The Recipe for my Identity

      The smell of garlic and meaty goodness wafted from the container in my hands. The dishes my second-grade peers brought during our cultural celebration day were enticing, but nothing compared to my parents’ signature Korean barbeque ribs. Watching my parents stay up late to prepare them made me bubble with admiration; I couldn’t wait for my peers to taste the ribs.

But then, I watched my classmates swarm like bees over Chinese takeout dishes, Kung Pao Chicken and fatty stir-fries indulgently piling onto their colorful plates. Meanwhile, my muddled-brown dish grew cold in the corner. My excitement completely dissolved into despondent jealousy as I distanced myself from my own dish.

Finally, someone said it: “Somebody brought poop for lunch!”

The children who had been stuffing their faces with Chinese delicacies whipped their heads and inspected the disgusting, brown mush in the container. Mortified, I watched them take whiffs and “vomit” in agony, and I heard their exclamations of “That-is-so-gross” and “Why-would-anyone-bring-that?” while class sleuths tried to identify the mysterious poop-bringer. 

Any lingering hope that my dish would be praised shattered into oblivion.

Such was the reaction to the first time I tried to share my Korean culture. When I shamefully brought home the untouched dish, my parents tried to reassure me by reheating it for dinner, but all I could taste was the exclusion of not fitting in.

Just as I distanced myself from the dish, I began to distance myself from my culture. I refused to phone my grandparents because I despised speaking Korean. I begged my parents to pack my lunches with bread instead of rice. I hated the smell of garlic, the foundational flavor of Korean cuisine. I tried filling the void in my heart by severing my Korean identity, but the void only grew deeper. If I was trying so hard to idolize American culture, why would my heart still throb when I couldn’t tell my grandparents I loved them?

A few years later, my family vacationed in Korea. It was a total culture shock. Everyone looked like me. Everyone had the same tastes as me. I was just like everyone else. I didn’t have to change anything about myself to feel something I had been trying so hard to understand in America: my own nationality.

When I returned, things changed. I tried speaking Korean at home. I brought rice for lunch at school. I even started eating kimchi, which I’ve grown to love. I’ve exposed my friends to Korean culture: K-pop, Squid Game, and Korean street foods.

But I also want them to know how hard it is to make homemade kimchi. How Koreans have endured Chinese and Japanese influence. How my own ancestors escaped North Korea before war broke out, and how I may have family there that I don’t know about. 

Korean culture is more than social media trends. To be Korean means to be gritty, ambitious, and proud. Today, the marks of my history are engraved in my identity. I’ve learned to shake off the negative words of my peers and stride forward confidently. I’ve learned that my identity is what I shape it to be, not what others perceive me to be.

One day, I will make my own recipe for Korean barbeque ribs. I’ll combine the ingredients with care, slather the meat with my own flavors, and share it with all my peers. Even if I don’t make it right the first time, I’ll still etch my identity on my creations with the proud smell of garlic on my hands.