So I Married a Non-Korean
Previously published in January 2005
During the wedding reception of a Korean friend who was marrying a Korean, I ran into a Korean classmate from college. We said hello and gave abbreviated updates on our lives. Minutes into this conversation, I pointed out my husband. Then the classmate asked me a question.
“You never did like Koreans, did you?” he said.
**
When I was a little girl, I used to tell myself that I would marry a Korean guy. It was something my mom told me—not as advice, but a decree. Seeing that it fit the model of most families at my church, I figured it was worth adopting. The problem was I hardly knew Korean boys existed—there were few Asians in my neighborhood and school.
Later I enrolled at an Adventist college that had a substantial Korean population—a fact that was not lost on me. Going to college meant, among other things, meeting date-able, marry-able Koreans. But it wouldn’t be that easy. Whether or not I was, I felt like the proverbial sore thumb among Korean students. I was the big, brassy girl, majoring in a subject with no “pre” attachments. Everything about me, in the context of my ethnic peers, felt misplaced. I found friends, some ill-considered infatuations, but few kindred spirits and no soul mates. I had been indoctrinated to marry Korean. What was a girl to do?
I did the only thing I could. I fell in love.
I first noticed him in the Funnybook, my college’s thinly veiled dating catalog that included photographs, dating statuses, and hobbies. But it wasn’t his picture that caught my eye. It was the statement he had chosen for himself—the allotted two-line space for a person’s tagline.
“Addicted to placebos,” he had written.
I found it clever. It wasn’t even original—some girl had written the same thing—but I chuckled and was intrigued. He worked at the same place I did. Occasionally we spoke, but only in passing and for work-related reasons. Then one day, he asked me what my favorite Shakespeare play was as he fiddled with the paper cutter next to my desk. Another time I asked him his favorite movie. We found out we had both been raised in Central California; the shared tribulation was a bond.
There was one thing we didn’t have in common. I was Korean. He was not.
***
Growing up, I couldn’t help but feel estranged because of my Korean heritage. It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, I just felt different from everyone else. The language we used at home to describe ourselves (han guk sah lam) versus the people around us (mee guk sah lam) perpetuated the belief that I was living a borrowed existence, despite being a citizen of the United States. It was jarring to catch my reflection in public places where people surrounded me. I honed in on how different I looked. I did not fit, and the world became a dichotomy of Korean and not.
When I got to college, I made few friends outside the Korean circle. I saw it as an ethnic haven; a respite from perceived alienation. Yet things weren’t perfect in the ghetto either. I looked the same as everyone else, but other than our race I had little in common with the majority crowd. Nonetheless, I stayed and paid little attention to dating potentials outside this pool.
Then in the middle of my college career, the girls from my English classes started asking me to their social gatherings. We had a lot in common; we shared dreams about becoming writers, poets, artists. They were kindred spirits. I learned to define myself by what I loved and released myself from predetermined labels of cultural heritage, religion, and societal background. When I recognized that I had a choice in building my own identity, my life changed. I grew more confident. I made more friends. I tried new things. I became color blind while the world gained new colors.
By the time I met Milbert I was freed of any mindset that would have prevented me from falling in love with him for no other reason that the fact that we fit.
***
My mother, who was bull-headed about my last non-Korean boyfriend, surprised me by accepting Milbert with little commentary. A part of me wonders if I wore her down during battles past. But something in my heart told me it was more than emotional fatigue. Recently I asked why she never put up a fight.
“Love is beautiful. Love can also be very painful. If I broke you up, we would all be scarred. It would be something we live with for the rest of our lives,” she said. “Of course I would have liked for you to marry a Korean like the other parents do. But a life lived for others, is not a happy one. Life is short, and your life is yours. It’s not mine to take. You have to make your own decisions, decisions that will make you happy.”
I admit I’m blessed. I’ve heard horror stories about families torn apart by interracial marriage. There are parents who work themselves into frenzies and drive wedges into the heart of their families. It’s understandable. Interracial marriages come with a lot of hazard warnings. There are language hurdles, misunderstood customs, awkwardness between in-laws, food issues, and the muddling of Korean lineage.
But with my generation, those concerns could accompany an ethnically correct spouse. I rarely meet fellow Koreans of my age who can speak the language. My mom’s friend complains that her Korean son-in-law doesn’t like kim chee. I know a gal who is doing her best to avoid living near her husband’s demanding mother.
And here’s another thing. After four years of marriage, despite my interracial marriage, culture has never been a factor in any one of our arguments. My biggest regret in all this is that we elected not to do the Korean wedding ceremony following our western reception. If I could turn back time, I would definitely have my husband and I dance piggybacked circles in front of my relatives, wearing absurd, beautiful headgear.
After all, I love the rituals of my culture—waking to seaweed soup on my birthday, bowing all the way to the ground on New Year’s morning, and using a formal version of language to address our elders. I’m grateful I never have to let them go. The exquisite details of my culture will always be a part of our lives. They aren’t relinquished based on decisions we make about love.
***
“You never did like Koreans, did you?” he asked. Smug.
“No, it’s not that,” I stammered.
I should have told him ethnic homogeny wasn’t important in my vision of marriage. That my marriage was not an act of disloyalty to my culture or family. I should have said that I no longer file people into racial categories, including myself. That I chose to tear down the fences I built up in my mind. That when I look at my reflection, I like who I see.
I don’t remember the details of the moment his question floated in wait of an answer. But perhaps I was thinking of the first time Milbert ever talked to me. Or the moment I realized he was The One. I might have heard his boyish laugh—the sound I adore—over the noise of the wedding reception. Or maybe I happened to catch his smile from across the table.
“It’s not that.”
It wasn’t that at all.