We are talking about Diversity in my Organizational Behavior class, and our assignment was to talk about our first memory of feeling different than others. I grew up in Flushing, Queens where I was one of many Korean faces.  It wasn’t until our family moved to Long Island, NY that I realized I was different.  I’m not sure if this is my first memory but it certainly is one of the more painful ones:

My parents both worked long hours at their small wholesale store in Manhattan, so they were never able to attend any of our events at school, like winter concerts, bake sales, or book sales.  This never bothered me in Flushing. All of my friends’ parents worked. But when we moved to Long Island, I had a very difficult time adjusting to second grade.  Letters were sent home to my parents about my problematic behaviors and my outbursts.  Believe me, you’ve never seen an angrier game of Red Rover. I have a faint memory of my storming away when I couldn’t break the other line. If you know me at all, you’d know I am a fairly taciturn rule-follower. You might say that I am practically a free-spirit now compared to how I was as a child.  My outbursts were highly uncharacteristic of me, which concerned my mother.  That’s probably why she signed up to volunteer for the book sale.

I was sent to the front office to meet my mother. I starkly remember us walking down the hall.  My mom-jean-sweatshirt-and-fake-Reebok-wearing mom dressed up for the occasion, wearing a brown A-line skirt with matching jacket.  She even wore heels!  (I’m tearing up as a I write this.) I walked ten feet in front of her down that long hallway, pretending I didn’t know her.  One right turn and we’d be at my classroom. She would meet all of my friends and my teacher. I was so embarrassed by her broken English and her heavy accent.  And I was so embarrassed that she had come to school all dressed up when the other moms were wearing leggings and baggy sweaters with their perfectly-styled Aqua Net hair and frosted lips.  If I could put language to it then I might have asked, or accused, rather, “Why does she look so Asian??”  I’m sure I broke her heart that day.  I didn’t know it then but I tried so very hard to compartmentalize my Asian-ness or any kind of different-ness in this community of white faces. 

When I was young, I struggled a great deal with looking, sounding, feeling different.  I remember wishing I could have blond hair and blue eyes.  Also, because my skin is darker than other Koreans (my father is from Jeju Island), I wished for lighter skin and everything that went along with white skin.  In Asia, “whiteness” has always been equated with beauty (oof, the history behind that!!), so I felt early on that I was not beautiful in Korea or America.  It’s not that I wanted to be known for beauty but when a child is made to believe that they can’t be something at such a young age, it really limits their world and their imagination for what could be – “What is available to me then?”  I think I have spent the rest of my life delineating, oftentimes inaccurately, what kinds of opportunities are options for me and what kinds of opportunities are not.  As a careful, perfectionistic person, I have tended to err on the side of unavailable opportunities – “I can’t do that.”  Needless to say, the very thought of applying to Northwestern’s SLPD program was an incredible leap into unchartered emotional territories. 

I’m learning to dismantle some of those compartments. “Different” does not equal “Can’t.”  Logically speaking, those shouldn’t be analogous, but somehow, they are. When our twins were littler, one of them (the one with lighter skin) asked me if my skin was different than his.  I had an inkling that this could be a kind of restorative opportunity and I tentatively answered, “Yes.” He looked at me carefully, hugged me, and ran off to play. Simple as that.  Everyday I’m learning to take another leap toward a previously unavailable opportunity, both big and small, and, let’s be honest, I am hoping that each movement will be met with a hug.