I Don’t Belong Here. BY SUMMER KIM @SUMMERKKIM
Summer earned a Bachelor of Arts in Political Science at Yale University, focusing on racial, spatial, and socio-economic inequality in the United States. Since graduating, she has worked in the non-profit space, and hopes to continue her career supporting anti-racist, progressive organizations. Summer loves all things music, and enjoys any opportunity to flex her creative muscles. My dad was right. I don’t belong here. I don’t want to. My parents were in the restaurant business for 20 years. They went to work 12 hours a day, serving sushi to customers who couldn’t pronounce their names, and came home with rough hands and cramped calves. Yet somehow, they mustered the energy every day to pass as much knowledge to me as they could, to expand the mind and satiate the curiosity of an imaginative five-yearold. My childhood memories consist of lying in my mom’s arms as she read me Korean folktales and in bed with my dad as he taught me multiplication with apples. They made sure that I understood my worth, intellect, beauty, and that I stepped into every room with the confidence of a mediocre white man. As I progressed through the US school system, my blissful reality became less and less so. Every Asian kid has a story about being bullied for our “stinky lunchboxes”
and “chinky eyes.” I was no exception. Being othered is heartbreaking for most and confusing for many. I could not reconcile what I learned in the classroom with what I experienced in the playground. If citizenship was my birthright, why was I being told to go back to where I came from? I was born in California. My dad tried to caution me many times. “Kyurie-ya, you must remember that, no matter how much it feels like it, you will never belong here.” These warnings were informed by a decade of racist encounters, and his experiences were further exacerbated by the inability to fully express his frustration or fight back in English. He spoke from his scarred heart, seeking to protect me from the pain he had endured from the moment he stepped foot in this country. I argued and cried, trying to convince my father that I do, in fact, belong here. US-born and US-raised, how much
more American could I get? At that time, I didn’t understand the crux of his message: you will never be acknowledged as an American because you will always be perceived as Asian. We talked at each other for many years to come. In college, I dyed my hair blonde and avoided the Asian American Cultural Center like my life depended on it. I purged my iPhone of K-pop and learned every word to Mr. Brightside. I donned flannels and envied my friends who were rich enough to buy Patagonia half-zips. I resented my Asian and Asian American peers who walked in groups, unbothered and chatting loudly, to the nearest boba place. I vowed never to be “that kind of Asian.” But no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I stood out like shrimp tails in a cereal box. I was the only person of Asian descent in my college a cappella, where I spent much of my time learning “classics” I had never heard before. The
