The Cultural Hybrid: A Confused Identity

“Where are you from?”  For many people, this is a simple question to answer.  My mother, for example - born and raised to adulthood in Alabama, her parents and other family members still living there; she doesn’t have to think twice when answering that question.  But for many of us, there is no easy answer to this question.  Where am I from?  As in…where I was born?  Or where I spent the most years?  Or where I call home?  Or where my family lives now?  What do you mean when you ask, “Where are you from?”

You see, my family and I moved to South Korea when I was three years old.  They prayerfully left their family and friends to move to a foreign land as missionaries, and I received the unexpected and amazing gift of culture, experience, and perspective I never would have had if they had not answered God’s call.  Korea is my home.  It will always be my home.  It is not, however, my parents’ home.  And that is why I am what you call a Third Culture Kid.  Basically, I grew up being exposed to three separate cultures – my parents’, that of the country in which I lived, and that of the expatriate community living in that country.  And, as most TCKs will tell you, that makes it very difficult to identify with, well, anyone completely.

When I moved to the States to attend university, the “where are you from” question was asked in almost every conversation.  We were all getting to know each other, and “where are you from” is a natural thing to ask.  Most of my fellow students had it easy.  If they were from out of state, they named the state they were from – Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia.  If they were from in state, they named the city or town – Mobile, Montgomery, Homewood.  Such responses were usually met with a response of recognition and delight.  “Oh, my cousin lives there!”  Or “I went there for my best friend’s wedding. It was so beautiful!”  Or the best, “You are kidding me! Do you know so-and-so?”  So natural.  So friendly.  A conversation starter.

When they asked me, I would glance awkwardly around, trying to decide what to say.  After all, what did they really want to know?  And then I’d finally blurt out, “Korea. I am from Korea,” holding my breath to see what they would say.  The response to this was usually blank stares.  Occasionally, the conversation would lead down a productive path, discussing differences in culture or what kind of missionary work my parents did.  More often than not, however, I got the kind of responses that made me want to crawl in a hole and disappear – not because I was embarrassed, but because it made me feel so utterly…different.  Comments like, “Wow, you don’t LOOK Korean.”  Or “That’s where we fought the Vietnam War, right?”  Or “So does that mean you can talk Chinese?”  Or my all-time favorite, “Korea. Now, what part of Alabama is that?”  How could I hide my incredulity?  My astonishment at their ignorance?  After a few months of these responses, I changed my answer.

Stranger: “Where are you from?”

Me: “My grandparents live in Fayette. It’s northwest of Tuscaloosa.”

Stranger: “Oh, I know Fayette! My brother lives up near there….”

Me: Sigh of relief. Awkward conversation avoided.

Ironically, I fell into the “where are you from” trap myself once.  We were having some sort of freshman party out on the quad, and I saw this Asian girl from afar.  She looked Korean, and I was drawn to her.  I hadn’t seen an Asian face in months.  I just had to know if she was Korean.  I started imagining all the things we could share with each other.  Conversations in Korean, memories of Korea, Korean food, inside jokes that nobody else would understand.  Maybe she went to a Korean church and I could go with her!  Maybe her family lived nearby and I could hang out with them!  Maybe we could sit on the floor and eat kimchi jjiggae together!

I ran up to her, practically jumping on her in my excitement, and blurted out, “Hi! I am Jamie! Where are you from?”  Yeah.  Totally NOT the right thing to say.  She glared at me and snapped, “Atlanta. Why?” then turned and stormed away.  I remember just standing there, rooted to that spot while the disappointment and loss swept over me.  How did I just make such a ridiculous mistake?  How could I have been so insensitive?  How could I have just alienated the only Asian on campus?  What is WRONG with me?

Now that I am older and wiser, I am better able to answer the “where are you from” question.  I can usually deduce from the preceding conversation whether the person I am speaking with wants a quick and uncomplicated answer, a detailed and personal response, or something in between.  As such, I can tell them where I am currently living, that I grew up in Korea, or where I was born here in the States.  It helps that the stark fear and apprehension I once felt upon hearing this question is no longer an issue, and I can nonchalantly address the question without making others feel like they have mistakenly opened a can of worms.

Growing up overseas has affected me in many more ways than just confusing me about where I am from, however.  It has defined who I am.  I know I look like your typical white girl, but inside I mostly feel Korean.  Culturally, I identify much more with Koreans than I fear I ever will with Americans.  Koreans, in general, have a more profound respect for authority, age, and experience.  The language and customs are designed to show respect to elders through speech patterns, body language, and even names.  Koreans also tend to put a greater emphasis on education and hard work.  Traditional Korean architecture is stunningly beautiful, as is the natural landscape of the country.  When I sing the national anthem, I feel immense pride referring to the great mountains, rivers, and national flower of Korea.  Not to mention the fact that I have a great appreciation for all forms of Korean art, music, dance, and most of all…cuisine.  I yearn for Korean food so much that my body actually feels sick if I have gone too long without eating kimchi. 

Don’t get me wrong, I have pride in my United States culture, too.  After all, I am a US citizen.  I feel pride in our history and the beliefs our country was founded on.  The natural beauty of the country is varied and unique.  However, there is always a part of me when I am here that misses home.  There is always a part of me that doesn’t quite feel right – that doesn’t quite fit in.  I realized this fully the first time I returned to Korea after leaving for university.  As I stepped off the plane, after that fourteen hour flight, I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders.  I almost dropped to my knees to kiss the ground like Kevin Costner does in Robin Hood.  I didn’t, because let’s face it, I was in an airport and thousands of microscopic international germs could have been infesting the carpet under my feet, but I sure felt that way.  And it has been that way every time.  I step off the plane in Korea and a feeling of normalcy returns.  Korea is the place I know.  Korea is the place that knows me.  Korea is home.

Nothing could be more clear to me than this when I started teaching in Alabama after my years in university concluded.  It was hard enough to be in a foreign place as a university student, but I had my studies to distract me, and, let’s face it, everyone feels a little displaced in college.  Once I was out in the real world, however, I simply couldn’t cope.  Parents and teachers who made excuses for students’ lack of effort?  Students who didn’t study for tests or do their homework?  Parent-teacher conferences in which I literally understood about fifty percent of what the parent was saying because her grammar was so deplorable?  Eventually, I cracked.  I ran back home where things would make sense again.  I ran back to Korea.

And now, here I am, eleven years later, living in Connecticut.  Of all the places in the world that I would end up.  Connecticut.  I am here because my stepdaughers’ mother decided to live here.  That’s it.  I have no familial connection to this place.  As far as I am concerned, this is about as foreign a place as I have ever visited.  Thankfully, I do speak the local language, I recognize most of the foods at the grocery store, and I am licensed to drive here.  But, it is not home.  Here, I am what is called a hidden immigrant.  I look like a local.  I sound like a local.  I blend in pretty well, despite my slight southern accent.  But in my heart, I feel I have very little in common with those around me.  If I had long black hair, olive skin, and a slight Korean accent, people would understand my discomfort or lack of cultural understanding.  If I started a sentence with, “Where I come from…” people would expect to hear me describe a cultural difference.  There might even be a little grace if I misunderstood a common expression or misinterpreted a body signal.  Instead, my hesitation or confusion is just assumed to be social awkwardness.  Oh, to look on the outside the way I feel inside.

So, where does this leave me?  Well, I have come to see living in Connecticut as I would living in any other foreign country – a cultural and personal learning experience.  As I emerge slowly from my shell and share my life story with others, I learn more about the great things Connecticut has to offer.  I also learn that there are many others living here whose homes are elsewhere.  I am finding that my connections to others do not have to be cultural, but can be personal and reach beyond cultural differences.  You would think this would have been a lesson I’d learned long ago, but I think God finds ways to stretch us and broaden our understandings through each phase of life in His own timing.

And above all the confusion I have felt over the years, I have mostly felt a great sense of gratitude.  I am grateful that my parents answered God’s call.  I am grateful to have been able to grow up in Korea.  I am grateful to have a second language floating around in my head.  I am grateful to have many Korean and expatriate friends with whom I can still communicate frequently.  I am grateful that I was able to return to Korea as an adult to live and learn and grow.  I am grateful that my family shares a love of Korea and Korean culture.  I am grateful that my husband lived in Korea as an adult and shares a love of Korean cuisine.  I am grateful for the cultural foundation I built in Korea, because it has driven me to educational excellence.  I am grateful for the friends I have made who do not share my cultural confusion, but who love me as I am regardless.  I am grateful for every road God has led me down, because those paths have brought me here and have made me who I am today.

The Wicked Stepmother

Growing up, I always wanted to be a mother.  I changed my dolls’ diapers, cradled them, swaddled them, and put them down for their naps.  I imagined all my children gathered around the dinner table, happily sharing a family meal.  I dreamed of being a mother…not a stepmother. 

Who dreams of being a stepmother?  No one.  That’s right.  Euripides said, “Better a serpent than a stepmother!”  She swoops in and bewitches Cinderella’s papa, then makes her a servant in her own home.  She is so jealous of Snow White’s beauty, she sends the woodsman to kill her.  She is evil.  Wicked to the core.  Children, beware!  Try explaining these characters to your stepdaughters as they look up at you, making the connection to that word - STEPMOTHER - in their innocent little brains.

Stereotypes and generalizations aside, being a stepmother is hard.  Really, really hard.  The day I got married, I instantly became a mother in all but title to twin two-year-old girls.  Since then, I have wiped bottoms, bought clothes, made school lunches, driven them to and from school, planned birthday parties, made crafts, bandaged boo-boos, given baths, kissed away tears, mopped up spilled milk, rinsed vomit out of my clothes and theirs, provided nutritious home-cooked meals, encouraged frightened girls into the swimming pool, sternly clarified boundaries and expectations, gently wiped raw noses, danced in my pajamas, cleaned accidents in the middle of the night, hidden Christmas presents from Santa, answered countless questions about life, swept up broken shards of my favorite dishes, held sick girls in my arms through sleepless nights, mediated disagreements, decorated birthday cakes, volunteered at school, given cooking lessons, taken them on their first amusement park rides, and so much, much more.  And yet, at the end of the day, I am not their mommy. I have no legal rights.  In fact, if my husband died tomorrow, I would likely never be allowed to see my daughters again.  As far as the law is concerned, my role in their lives is insignificant.  Not even worth mentioning, and certainly not valuable enough to protect.

Being a stepmother means carrying the weight and responsibility of parenting your children without having the ability to make decisions about how to raise them.  What school is best for them?  Are they ready to have sleepovers with friends?  Should they be drinking milk every day?  Can they wear those Disney shoes they like so much to school?  What punishment is appropriate?  How much technology should they be exposed to?  Where will they spend their vacations?  Which days do they spend with Mommy, and which days do they spend with Papa?  Should they get the flu shot?  Can they eat candy after dinner?  All those questions that parents grapple with – I have no part in answering them.  My opinion, even my professional opinion as an early childhood educator, means absolutely nothing.  I know this, because I naively asked my husband’s co-parenting counselor once to help me define my role and find my place in the decision-making process.  She looked at me like that was the wildest thing she had ever heard and explained to me that I am not the parent, and I don’t get to make decisions.  She even went so far as to say that it wasn’t necessary for me to be privy to the conversations or decisions my husband made with his ex-wife, because I shouldn’t be doing any real parenting.  It was then I realized that to her, and to many I meet, I am nothing more than a glorified babysitter.  A body in the room, and little more.

It is a fascinating thing to watch a person’s face when you tell them you are the stepmother.  You see, my daughters look a lot like me.  Every person we encounter initially assumes they are my biological daughters, and I do not correct them unless it becomes necessary through the course of the conversation.  Usually by that point in the exchange, we have discussed things like how beautiful they are, how well-behaved, what grade they are in, that they are indeed twins, how well dressed they are, and more.  Then, the other person will ask some sort of awkward question about their birth or my experience as a mother of twin infants, and I have to tell them, “Well, I am not sure, because I am their stepmother.”  I’ll tell you this much: it is a great way to end a friendly conversation.  They often look at me with a mixture of confusion, distaste, uncertainty, and annoyance – I think maybe at the fact that they just gave me a bunch of compliments that were clearly undeserved since I am only the stepmother.  I am not sure why, since blended families are so common these days, but many people speak to me differently once they realize I am just a stepparent.  It’s like they assume I don’t know anything about parenting, and they’re not really sure that I should be trusted with the children.

To top it all off, I simply do not like the term “stepmother.”  I knew this going into it.  STEPmother.  STEPdaughter.  What does that mean, exactly?  A step down?  A step away?  Step aside?  As soon as my husband and I were engaged, I began thinking about what I should be called.  All versions of the word mother, even stepmother, were out.  I knew his ex-wife would never approve.  Most stepmoms go by their first name, but that idea didn’t sit well with me.  I am from the South, where kids just don’t call adults by their first name.  So, I settled on a pet name: Imo.  It means “auntie” in Korean, which is where I grew up.  It feels good.  My own special name in my own special family.  I have always been “Imo” to my stepdaughters, which is why they were completely thrown off kilter when their preschool teachers told them I was their stepmother.  STEPMOTHER?  One of my daughters spent two full months getting used to me again, all because of that word - stepmother.

Honestly, I think it had more to do with the fact that they heard the word “mother” in there.  I never claimed to be their mother, but it was an intriguing idea to them.  The girls even tried it out a couple times, calling me “Mommy” instead of “Imo,” just to see how it felt.  One day, one of them brought me a card from school with the word “Mommy” written on it.  When she handed it to me, I encouraged her to give it to her mother, but she insisted that she had made it for me and that it said “step-mommy.”  I knew she didn’t know how to spell stepmom or Imo, so I opened the letter – a paper in the shape of a heart with a picture of the box crusher at the grocery store hastily drawn on it.  I ooh’ed and ahh’ed and stuck it on the refrigerator.  A few days later, my poor husband was lambasted by his ex-wife because I was apparently stealing the precious cards that her daughters made for her at school.  This is when the girls started telling me, “Mommies make babies in their tummies.  You did not make a baby in your tummy, so you can not be a mommy.”  And it was then that my dear Sweet Girl pulled away from me.  She wouldn’t hug me for a month, and she started only wanting her papa to buckle her in, hold her hand, fix her hair.  It was heart-wrenching.  I knew she was just reacting to the fact that her mom was so emotionally compromised by the new term and the confusion that I might also be their mother, but it hurt.  Even to this day, Sweet Girl will say something like, “These beans are really good…[long pause]…but they are better at Mommy’s house.”  As though enjoying herself when she is with me is a betrayal of her mother’s love.  I wish, oh, how I wish it didn’t have to be so confusing for her sweet, sensitive heart.

Can there be anything redeeming about being a stepmother?  Hard to imagine, right?  But, yes.  There are actually some really great perks that come with being a stepmother.  The first is what I like to call “part-time parenting.”  That’s right.  We have the girls for about half of their waking hours, and during those hours, we devote all our attention and time to them.  We play board games.  We make dinner together.  We paint and make crafts with glitter and jewels.  We play dress up, dance around the house, and decorate sugar cookies.  And when they are gone, I get to clean up without wondering what new mess is being made in the other room.  I get to go to the movies, spend lazy mornings in bed with my husband, eat junk for dinner, and do pretty much whatever I want to do.  It’s great.

But by far the most rewarding perk about being a stepmother is my daughters themselves.  I suppose I am a little prejudiced, but I think they are the best kids in the world.  No children are as beautiful, as smart, as funny, or as pleasant as my two daughters.  They make my heart melt when they give me juicy wet kisses, and I feel warm pride spread through my body as I watch them help younger kids at school.  Their bright smiles can drive away the weariness of my day.  Their constant curiosity makes me feel young again.  The way they approach life with carefree abandon makes my heart soar with love for them.  I couldn’t possibly imagine my life without them.

So, no, it was never my hope or dream to be a stepmother, but this is what I am.  And each day I have been a stepmother has been a blessing.