Ramyun and Constitution

When I was in Korea not too long ago, I walked into a store and the clerk immediately greeted me in English:
“Hi, how can I help you?”

It caught me off guard. I wasn’t trying to “be American.” I wasn’t showing off, nor was there anything to show off. I was just there. But in that moment, I realized I couldn’t hide it. Whether it was my build, my clothes, or just something about the way I walked—I don’t know. What I did know was that people would always see me as foreign. Heck, even my in-laws don’t really see me as Korean.

I laughed it off, blaming my fashion sense. Cargo pants and flip-flops at the mall? Yeah, that probably screams ’Merica. But beneath the joke, it was a definitive moment.

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Since my son’s birth, I’ve thought a lot about what kind of father I’ll be. Assimilation has always been a double-edged sword: the more you conform, the more one culture erodes. Does it have to be that way, though?

Politics in America today make one thing crystal clear: no matter what, some people will never see me as fully American. And yet—does their opinion even matter? Honestly, I don’t want to be lumped together with those bigots anyway. They’ve done little but tear this country down. I’ve probably contributed more to it than they ever will.

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The irony is that all the hate has, in its own way, clarified who I am.
I am Korean. I am American. The duality is complicated, but it’s mine.

Fortunately, the Korean ideal of 홍익인간—living for the benefit of humanity—fits neatly alongside the American promise of freedom and the Constitution. Maybe that’s what being American really is: a messy, painful, imperfect coexistence of histories and people.

This nation was built by immigrants and by the blood and sweat of those who were brutalized along the way. We can’t sugarcoat that. But if you swear to uphold the Constitution, then you, too, are American. That’s the deal. (Sure, it takes ten-plus years of paperwork for the process—but at least the principles are compatible.)

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Fast forward to now, and America looks different from the one I thought I knew: more white supremacy, more greed, more division, more anti-intellectualism. But here we are. This is my son’s birthplace—and likely the place where I’ll die.

When I first arrived, I was called gook, chink, ching-chang. One of the bestselling books of the time even named its token East Asian character Cho Chang, and people just rolled with it. My son will taste some of that ugliness, too. But he’ll also grow up in a world where K-pop, Korean BBQ, and ramyun are right around the corner. Where Korean culture is something people recognize, not just mock.

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So what can I give him?

There’s a saying: it takes a village to raise a child. I’ve been lucky to find mine—friends who are open-minded, good, and intelligent. They make up a home that doesn’t yield to the outside world’s ignorance, even if cynicism creeps in sometimes.

My son will have to decide what kind of life he wants to live and who he wants to be. My role is simply to show him the best of what I know.

And when he struggles with identity, I hope he can laugh the way I do, saying:
“I am the 24th descendant of King Gyeongsun of Silla.”
Sure, one in ten Koreans might be able to say the same thing—but hey, it still makes for a good story.