Growing up, I knew that my favorite color was blue and that the Chronicles of Narnia was my favorite series. I knew that I hated vegetables and that swimming was the love of my life. But what I didn’t know was something that most kids learn long before they even set eyes on their favorite sport or books.

I didn’t know how to classify myself.

Obviously I was Asian. One hundred percent Korean blood coursed through my veins. Korean was my first language. My parents and grandparents were all native Seoulians. We spoke Korean at home, read Korean books, watched Korean TV, and ate Korean food. Obviously.

But things became more complicated when I started school. I was the only Asian in my class, and my classmates were fascinated by me. I had dark brown hair and almond eyes, and to them that was interesting. I was often met with shallow kindergartner insults such as “Ching Chong Chinaman” and the like. They would take their chubby little fingers and pull the corners of their eyes until they thought they resembled me.

But no matter how much they studied my “strange” appearance, no one seemed quite able to work out what I actually was. I was often confused for being part Filipino, Indian, Latino, or even Caucasian as a result of my dark complexion and light hair for an East Asian. I began to hear these comments so often that as a five-year-old, I, myself, became confused. Perhaps I’m not actually Korean, I thought. And that was just the beginning of it all.

When I learned to read, I quickly was whisked into the wonderful world of American literature. Before entering first grade, I had already devoured the Ramona and Narnia series, arriving on the first day of school with The Witch of Blackbird Pond tucked under my arm. I walked home from the bus stop reading, ate dinner reading, and spent nights by a dim lamp reading. Creative writing also became a hobby of mine as I rapidly picked up words and phrases from books. English was becoming my primary language, pushing Korean further and further away. Though I could still speak it fluently, Korean had disappeared from my daily vocabulary by the time I graduated elementary school.

I wasn’t interested in Korean dramas anymore. I hated K-pop and Korean food. In fact, I was slightly embarrassed by everything Asian. Having lived in the stereotypical “ghettos” of the county my whole life, this was the norm. But I had fallen in love with the city and its people and values, adopting them as my own.

My parents had too. And though I appreciated it, it only set me further apart from the few Asians I knew. We lived in a little old house and didn’t believe in supplemental academic classes. I attended an elementary school right next to a Section 8 housing project and had never played an instrument in my life. My sister and I could choose what we wanted to do with our lives, as long as it was something that would make us happy. At one point, I had dreams of becoming a kindergarten teacher. My parents supported the idea. “That would be such a fun job,” they said. “Good choice!”

But when I proudly informed my mother’s Korean friends about my plans, they scoffed. “A smart girl like you should be a doctor, not a kindergarten teacher,” they told me. And that was when my dislike for the Korean culture multiplied by a million, further alienating me from the culture that had crushed my dreams.

Suddenly finding myself in the magnet program at my middle school was a bit like losing my mother in the grocery store. I had been dropped in an environment where 20 percent of the population was Asian. Within the first week of school, they had already established the “Asian Girl Table” and “Asian Guy Table,” side-by-side, each seating about 30 kids.

I chose to steer clear. I had already had my fill of other Asian kids gasping in shock: “You like country music?” “You’ve never played piano?” “You live in the downcounty?” Whenever I said something, it would be repeated back to me in question form, followed by “You call yourself a true Asian?”

That was the worst part. Because, yes, I did call myself a true Asian, and I didn’t think they had any right to tell me I wasn’t. Though I eventually got over myself and befriended many of them, I never managed to escape the “you’re so white” comments. People would jump to conclusions, butting into conversations and telling people that I couldn’t read or write or speak Korean, though of course I could. Before I even had the chance to speak for myself, they would say, “She wouldn’t know. She’s not that Korean.”

However, I soon realized that maybe they had a point. Eventually, even my extended family began to think similarly of me. It was the biggest blow of my life – my own blood relatives doubted me.

Especially with my grandparents, the lack of communication was evident. Whenever they spoke to me in Korean, I would reply in English, typically using short, simple sentences so they would be able to understand. Our conversations grew shorter and shallower. And as I became aware of this, I stopped answering – in any language. I was too ashamed to speak English but afraid of messing up and humiliating myself if I spoke Korean. I communicated solely through nods and laughs.

One day, I found myself alone in the car with my grandmother. It was a scenario I had been desperately trying to avoid, knowing how awkward it would be. But there we were, sitting side-by-side in silence. After a while, she began to speak, but it seemed more as if she were thinking out loud.

I thought my grandmother had gone crazy. She either didn’t realize I was there or just thought that I couldn’t understand Korean anymore. I didn’t know what to do, so I simply sat and listened. I listened as she reminisced about the days when I spoke Korean like a two-year-old Ban Ki-Moon, and I listened as she marveled at how much the generations had changed. But most of all, I listened as she stressed the vitality of preserving culture through one’s identity. At that moment, I knew she was fully aware of both my presence and my ability to understand.

The very next day, I set my phone to Korean. I signed up for Korean school. I stopped complaining when we had Korean food for dinner. If my parents were surprised by my sudden transformation, they didn’t let on. I still treasured what I had learned of American culture, but I had decided to find the best of both worlds. I was a proud Korean-American, and you can’t be a Korean-American without being Korean.