Growing up Korean American in Chicago is an experience that’s not easy to describe.
I had a diverse group of friends from all kinds of backgrounds during my adolescent and teenage years. I was born in Evanston and was raised mostly in North Park, where my neighbors were Orthodox Jew, Black, Middle Eastern, European, Latino and Asian.
In a community rich in culture, I was discovering my Korean identity.
Through my Catholic church, I was surrounded by many Koreans. Yet it was hard to connect with them, as most had a different upbringing from what I did.
My childhood was one of constant instability. I was shunted among various family members’ homes, particularly after my parents’ divorce.
I briefly lived in northern Virginia with my mother but was sent by plane back to Chicago by myself at 6 years old.
I saw my mother only once afterward and learned many years later she had died by suicide. To this day, there is little I know about her passing.
As long as I can remember, my grandmother supported my father from the money she made at her store, Wonang Hanbok, which she opened in 1996 after my grandfather passed away.
She had a partner in South Korea who exported colorful hanboks, traditional Korean clothing, along with jewelry, blankets and other traditional accessories.
Early on, Grandma’s shop was also our home. It stood on Bryn Mawr between Kimball and Kedzie. For about a year, I lived there with my younger brother and other family members who immigrated to the States from South Korea.
We slept on hardwood floors with thick blankets in the traditional Korean style. Since there was no bathtub, we filled up a small, plastic tub with water and bathed in the basement. I remember being bullied in school for wearing the same clothing day after day. It hurt to realize that I was not affluent.
I contemplated taking my life many times.
Wonang Hanbok steadily thrived and later moved to a larger location a few blocks away. Success came before the Great Recession, especially because my grandmother had a reputation for expertly planning pyebaeks, traditional Korean wedding ceremonies.
We no longer needed to live at the store and moved to a house, where I had my own room for the first time.
Unfortunately, our time in our new home was short as my father and I moved to Arizona a few years later.
I eventually ran away and found my way back to Chicago as my father unsuccessfully ran a restaurant in a small town called Three Points.
Our relationship had gotten worse, and I decided to become independent of him and support myself financially.
Through many years of self-healing, I found purpose in life.
My grandmother remained at her store until low sales and theft forced a move to a smaller location in Niles. Every once in a while, I drive by where Wonang Hanbok used to be on Bryn Mawr and, instead of tears falling, I feel a sense of pride.
My life’s hardships made me realize how much I have overcome. I’m a mom. I would never want my son to grow up the way I did.
Because I am Asian, people make assumptions about me. But I hope my story teaches people not to judge a person by how they look.
I have learned that my Korean identity is not defined by past traditions or societal expectations but rather how I create that identity on my terms.
I am the first in my family to break away from generational trauma, and that is definitely worth living for.
