Growing Up As A TCK
“Where are you from?”
This common ice breaking question is always a challenge for me. And to this day, my answer varies ever so slightly each time.
The full answer would be: “Well, I was born in Seoul and lived there until 7, then moved to New York for a year, and finally settled in Hong Kong for roughly 10+ years. Now, I go to university in the US.”
Phew. That’s long. No one really expects to listen to all THAT for such a simple question, so my response would often be “I’m a Korean,” “I’m from Hong Kong,” or occasionally even a “I’m a Korean native from Hong Kong.”
It might be best to just stick with the place I identify with most, but that too is a challenge. I hold a Korean passport, was born to Korean parents, and my family all lives in Seoul. But I have lived in Hong Kong for a majority of my life, all my best memories and friends reside here, and I am also a permanent citizen. On the other hand, I cannot speak Cantonese — the local Hong Kong dialect — but I also can’t empathize with many parts of South Korean culture.
This is the everyday struggle of the Third Culture Kid, known in short as a TCK, an international community of people like me “who were raised in a culture other than their parents’, and also lived in a different environment during a significant part of their child development years” (thanks Wikipedia for the definition).
This struggle doesn’t stop with simply introducing yourself to others. It extends to your self-identity and sense of belonging.
To illustrate — when I lived in Hong Kong, I’d often travel back and forth to Korea on school breaks to visit family and relax. Every time I landed at Incheon airport and rode the bus to Seoul, I’d look out the window and think to myself, “I’m back home.” And every time I landed at Hong Kong airport and peaked up at the towering skyscrapers, I’d again think to myself, “I’m back home.”
And while I considered both Hong Kong and Korea as my home, I was always considered an outsider — a gweilo as they’d coined it in Hong Kong — by both. I’ve had to face this harsh reality many times recently. Serving in the Korean army — the experience that epitomizes the South Korean male — I am labelled a “foreigner” by my comrades and receive questions insinuating that I’m a cultural outsider (my comrades, of course, meant no harm and have been very welcoming of me). If serving in the Korean army does not make me wholly Korean to others, what will?
One may ask why being a Korean or a Hong Kong-er is a matter so important to my self-identity. After all, it is just a label. But such labels define our hometown, a place and community we can always rely on and retreat to in hard times. In a metaphorical sense, home is not where you happen to live at that given moment; to many, home serves as a life-long safe-haven. As such, where we call home is an integral part of our identity. For the TCK, such a home/hometown is, at best, mixed up. At worst, non-existent.
Because we lack such a sense of identity, we compensate by finding belonging elsewhere. Sometimes, that is among social circles. I often compare the TCK to a chameleon, always blending into those around us. I’d project slightly different personas based on who I’m with and what I believe is the “right” way to fit right in with everyone else. My ability to adjust quickly to new settings, however, has come at the cost of hiding what my true colors and personalities are, even to myself.
Other times, it is within a larger community. My friends back home (that is, Hong Kong) would often complain that I never cease to talk highly of my school, Duke University (“oh my god, you go to DUKE?”). Reflecting back, I concluded my passion for Duke is a product of a community infamous for its school spirit and united under its tenured basketball program. During the annual Duke v UNC game, for example, the Blue Devils would camp out for months to watch the game in-stadium, and all cheer, chant, laugh and cry together… no matter where we were from.
And so the Third Culture Kid is left with many questions, all unanswered. Where am I from? And more importantly, who am I?
These questions of belonging and identity are ones I’ve grappled with for many years. As I reflect on my journey of finding a satisfying answer, I recall a classic Mark Twain quote:
“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.”
Equally, if not more, important than where you’re from is where you’re headed. Beyond passports, dialects, and basketball games, identity is also a factor of one’s purpose in life. Maybe I’ll never reach a conclusion over whether I’m from Hong Kong or Korea. But what I mean to do with my life moving forward is an open-ended question with endless, exciting possibilities of exploration.
I aspire to be a socially impactful entrepreneur. I love uncovering nuggets of insights in data and exploring meaningful applications of Artificial Intelligence for society. Outside of professional purpose, I strive to be a friend one could lean on in their hardest times. And surely, there are more reasons I was born that I have yet to discover.
And going one step further, perhaps there is no need to answer whether I’m from Hong Kong or Korea: why not be from both? In the end, home is where I personally find comfort. It doesn’t matter whether other people think I’m from Hong Kong or Korea, or even neither. Unbeknownst to me, I had been answering the question myself every time I had landed at Hong Kong or Incheon airport. I simply had been searching elsewhere, seeking validation from others instead of truly reflecting myself.
So next time someone asks where I’m from, I’ll likely tell them: “I’m from Hong Kong AND Korea.” And while I’m at it, I hope we also dive into a deep conversation about the purpose of our lives.
Till next time,
Jason
