As a child, I believed that Americans were either Asian or Polynesian. I was born and raised in Honolulu, Hawaii until I was 7. My parents had moved there from Seoul, South Korea for my dad to pursue his master’s degree at the University of Hawaii.

As the child of an international student, most of the people I saw growing up were the families of other international students from Korea, China, Japan, and other Asian countries. My classmates in grade school and our neighbors were all of Asian descent or Polynesian. The only white people I saw were from a place called “the Mainland” — and they were mostly tourists.

The author, bottom left, with her father, her brother (held by his father), and her sister in Hawaii circa 1987.

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I understood that my parents were not from America, and that English was definitely not their primary language.

But in my young mind, I believed that Americans looked like me, and that America was a melting pot of Asian and Pacific Islanders living together.

American in Utah

Then, when I was 7, my perspective changed entirely.

My family moved to Logan, Utah, a small city two hours north of Salt Lake City. My dad had decided to pursue his PhD at Utah State University, moving our family away from the beautiful ocean, the close-knit Korean community, and the largely diverse state of Hawaii to a landlocked state of snowy mountains, lacking in Asian representation.

The author, far left, with her parents and siblings hiking in Utah, 1993.

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In Utah, I realized for the first time that I was a racial minority.

I had never before felt that I or my family were so different from others. In Utah, I quickly got the impression that being American meant being white, and that oftentimes, it meant being Mormon.

Aside from my brother, sister, and I, there were four or five other Asian American students in our elementary and middle schools. I remember being introduced to my third grade classmates as having “just arrived from Hawaii,” standing at the front of the classroom and realizing that no one else looked like me.

Our family quickly adjusted and thrived in Logan, and my initial culture shock began to wear off. But I always felt different from my peers because of how I looked and all that came with being an immigrant, specifically being Korean American. The food we ate, and the way that my family prepared food, with banchan (side dishes), was different from how all of my other friends ate.

The expectations that my parents had of my siblings and me in school — that we get all As, respect all adults and anyone older than us, and that we go to top colleges — were also different from that of most of my non-immigrant friends’ parents.

I understood that there was nothing wrong with being different, though, and my family embraced our difference.

The author in Utah circa 1995.

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We invited our neighbors and friends that we made to our home so they could experience Korean culture and food. And as I grew older, I realized that I also shared many similarities with my mainly white group of friends in Utah — American values like independence, individualism, a sense of equality and justice, and the value placed on voicing my opinions.

American in Korea

Another move shifted how I saw my Americanness yet again.

When I turned 12, my dad received his PhD, and that ended my family’s time in the U.S. That summer, my family moved back to Seoul. It was the first time in Korea for my siblings and me, and everything felt both familiar and foreign.

Though my family spoke Korean at home when we lived in the U.S., by the time we moved to Korea, my main language was English. My Korean language proficiency was mostly comprehension: I understood what my parents said in Korean, but I responded to them in English.

My parents had tried their best to prepare my siblings and me for the move to Korea by teaching us Korean, Hanja (Chinese characters that are used in Korean), and Korean history, and by practicing common customs at home. But in spite of this, living in Korea and attending Korean public school was a complete culture shock.

Ironically, this time I looked like everyone else but I did not feel like everyone else.

The author, left foreground in black shirt, with her sister and other family members visiting Kyong Bok Palace in Seoul, circa 1999-2000.

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In fact, I never felt more American than while in Korea. Other classmates and friends would often say to me, “You are so American!” in English and Korean. Thinking back, it must have been the way I dressed, how I often communicated directly (Koreans tend to communicate more indirectly), and how I thought.

In high school, I remember sharing my career aspirations with my friends, and their shocked reaction: How could I so brazenly share my ambitious goals and believe it was a possibility for me? But this had been the norm in the U.S., what I was accustomed to.

I also never shied away from asking questions, or seeking help from teachers and classmates to understand school material. This was not a common practice in Korea, either, as my classmates tended to be ashamed if they didn't already have the answers. I, on the other hand, carried around a physical dictionary (smartphones did not exist then) to translate Korean words to English, and would seek out teachers during their breaks for support.

The author, left, and her sister in Seoul in 2002, preparing for that year's World Cup games.

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I eventually became fluent in Korean, and learned and embraced Korean culture and customs. I developed relationships with family members I never knew existed before our move. I could communicate on a deeper level with my parents and came to truly understand them, and by extension, to understand my own identity as a Korean.

American in L.A.

Many years later, after living and studying in Indiana, China, the United Kingdom, and Washington, D.C., I made it to Los Angeles.

My husband and I moved to L.A. in 2015 because of a job opportunity, but also for the weather, food, and West Coast culture. Interestingly, as a college student, I had spent a summer in L.A. for an unpaid internship and had decided it was not the right city for me, mainly due to the scant public transportation I’d struggled with to get across the city every day.

But I was willing to give it another chance — because it was the closest U.S. city on the mainland to Korea, and because of its large Korean community and culture, which I missed. I also had a car by then.

When we arrived in L.A., this time as adults, I felt unexpectedly at ease. I soon realized that this is the first city that truly feels like home to me.

The author and her husband, Chris, at the L.A. County Museum of Art in 2015.

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Courtesy of Soon Kyu Choi

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For the first time, I’m not thinking about where I’ll go next, or planning out goals that will take me to another city. In fact, after eight years, the idea of ever leaving L.A. to live elsewhere makes me sad.

For me, Los Angeles feels like the geographic representation of my identity, with its large immigrant population, accessibility to enclaves with various foods and cultures, and most importantly, the existence of a strong Korean and Korean American community.

Los Angeles Koreatown is not at all like Seoul. Yet it has enough elements to make me feel like I’m in Korea. It feels immersive and relevant. The restaurant and store signs, menus, and billboards are written in Korean, and I can find Korean foods and items that are currently popular in Korea without having to wait months, as I would living somewhere that doesn’t have a large, thriving, Korean population.

That I can take part in and belong to a community with shared customs, culture, and language outside of Korea is priceless to me, as it serves as a conduit to feeling closer to my larger family in Korea. Living in L.A. allows me to seamlessly move in and out of my Korean and American identities, and for them to coexist without having to really think about it.

I don’t have to explain myself to others, or try to make sense of how I fit into the social fabric, because I just do. Even beyond the Korean community, just the fact that many Angelenos have probably had Korean BBQ, eaten soon tofu at BCD, or at least driven through Koreatown helps me feel more at home with the larger L.A. community.

Being American in Los Angeles means being Korean American and my full self. It is no longer something I question or explore. Instead, I think about how growing up in Los Angeles will enrich my children’s exposure and experience of being Korean American, and how they will come to understand their Korean heritage.

Here, we can be Korean and American, in a city where so many Americans look like us.