like other foreigners to notice me the way they notice my Caucasian husband.  We pass by them and he is greeted with a jaunty “hello” and the head-nod that foreigners seem to give one another. Here, he is the one who is stared at.  I am overlooked because I look like everyone else though culturally, there is a huge divide. So, if you’re a foreigner reading this, there might be someone in your midst who is really an American in a Korean wrapper.  Don’t be surprised if she gives you a head-nod. 


 By Niki Perkins

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