The Beauty of Immigrants

Joyce Choi

Blog #7

7/22/18

The Beauty of Immigrants

This past Saturday, I was approached by a tourist from China asking if I was Chinese because she needed assistance on how to work the metro and load her card. She was with her family, and they all looked confused and desperate to get help. Coming from an Asian heritage, this was not the first time someone mistook me for an ethnicity other than Korean.

I remember when I was younger, it always bothered me when this happened because non-Asians tend to group the entire Asian race like it was all one ethnicity, as if Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Taiwanese, Korean were all one part of one ethnic group. Like there was no significant cultural differences between them.

However, my encounter was different this past weekend because rather than annoyance being my first reaction to the question, it was compassion. I think it was because 1) she asked rather than assume out of ignorance and 2) the whole situation reminded me of me and my family.

Her son was with her, and seeing him hanging around on the side, looking really bored and exhausted and already used to the situation even though they most likely had just arrived to America from China, reminded me of my childhood.

I would always be on the sideline while my mom tried to figure out the situation and struggle to communicate with the people around her in order to get matters done. I got used to it and didn’t think much of it after a while, only that I was going to have to play the waiting game for a long time. However, that all changed when I learned English and had to start helping my mom with translating for calls ranging from paying the bills to visiting the Immigration Office. I’m certain a lot of first and second generation children have gone through similar experiences.

The lady also reminded me of my mom. I just once again realized how appreciative I am of my mom and everything she had to go through in order to ensure my family’s well-being and success in the States. The fact that something as simple as loading a metro card being the most daunting task really puts into perspective how much more difficult it must’ve been dealing with governmental or financial matters. The amount of pressure my mom had to deal with, the amount of pressure immigrants live with, is something that should not be brushed off lightly.

I also loved that I was still able to communicate well with her even though she didn’t speak much English. The only reason why I was able to do that is because of the way I grew up, observing the interaction my parents had with people who didn’t speak Korean and developing almost a sixth sense on how to understand broken English coherently. Even though we were of different ethnicities, I recognized that we have similarities within our culture that overlapped and created an unspoken sense of communication and bonding, which generated that compassion I felt.

I am grateful that I come from a family of immigrants. It allows for me to appreciate the value and beauty of hardships that stem from a desire to pursue a life of better possibilities and stability that non-immigrants will never be able to completely understand.