Sehyoung Lee: A first semester freshman reflection
The year is 2009. Zipping down the Dallas North Tollway, I’m six years old sitting shotgun in my dad’s BMW. My hair is strewn across my face, and I’m singing wildly offkey to “Gee” by Girls’ Generation. I’m smiling, oblivious to the world.
For five years starting at age eight, my parents put me in Korean school: Saturday mornings at a local Korean church to learn my language and culture. Despite the hours I spent there, I never learned the Korean language. Teased for my “American” accent until it (and I) became the baseline for most jokes, I stopped trying completely, resolving that if I couldn’t be the best at something, I wouldn’t try at all.
When I was 13, a girl I knew declared that she was more Korean than me because she could speak the language and I couldn’t. She wasn’t even Korean and yet, over the next four years, she took every opportunity to remind me of her advantage. I knew that it had no logical basis. I knew she said it to elicit a reaction. I knew that I shouldn’t let it affect me. Still, it did.
I stopped listening to K-pop. I held Korean food and culture at an arm’s length. I framed my inability to speak Korean as some form of stand-up.
But lately, things have been different. As an introvert from a quiet Dallas suburb, USC has pushed me out of my comfort zone.
In high school, while I was involved in business clubs, choir and the like, my day typically consisted of gym, school and home. If I found anything even slightly uncomfortable, I used my parents as excuses: “My parents want me to study.” “My parents said I can’t.” “I have a thing with my parents.” Home wasn’t just a safe space. It was a space I could crawl into to escape from the clutches of the world.
Now, I’m out in the cold.
In my first semester here, between living in an eight-person suite and juggling demanding clubs and coursework, my default hearth of comfort is noticeably absent.
I still miss home. I’m still an introvert. When that social battery runs out, no matter what, I’m still emotionally dead. But with these continuities, things are changing. I’m pulling my identity in and holding it close. I’m reclaiming the whole of who I am from the fragments people have taken and the impressions they’ve pressed onto me.
Yes, I’m out in the cold — but I’ve learned to love the way the frost hugs my fingers. As the chilly air wraps around me, I rest in its embrace.
Since August, I’ve made an active effort to attend events advertised by the Asian Pacific American Student Assembly, like the Student Coalition for Asian Pacific Empowerment dumpling making night. I’m in the Korean American Student Association (shoutout Aerin and Hongdae fam woo). And next semester, I’m joining Korean Culture Night — all the things I would have never dared to do at 13 years old.
By consistently inserting myself into situations that lie outside of my comfort zone, I’ve grown in ways unimagined. In getting comfortable with being uncomfortable, I’ve realized that I’m not any less Korean because I can’t speak the language, and it’s okay to not be perfect when I try to learn it.
I still remember a time from when I was in high school. My dad, excited that I wanted to spend time with him, began playing Girls’ Generation songs in the car — the songs I used to love. Instead of crooning out the lyrics like a maniac, I yelled at him and scrambled to silence the music.
I remember the wild expression that painted his whole face: surprise, confusion, hurt. What was once a sweet bonding activity had twisted into one that had me pushing him away.
As I write this, I’m crying. I’m crying because I can’t believe that I externalized the pain I was feeling onto my dad. I’m crying because I realize the path my pain took, and how it’s affected my perspective. I’m crying because I’m listening to Girls’ Generation again.
I’m still falling down, still getting back up, still growing.
It’s bittersweet.
And it’s beautiful.
My name is Victoria Sehyoung Lee. I’m a 19-year-old Korean American from Dallas, Texas, and I can’t wait to see you all next semester.