If I told you I felt like a white person, would you look at me funny?

In all honesty, you probably would—I don't look like the average caucasian girl—but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. To the naked eye I am of Asian descent, but what I look like isn’t the entire story.

At four months old I arrived in the United States from Korea to live with my adoptive family. My parents are tall, pale, and blue-eyed, which is very different from myself. Of course, at the ripe age of four months old, I didn’t think anything of my tall, pale, blue-eyed parents; they were just Mom and Dad.

By the time I was old enough to go to kindergarten I wanted that full head of blonde hair all of my friends had; having gone to a predominately white pre-school, light hair was the only thing I saw. My parents had already talked to me about my adoption story at this point. I didn’t really understand. It was explained to my five year old self why I didn’t look the way Mom and Dad did, but I didn’t think anything of it. They were still just Mom and Dad.

My suburban middle school was the same: no dark haired girls or boys, only light brown and blonde ones, though it became clear to me now that I was labelled as "Asian." I had almond-shaped eyes (that the kids would make fun of me for), tan skin, and almost black hair. I had seen my adoption papers by now—hard, concrete evidence that I was not biologically related to my parents and that I was, indeed, "Asian."

Was I really, though? Sure, I look like I’m from Korea, but do I feel like it?

When high school came so did the answer. I was pleasantly surprised at the amount of dark hair and skin I saw. In hindsight, it wasn’t much compared to other high schools, but it was still a strikingly huge difference. I came home that day, proud that I had made friends who had almond-shaped eyes and tan skin. It wasn’t long until I realized that my new dark-haired friends spoke different languages with their parents. My one friend who was also from Korea spoke Korean to her parents on the phone, and my friend whose parents were Chinese spoke Chinese at home. A little confused, I began to really think about where I came from.

Am I from Korea? Yes, no doubt about that. But am I culturally Korean? Nope. No doubt about that, either.

Now, whenever I fill out papers that ask for my race, I check off the box that says “white” or “Caucasian,” because I do not feel as if my background is congruent with other people of the same skin tone, eye type, and hair color. If you looked at me funny before, that’s alright. I look Asian and, biologically, I am. But my true roots come from my tall, pale, blue-eyed parents and their culture. I was not raised in Korea, nor was I brought up by my birth parents. But my real, adoptive family will always be the people with whom I identify because, after all, they’re just Mom and Dad.