The Weight Between Two Worlds

Credits: https://www.commarts.com/project/26264/asian-american-identity

My school lunch was never accepted.

My white tablemate at school looked at me during lunch and told me, "Ew, Olivia, what is that? Is that Chinese food?" 

I looked down at my food, flustered. "No, it's Korean food..." I said. 

Some would say I eat dogs and cats. Ironically enough, many times I would be eating American food and still be made fun of. For instance, when I brought ravioli for lunch in an attempt to blend in with others, fingers were still pointed at me.

As a Korean American who grew up in a predominantly white community in Albany, New York, it was normal for me to get stared at by white families, comfortable, even. At home, I would speak in Korean and immerse myself in my own culture. I was surrounded by Korean TV shows, Korean music, and most importantly, my first-generation immigrant parents.

Compared to where I live now, I used to live in a community where our Asian markets were smaller than a nearby gas station. The Korean church was in a rundown building, full of rats running around and contaminated with dust.

Back then, I was in second grade, but I was always aware of the underlying racism in every comment. Now, as a high schooler in 2026, things look a little different. The morals I am taught by friends and teachers around me often differ from the Korean values I was raised with. Being a second-generation Asian American means being born in the U.S. under parents who immigrated here. It's beyond being a child of an immigrant; it means being caught between two worlds that don't always speak the same language, literally or otherwise.

Despite the tension that comes with that, growing up between two cultures has shaped me in ways I wouldn't trade.

PROS

The greatest advantage for me is the ability to speak two completely different languages. Korean brings me a sense of identity, a sense of home. English, the most widely spoken language in the world, opens doors and provides opportunities beyond my home country. I stand on the fine line between South Korea and the U.S. Without my ability to speak Korean fluently, I would lose the thin connection I hold with my extended family in Korea.

The meaning of family carries a completely different weight in Korea compared to the U.S., and nowhere is that clearer than at the dinner table.

In Korea, dinner time is gold. It's the opportunity to talk about your day and share a full conversation with your family during an otherwise bustling schedule of tutors and studying. It begins with a simple setup: a bowl of rice, a pair of chopsticks, and a spoon. If you're feeling fancy, maybe even a holder for your chopsticks and spoon. And if you dare to eat before an elder, expect a look from your mother that could stop time. Dinner is specifically reserved for family, and that time is sacred.

In the U.S., dinner doesn't carry the same weight. If you have the chance to eat something, you grab whatever you want and eat by yourself. Maybe you eat at 5, your dad eats at 9, and your mom eats at 7. Younger me could never wrap her head around the idea of eating something small, alone, and calling it dinner.

CONS

As days go by, I feel heavier physically and mentally. I turn around and see the different dead weights of expectations. Academically, I see myself higher than my peers. However, I am nowhere near the level of my fellow Koreans. The daughters and sons of my mother's friends always seem to reach heights I never could. Over 10 APs and not a single B on their report cards. The devastation settles in me, as I have failed to meet the expectations of getting straight A's in rigorous classes once again. Before or even after a test, my nails are brittle, breaking away at the ends. My mouth is unable to stay away from my fingernails. My heart races faster than the seconds ticking down before a test is handed back, a new weight.

A shadow casts over me every time I look in the mirror, convinced it is distorting what I see. My arms look thicker than last time, and the gap between my thighs is gone. I tried to catch up to the Korean beauty standard, but it seemed to be running too, always farther ahead. Unlike the beauty standard, I don't have a V-shaped jaw or a thin body. The comments from my family don't stop. "Seems like your head is getting bigger." "It looks like you're getting healthier." "All of your friends look 20 pounds lighter than you", a new weight.

I am caught in a tornado of two different worlds, and I am somewhere in the eye of it. In the midst of all of this, I remember once again my parents, who have crossed the ocean to give their daughter a life they never had the chance to live themselves. The daughter who is stuck in the distorted reflection of herself, at the dinner table, in the school cafeteria. Just recently, I have realized the gift of unfamiliarity.