What it Means to Be (South) Korean

To most, citizenship is a birthright — something everyone is given. To others, citizenship is a curse — a binding spell that dooms them to their futures. To me, my citizenship is a blessing — the kind of blessing I cherish everyday.

You see, I was born in Seoul, South Korea. Yes, South Korea — a country I wish I didn’t have to clarify with the adjective “South.” But this one adjective changes everything. It makes the difference between having to eat the grass on the ground to survive and being able to grab a bag of Lays from the pantry when I’m about to watch a movie with my friends. But had I been born just a handful of miles to the north, everything would be different. Needless to say, I was extremely lucky.

Unlike myself, my grandparents were born roughly 80 some years ago, a handful of miles to the north of where I was born. Three of my four grandparents are not South Koreans, but rather “North” Koreans. In other words, they lived their early childhoods in what is now known as North Korea, and each has his or her own amazing story.

My father’s father walked what is the equivalent of the distance from Milwaukee to Chicago to get to South Korea. I feel it is important to mention, however, that he was perhaps 10 and very much alone. Additionally, he did not comfortably walk down a paved road, but rather a devastated war zone, again, alone. By some miracle, he made it to South Korea where he somehow met his father (my great grandfather), who also escaped from North Korean soil, and they lived under a bridge. He later joined the Korean army (as all Korean men are expected to) and climbed to the ranks of a Captain, where he commanded hundreds of people under his command in Vietnam.

My mother’s father was a young adult when he escaped, also alone, to South Korea. He then became a soldier for the South Korean army and fought in the Korean War. To this day, he despises the word “communist” as well as the North Korean communist regime. Although he doesn’t show it, he still thinks about the family he left behind in North Korea, not knowing whether they are lucky enough to be alive today.  

My father’s mother shares a similar story.

I was born in Seoul and came to America at the ripe age of 100 days. I have attended the wonderful public schools that Wisconsin generously offers and have pursued academics with all I've got. As one of the top students in my class, I am seen by many as “impressive,” or “smart,” or “hard working.” What they don’t take into account is that I have never gone to bed starving, have never had to see a parent die of starvation, and have never had to watch my sister be “drafted” into state enforced prostitution. Instead, I have always been able to smile, have always been able to afford my books, and have always been able to feel the warmth of my mom when she hugs me, for I was born a handful of miles south of where my grandparents were.

So when people ask me if I’m North Korean or South Korean, I can only honestly tell them that I am Korean.