How Art Can Help Us Explore Bicultural Identity
art by Ana Jacob
When I was growing up, people would play what I like to call the “What Are You?” game with me, and when I would respond “American,” more often than not, they would ask again, “No. But, what are you?”
I understand the questions. We are curious about what may seem different or unique to us.
I grew up in a predominantly white private Christian school. Other cultures were not recognized often other than through our annual observance of “international day.” And, I did not yet identify with either of my cultures. My mother was born in Seoul, Korea and my father was born in Cayambe, Ecuador. My grandparents immigrated to the U.S. when my parents were children. My mom’s native language is Korean and my father’s is Spanish. In order to assimilate into American schools, they both learned English and speak it fluently.
On the other hand, I was born and raised in California. My native language is English, and I can speak limited amounts of Spanish. As I have gotten older, I’ve realized that not being able to speak my parents’ native languages doesn’t mean that I am any less their daughter or any less Korean or Ecuadorian. But, as a child, I didn’t know that.
While I participated in Korean culture like bowing in respect for elders, using chopsticks, and eating Doenjang-jjigae (fermented soybean paste soup) with rice, I also participated in more Latina/o traditions like celebrating Christmas Eve with my dad’s side and opening presents at midnight. I also ate traditional Ecuadorian soups like Sancocho that my great aunt Marcelita cooked. At the time, I didn't realize what these foods meant to my identity.
I know now, as I have learned of others’ experiences, I was not alone in my sense of displaced bicultural experience.
Since then, I hear the occasional, “You look really Asian today” or “You look very Latina today.” I used to ask myself, Well, what made me look so Korean or Ecuadorian today? Was it that my hair was up or down? Was it the colors I wore? I pondered for my teen years and even early twenties for the reason why people had differing views. In the end, it became simple. It must be because, well, both are parts of me.
A lot of stereotypes did nothing for me. People don’t fit in cookie-cutter labels. I was horrible at Math, for instance, and I would get comments like “But, you’re Asian!” These stereotypes may have gone over my head when I was younger and did not necessarily hurt me, but they certainly did not help me digest what it really meant to be both Korean and Ecuadorian.
What did was food and travel. Like the first time I ever visited my family in Ecuador, I came back identifying more closely with my Latina roots. I also returned with more knowledge of the Spanish language. The second time I visited only reinforced how proud I am of and connected I am to that “half” of my identity. I hope for the opportunity to go to Korea next, but whether or not I get the opportunities to travel to my parents’ homelands, I can still explore what they mean to me through my art.
Some may think that none of this matters, but my demographic is asked in every state form I fill out. And instead of letting my identity be defined solely as “Latin” and “Asian” in those forms, I really get to define and explore who I am through the art of poetry.
Two pieces of my poetry that allude to my bicultural experience:
Where You Come From
Underneath the moon,
little children stand on roofs
that look like the ocean,
shimmering green pieces of
broken glass bottles.
The scent of salt
from abuela roasting
kernels of corn floats up
higher and higher.
The children take it
in. The children know
they are not
on a beach. Their parents are
drunk downstairs, so the kids could
be anywhere.
In Quito, the night of the party,
my eyes widen.
I’m staring at strangers ebbing
and flowing
around me,
when Tío catches me
and says,
Everyone here
is family.
On the plane back, all I can think of
are roofs. The broken glass pieces,
a means for protection.
And I’m only fifteen,
but I know what that’s like,
that feels like
home.
Even now, when I think of Ecuador,
I think, every
one.
The Art of Being Invisible
If you look at old photographs of my mom, you’d see her eyes were different. Her mother urged her to cut them open with the slip of a surgeon’s knife. She thought, So American men may be able to see them. And I don’t ask her but sometimes I wonder if mom felt like her new eyes weren’t “windows to the soul” anymore. That when men looked at her, they saw nothing. Which is to say they only saw themselves. People make poor mirrors. I keep having this dream where mom is stuck in a life-sized dollhouse. She stands in front of its big bay windows and pulls their shutters down over and over. Over and over again.
And, what can I do? But stare at old photos and cut holes
where our eyes
should be.
In both poems, the use of a melancholic, yet empowered tone emphasizes my themes of assimilation. My parents and their parents’ lives are complex stories about families who came here, and while I write so that I can connect more to my own identity, I also write so that I can connect to theirs.
It is important for me to make sense of who and where I come from, so that I may be more thoughtful in how I treat others and live my life now. I’m not here to scold anyone out of asking the next person they meet, “What are you?” But, remember that human beings are not a “what.” We are a “who.” And, we may still be figuring out just who we are.
