I Put On A Mask To Be American
(originally written for and published on Shondaland, 2022)
“Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat. If you don’t, I don’t care, you can smell my underwear.” Growing up in the 80s and 90s, this beloved Halloween chant is familiar to many.
It is a memory of rushing from door to door, knocking in anticipation of getting candy-you-aren’t-allowed-to-have except for this night. Kids screaming, laughing, glows of candy corn orange, witches’ hats, babies in fluffy pumpkin costumes, and bloody faces fill the streets. Your experience with this holiday is probably something to this extent.
What if I told you, this was a nightmare for some, like my family. Halloween is our immigrant story. We came to the U.S from South Korea on October 29th, just days before the American holiday. I vividly remember this day even though I was only 8 years old. What I didn’t know is how this holiday would be a precursor to our Korean American being.
We were still jet lagged - physically, emotionally, mentally. Our family lived with our aunt and uncle during our first months in the U.S. Both my aunt and uncle were working in the evenings and I am unsure if they had filled us in on what would happen that evening. I don’t think my parents remember either. That evening, we were unpacking, getting acquainted with our new home. Next thing I know, we heard giggles and a loud knock at the front door. My curious little sister rushed to the window by the door with our appa (dad) and peered out. She motioned her hand eagerly for my umma (mom) and I to come over. What we saw was something we have never seen before.
Streets were blinking with flash, colorful clothing, mobs of kids and adults carrying pillow cases and orange pumpkin buckets, going from house to house singing or chanting in their language- same sounds over and over, happily. We were bewildered. Whatever they wanted from us, we didn’t have. So, umma and appa decided to turn off the lights, shut the blinds, and double check to make sure the door was locked.
My sister and I were terrified, but mesmerized by what we saw. We sat on the sofa that was against the window and lifted the accordion like blinds an inch off the window sill as we dared to peer out into this bizarre, terrifying, and magical event. We were scared of bloody masks and green witches, but was this supposed to be something to be afraid of? It was hard to tell when people were running around laughing as if they were having the best time. Confused, mostly, but curious enough to keep looking. Our parents soon joined us and nervously giggled with us. There was nothing left to do that evening, but to hold each other in the dark, as we tried hardest to watch without being seen.
Watching, observing, without getting caught became the theme of our Asian American life in the midwest. Halloween is a holiday loved by many. It’s a day you get to actually dress up for what you’ve imagined yourself to be, at least for one day. This wasn’t the case for my sister and I. For years, we couldn’t afford Halloween costumes and during those years, schools cared much less about making sure all kids had what they needed to participate fully in school. I wore my hanbok for many school Halloween parades and parties. Hanbok is a beautiful Korean traditional clothing that is worn on New Year's Day. During school parades, I recall classmates and adults pointing and laughing at me and even making remarks to each other like, “What is that? What is she supposed to be?” as I swallowed my tears in big lumps down my throat and into my chest as I felt my face go beet red, searching in the crowd to find my sister who would be filling the exact same way. Feeling of, an alien, just like the words on our green card we would later find out. I am the clown here that everyone is laughing at.
Even at age 9, I knew the sacredness of my hanbok that I looked forward to wearing each New Year’s Day in Korea that celebrated beginnings, honored our ancestors, and valued being together, is now tarnished. Instead of clothing that represented pride, it became a costume that represented embarrassment and otherness.
It was the first time I sat in my seat during a Halloween class party, wearing my crisp, pink hanbok while eating a sugary cookie and a cheese stick that I couldn’t stomach that I felt out of sorts. Clearly, I am Korean, but I no longer felt like one. More importantly, was it okay to be Korean in America?
I haven’t worn my hanbok since elementary school, not even for New Year’s Day. As much as I rebelled against looking more Korean, everything about our home was Korean and for the most part, I couldn’t resist it. I still inhaled my umma’s homemade piping hot dangjang jigae (soybean paste stew) and arrays of banchans (side dishes) like pickled perilla leaves and braised black beans, with a warm bowl of rice. Our home smelled of kimchi, garlic, and roasted rice. Places like school smelled like grease, cheese, and melted plastic crayola crayons.
Every day was Halloween for me. Putting on my American mask while I left my Korean self at home.
Soon, I became more American than Korean with English almost untouched by an accent. There was nothing I could do about my physical appearance to stop people from saying, “Are you Chinese?”, but immersing myself in a culture that encouraged self-expression and independence felt good. In college, I loved being away from home. I tried not to think twice about my actions and whether it would bring honor or disappointment to my family. But, there was also a part of me that was searching to be Asian again. I envied the Asian exchange students who spoke perfect English while speaking fluently in their native language too. The Korean students who spoke amongst themselves was interesting to observe because it was evident, I wasn’t a Korean person from Korea. They spoke in slang and talked about S.E.S (popular Korean girl band formed in 1997). I used to listen to S.E.S in high school and even owned several of their CDs without my parents knowing. But all that was Korean, I left it behind at home, far away from the me that I wanted to become. While I can appreciate and agree to American values that eventually seeped into my being, I never felt whole.
Fast forward 20 years, I no longer put on that Halloween mask of what others want me to be. What I mean is, it is not that simple of an act. I used to believe I needed to be fully American to live here. For all of my early childhood, it certainly felt like that was needed to survive. I am proud of the little me that survived those terrible years of getting bullied for my black hair and clothes that smelled like Korean spices. But that should never be anyone’s reality. Over the course of my teenage years, college, and into my young adult life, not showing the very things I love about being Korean made me lose myself in the end.
We all come back to the beginning in order to rediscover who we are and who we actually want to embody.
Who I wanted to be was both Korean and American, but some days, more Korean to be honest.
Those who live with intersectional identities know many times, the two or more cultures that define you often clash in its value. While I put on a mask of agreeing to all things American, there were aspects that didn’t feel like me. Like, it’s unlike me to show up at any gathering or a friend’s home empty handed even if the host insists multiple times. It is not out of guilt, but more of a mutual exchange of care. Very much like many Asians I know, I may not tell you I love you, but I will show you by usually food related gifts. This gesture is not lost on me. I value speaking my truth and having an independent mind and I owe it to the American in me for this trait. At the same time, I value and act on the collective need when in a group setting. That is the Korean in me. It is a sense of collective belonging that is sacred to me.
Although everyday doesn’t feel like Halloween anymore, I do know it’s a conscious decision that takes immense strength, vulnerability, and compassion to fully show up as yourself. I also know that my definition of being Korean American or Asian American will continue to change, not because I am unsure of who I am, but because I am always evolving. So, perhaps it’s not about putting on my American mask, or Korean mask, but how do we define what it means to be Asian American for ourselves? And how do we support each other’s becoming without labeling them with a mask of our own choosing?
