Korean Hanboks are for Gyopos, too
What I never knew I was
I grew up in America’s culture, watching the same shows and learning the same language as everyone else in the United States. I also grew up as a minority for most of my life. My community was made up mostly of White, Black and Hispanic families. Most of my classmates just assumed that the one other Asian girl in school and I were related. I have also had the privilege of being bilingual and fluent in Korean — in both the language and the culture. I dedicated my Saturday mornings and afternoons to Korean school with other Korean students. Unlike me, my classmates were all much older, as I was placed in a higher level, and unlike me, they were all born in Korea, taking classes to not lose their native language. You’d think that as a Korean, I would fit in with the lifestyle of those who are also “just like me,” but I hated going to school on Saturdays. Being friendless and eating lunch alone in a classroom surrounded by people I was supposed to be connecting with wasn’t easy. For 6 out of the 7 days in a week, I was a black sheep — regardless of where I was.
One day, my mom finally bought me my first hanbok. This Korean traditional dress is not cheap or easy to find, but was well worth the wait. Korean Thanksgiving, or “Chuseok,” was coming up and our teacher had told us to come to class wearing a hanbok if any of us had owned one. I was excited to finally wear a hanbok to class and show the other kids that I was no different from them. I was excited to partake in everything that comes with the beautiful Korean national holiday — but I was especially looking forward to finally have a chance at making some friends.
As I entered the classroom, I saw a vast array of colorful dresses flooding the open areas. Many girls wore matching hats and accessories. The boys wore bottoms that complimented the tops of their hanboks and some even wore the traditional caps. I noticed the teacher was not here yet and so I quietly took my seat. As I approached my seat, however, I realized the class got quieter. A few classmates asked me if I had just gotten the hanbok for this class. Another few asked me why I had one. I was confused. Was I not wearing the right one? Had my mother bought me a fake? Was there even such a thing as a fake hanbok?? That’s when another boy chimed in. He said, “Why are you wearing a hanbok? You’re a Gyopo.” Although I had never heard that word before, I saw my classmates stifle giggles and inch further away from me.
Gyopo is a term that defines a person of Korean descent who permanently resides in another country or land other than one of the two Koreas. This term is specifically meant for those who are usually second-generation Koreans. Although this coined term never meant to be discriminating, the way native Koreans formed this term for people like me creates an identity of hesitation. Just as I have felt in the classroom full of my “real Korean” classmates, being called a Gyopo doesn’t leave me feeling proud or honored to be Korean. Just because I was born in America doesn’t mean I’m not well-educated in my Korean heritage as “real Koreans” are. I am being labeled for being put into a situation I never asked to be in. These are the people who fell under one of the same countries I have wanted to call a home.
I am neither fully Korean nor am I fully American. I have grown up feeling both close and distant from both cultures and never fully feeling the acceptance of either. Although I never fully felt like I belonged, that did not mean I didn’t try to fit in and love either sides of my culture.
I chose to represent this article with this picture of a Black woman dressed in a Hanbok because this graffiti art accurately describes my life. The artist painted this as a message saying that every flower must be shaken before it blooms. It is the suffering and tough situations the flower goes through that makes it so beautiful. Kathrin Kissau and Uwe Hunger in “The Internet as a Means of Studying Transnationalism and Diaspora” also describes my relation to this painting perfectly:
“Diaspora and transnational communities form bridges between host and home countries.”
It is people like me who have the honor of representing diversity in my identity. No one else can define who I am except myself. Whether they incorrectly call me a “FOB,” a “Gyopo,” or even a “Korean-American,” I decide who I am.
