My name is Lauren Yu, but I also identify as 유정민 (pronounced as “you jungmin”).

I was born in the United States, but my parents and my older brother were born and raised in South Korea. Growing up, I knew my appearance and language were different from my white counterparts, but I never thought much of it.

From a time before I could remember, I developed a basic conversational level in Korean, which is how I barely surpassed the language barrier between me and my parents.

My identity as a Korean and as an American never prevented me from doing anything. However, as I grew up in a fairly white neighborhood, I didn’t feel ashamed of being Asian until I was identified as a “chink.” I questioned my appearance, and I always tried to open my eyes widely when I met people or when I posed for pictures.

I wondered why I couldn’t have been born white with big, multicolored eyes.

In middle school, my mom would pack me Korean lunches with doenjang and kimchi, which are side dishes/ingredients known to have strong scents, and my non-Asian friends were always curious and repulsed by how my food appeared and smelled. I asked my mom to pack me generic, “white lunches,” such as mac and cheese and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, instead of somewhat inadequate, strange Korean food.

Fast forward to high school. In a predominantly Hispanic school, I found myself getting along with other Koreans at my school. Having grown up with mostly white friends and a few Korean friends, it was an eye-opening experience for me to be surrounded by Korean friends.

Most of my friends were born in America, but they managed to keep a strong grip on their Korean roots and were able to speak, read, and write Korean at speeds that were unbeknownst to me. They were able to type in Korean at such incredible speeds, and all I could do was gawk as I struggled to type a few words in the time they wrote a few sentences.

However, with time, I became more comfortable with bringing Korean food, especially since my friends all brought the same “smelly” foods. We even joked about how we could clear a whole hallway simply with the smells of our lunch.

One day, we were just casually talking, and I remember that I needed directions to some place. Mind you, my Korean vocabulary was incredibly lacking. Without this knowledge prior to our conversation, my friend started to give me directions in Korean, but I couldn’t understand the “big” words she was using — the words were “left” and “right.” When I stopped her mid-sentence and asked for a translation, she hesitated, but she translated for me.

After I had left, I later found out that she had ridiculed me for not knowing something a 5-year-old should know.

The shame I felt was so overbearing. I blamed my parents for not adequately investing in my language education when I was younger. Every time someone asked me about my ethnicity, I would say Korean, but I was quick to add that I wasn’t fluent in the language.

I was so embarrassed of myself, and I reprimanded myself for my inability to understand, write, or read Korean fluently.

I decided to take things into my own hands and challenged myself to learn more about the Korean language and culture. I joined clubs pertaining to Korean, such as Liberty in North Korea (LiNK), used my basic conversational skills to talk to my friends and family, watched Korean dramas and movies, and listened to Korean music. I also went to a secondary school to take Korean classes, which I, fortunately, received credit for at my school.

Without a doubt, it was hard for me to learn Korean because I struggled with insecurities about my lack of proper pronunciation and knowledge, but now I can confidently say that I am proud to be a Korean-American.