Personal Narrative: The Redeemer Christian Nursery School

I did not look like them. Their eyes were bigger and sunken into their heads, whereas my almond-shaped eyes lay flat on my face. Waterfalls of milk chocolate and rays of sunshine cascaded down their backs, while I hid under the shadow of my pitch black hair. Their skin was Crayola Peach, but there is no crayon in the box that will replicate the color of my skin on paper.
At the Redeemer Christian Nursery School, my first American preschool after immigrating from South Korea, the only English I knew was “Hi” and “Thank you.” I longed to play dress-up and house with the girls who looked like Disney Princesses, but I was wary of Nikki, the uncontested queen of the dollhouse who had a habit of making girls like me play the dog because “Family members are supposed to look alike and speak the same language!” Noticing my lack of progress, my parents transferred me to Mrs. Keary’s Little Schoolhouse, which promised an intimate learning environment and more one-on-one attention. I learned my ABC’s, made chocolate chip cookies with Mrs. Keary, and became the designated Princess Mulan. I finally started feeling like an ordinary American child, but then we played a game. Bridget was at my right and Lily was at my left. All six little girls in the circle linked hands, and Aly started chanting strange words. Everyone else happily joined in, but I felt
myself becoming increasingly alarmed. What was happening? We bounced our hands up and down, and I just smiled because I didn’t know what to do. Afraid that they would abandon and isolate me if I revealed my ignorance, I did my best to replicate their sounds and hoped for the best. And while pretending that I knew how to count in English, I felt more like an outsider than I had in my entire life. Did the other girls know I was a fraud? Did they figure out that I don’t belong?
That incident triggered an obsession with mastering the English language, switching my cartoons from Korean television shows to the Backyardigans and Little Einsteins.
I asked Santa for books and I spoke English everywhere I went, but as I learned more and more English, I remembered less and less Korean. One day after school in second grade, my mom greeted me with the usual “What did you learn today?” I wanted to say that we started memorizing our multiplication tables, but I realized that I didn’t know how to say “multiplication tables” or “memorize” in Korean, so I shrugged and said “Nothing.” This became a regular
occurrence.
However, I came to a realization during second period on the first day of middle school. When I entered the girl’s locker room, I was immediately assaulted and smothered by the smell of adolescent sweat, burning hair, and Warm Vanilla Sugar. I started gagging, and all of my friends looked at me as if I had grown a second head. They asked me what was wrong, and I incredulously asked whether they had noticed the awful smell around us. They sniffed the air, and said, “Nope,” “I don’t smell anything,” and “I love this perfume!”
At home later that day, I looked in the mirror and started wondering why I wore blue eyeshadow when it didn’t flatter my brown eyes. Why did I flat-iron my hair when it was already straight? I truly loathed Tie Dye and peace signs, but why was I wearing a shirt from Delia’s that made me look like rainbow vomit?
While studying my reflection, I finally saw the heinous creature that I had become: a mindless pile of insecurity that lacked any trace of authenticity; I had taken conformity to a whole new level. What started as efforts to learn the language of my new home had gradually become a complete annihilation of my true self. Instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment at achieving my purpose, I felt the same embarrassment and shame that I had experienced seven years ago at Mrs. Keary’s. I threw out my “Winter Frost” palette from Maybelline, every article of clothing with a peace sign, and any perceptions of beauty that I had developed over the years. I realized that I didn’t have to look white in order to be American, and that I could fit in socially without changing everything that made me unique; only then did I start to feel comfortable in my own skin, and fully in control of my identity.