Vida-Marie Adams
Vida Marie grew up in Los Angeles’s Koreatown as an only child to a Korean mother and a Black father. She shares her experience as a Korean American of mixed heritage living in Koreatown, which involved both a struggle to feel accepted as well as a strong, intimate connection to the neighborhood. She encourages others who have experienced feeling marginalized, “you get to decide if you belong or not.”
The Audacity to Belong: Growing up Black, Korean, and Queer in Koreatown, Los Angeles
Interview by Dilan Askew, Isleen Lee, and Nathalie De Mata
What is your name and age, and where you were born?
My name is Vida-Marie Mi-Suk (미숙) Adams. I was born in L.A. on August 2, 1977.
How do you identify, whether that’s by generation, race, ethnicity, gender, and/or preferred pronouns?
My pronouns are she/her/hers. I identify as a Korean Blasian. I also identify as a second-generation immigrant child; my mom was a first-generation immigrant, so I’m like second-gen. I identify with that experience of being second-gen that I think a lot of others — I don’t see this a lot in the Black community. So that’s a very real phenomenon that sometimes makes it hard for me to connect as a Black American.
Can you tell us a little bit about where you grew up? What was your childhood like?
Up until I was 6, I actually grew up in the area that would later become Koreatown. I lived off of 5th and Oxford, in front of what is now the Gaju (가주 — a Korean American slang term for “California”) Market. Back then, it was the Mayflower Market, and it was a white people’s market. Or an “American” market, whatever. By the way, that building is still there — and I just drove by it yesterday! I was like, “Oh!” I lived there until I was 6, when my daycare got robbed at gunpoint.
Then my mom decided we needed to move to the Valley, so we [lived in] Canoga Park until I was 11. That was good because they still had Korean things in Canoga Park. I mean, you were starting to see — even though it wasn’t Koreatown in L.A. — Korean people and more Korean culture things, like foods and stuff. But to the extent that it is today, it was not Koreatown, back in the late ’70s, very early ’80s. By the time I moved to Canoga Park, we had Northridge, and that was good.
At 11, I moved to Palmdale, California, the lost years, where there were like 13 Korean churches and seven people going to each one. That was a hard time to be in an area where I didn’t realize I was having this second-generation experience growing up with people who are very much multi-generational Americans. I went to a Korean church just to find the Korean community over there. We had only one market, and it was basically like the Korean version of a 7-Eleven, and not a real Korean 7-Eleven or that CU store that they have in Korea. Literally all she had was ramen, her kimchi, and a couple of things. She overcharged for it, so everybody went to Northridge for Korean food.
Can you tell me just a little bit about your family growing up? Like your parents and/or siblings? How many family members? What did your parents do?
I’m an only child. My mom and her family — they’re not very close. There’s a lot of generational trauma, addiction, and racism in that family. I didn’t really grow up with a lot of my relatives on that side. I actually have a better relationship with the relatives on my dad’s side because part of the Black American experience is accepting mixed people more readily than other communities do. Even though we weren’t even that close because of distance, I have more familiarity with my dad’s side of the family. But because of the whole second-gen thing, I feel like that odd cousin, but that’s another story for a different day.
My dad was a salesman, and my mom was — I still haven’t figured out what she does to this day. She keeps trying to explain it to me, but it involves a lot of math that I don’t understand, so I stopped asking. She even shows me: ‘This is what a schematic looks like for the PC board.’ And I’m like, “I don’t know what that means! But thank you.” They commuted after we moved to Palmdale, about two hours each way. Basically, from the time that I was 11 on, I kind of — I don’t want to say I raised myself, but I was more responsible for my personal behavior than my parents are. Like, if it were grades or something, yeah, they let me have it.
Otherwise, I came home by myself — well, I take that back. Let me correct myself. There were a few years when my grandmother, my halmeoni (할머니), lived with us, but she didn’t speak English. As a teenager, I think I was a little bit of an asshole. While I loved my halmeoni, it was nice that she couldn’t speak English because I just did whatever the heck I wanted. One time, I came home, and my mom was trying to teach her English, and my halmeoni was repeating, ‘Where you been?’ And I was like, Oh, shit. Then, I thought, she’s not gonna even understand the answer anyway. So I was just like, “Okay, whatever!”
Tell me more about your family. Tell me about growing up.
Most of my mom’s side of the family — they’re not overtly racist, but they’ll say some shady stuff later. Like, I had this one aunt who wanted me to help her find a place to live in my neighborhood, but she doesn’t like black people. And my neighborhood’s black. I was like, “No. No, thank you.”
Actually, my keun imo (큰이모— eldest maternal aunt) was the worst. There was a birthday party for my grandmother, and I think it was the 60th one, you know, the big one. All of my cousins were there, but I [didn’t go] because she didn’t want people to know that my mom had a child with a black man. Even though it was okay for her to marry a white person and almost have their child, my existence as a more melanated person was just not acceptable.
On top of that, my mom kept that from me until I was well into my adulthood, so I didn’t find out about that until after my halmeoni died. I started thinking, How come I’m not in this picture? I always just thought I wasn’t in that picture because I was in school. I was so fucking naive. Sorry about my language. But yeah, I just kind of assumed that that’s the reason why I wasn’t in that picture. That was kind of disheartening to know, and it explains why — well, her [the eldest aunt] attitude was always nasty anyway.
She was the first person to start the chain for everybody to come over here [to the United States]. She thought that everybody owed her because without her, they wouldn’t even be here. The truth is that my mom never actually wanted to come here. My keun imo wanted my halmeoni to come because she wanted somebody to help her around the house. And my halmeoni said, ‘I’m not going to leave the youngest one behind in Korea!’ That’s how my mom ended up here. She [her aunt] also helped some of the husbands of my imos (이모 — maternal aunt) come over.
[My aunt] thought, ‘Yeah, y’all owe me something.’ She had a really bad entitlement attitude, on top of the fact that she was the oldest. So she’s major entitlement on top of entitlement. I think she just thought she was better than me because I’m half-black.
I’ve had other stuff happen, even in Korea. I ended up getting involved with this queer group called Koreans United for Equality. I’ve never really said this to them, but I do lowkey feel like the first time they saw me, they thought that I was just some K-pop fetishizing Pacific Islander who wanted to join their group until I made it very known that I’m actually half-Korean. I think that was kind of the assumption. They were like, ‘Okay, that’s fine.’ I don’t think they were ever going to really ostracize me, but I kind of felt like that weirdness, you know — like when you don’t know why you feel it, but it’s there.
I am now looking back; it was maybe a couple of hours where I felt like that, and then they realized [I was about that] life. Here and there, you get little microaggressions, stuff like that. It is what it is. You just take the good with the bad.
At the beginning, you claimed your Blackness and your Koreanness, even in just this interview intro. I’m curious about whether you were always proud of both sides of your identity like that, or if that has been a journey, or if it is a continuing journey.
It’s always been like that. I was very fortunate to have a father who was very pro-Black. He used to be in the Congress [of] Racial Equality. I think it was CORE. I don’t really remember if that’s an accurate translation of the acronym, so I could be wrong. He was very much into making sure that I understood colorism and stuff. In some ways, he thought that there would be — back then, there weren’t a lot — if you were biracial, it was usually Black and white, right? There weren’t a lot of people who looked like me, and that was the thing that was hard. The hardest thing that I had to navigate: where my lanes are in the Black community.
While my mom wasn’t very pro-Korea — I’m not going to say she’s not a proud Korean, but she’s not like advertising it. But because the time in Palmdale was not the first time I lived with my halmeoni — I lived with her the entire time I was in Canoga Park and with my keun imo. In small ways, Korean culture was always there and around. So it’s a lot of the foundation of who I am. In that way, I was always proud of our heritage, even though I wasn’t seeing it everywhere.
I’ll put it this way: Nobody knew Korean people existed. I had a kid in elementary school tell me my mom was Japanese. When I corrected him, he corrected me. You obviously know that the kid was not a person of color. But deep down inside, I’ve always been proud of being both, even when not everybody understood that I was. Even if I didn’t speak Korean at the time or because I didn’t grow up learning — I still don’t really know Korean. I mean, there are little kids on variety shows that are like having full-on conversations, and I can’t do that, but that’s because my mom was more of the “assimilating” immigrant.
At the same time, there are lots of things I grew up being very proud of. We would get these calendars from businesses every year. You know, the calendar thing. I straight-up have a Korean bank savings account, just so I could get calendars. I actually based the bank on the calendar. I don’t care about their interest rates; none of that matters! Just as long as it’s not Hanmi Bank, because I’m not going to be looking at bridges all year long. But when we would get these calendars, that’s when I would see our old school culture being represented. You know, the ladies in the hanbok [한복 — Korean traditional clothes] playing an instrument and the whole stick in their hair bun thing, all that. I would be like — which now is kind of cringey to me — but I would be like, “I want to look like that.”
That’s what I started thinking I should look like. I appreciated it so much, and I didn’t really realize back then that I was lowkey being anti-black, because I look a lot like my dad. If my dad were a Pacific Islander, that’s [how I look]. At the same time, that’s how I feel I was influenced. The only big movie with an Asian cast was “Karate Kid Part II.” They were all based in Okinawa. I used to think, People who look like me! But that was also before I knew all the messed-up stuff that Japan did to us. I look back now and realize I was so starved for that culture that I just sucked it up. Anybody who had high cheekbones, these eyes, certain face shapes, certain kinds of hair. I was so starved that I just took whatever I could get.
The first time I really understood my mom was because of Amy Tan, which was even sadder, you know? But I have read other stuff. I got to learn about other Korean authors. I’m not really well-read in that area. I had heard some stuff about Japan, but the stuff that really helped me understand more was this book called “Echoes of the White Giraffe.” It’s a young-adult book, but it’s about a family; it’s a two-part story. I think “Echoes of the White Giraffe” is about a family trying to survive during the occupation period. I think that’s when I was like, “Wow.” I know it’s fiction, but it’s based on events that actually happened. You learn later on the even worse stuff [that] happened. But the answer to your question is yes!
At what age were you first cognizant of your gender identity and orientation?
For my gender identity, I’m just going to be honest: I never really thought about it. I think because identifying as a cis [cisgender] female is such a default in society that it never occurred to me to think about it. I will say this: I struggle with the fact that the way in which I feel feminine is not necessarily this idealized, male-gaze version of what femininity is. I do feel like there are parts of my personality that would not be necessarily considered very feminine. But that doesn’t make me feel like I don’t have any [femininity] or that I’m any less a cisgendered female. That’s been kind of an evolution. But I cannot say that I woke up one day and had an epiphany.
Do you believe in coming out? Did you ever come out to your family?
I think I was cognizant of the fact that I’m not straight when I was 19. That’s when I started realizing that I had feelings for my same gender. I didn’t really do anything about it until maybe my later 20s. Even then, because I was growing up in the Antelope Valley, and I was still there, the dating pool was very, very, very, very, very limited. Everybody’s got U-Hauls, and they’ve already used them, and they’re all living in Rosemead.
When I moved here [Koreatown] in 2011, it was when I was just like, “I’m just going to live life.” But I hadn’t really said anything to my family. I never told my father because he was very homophobic. I was never going to tell my mom; I wasn’t going to, but I ended up telling her because I was a host for this Koreans United for Equality banquet and had invited her.
I noticed it was an LGBTQ-straight alliance, so it wasn’t like everybody there was a part of the alphabet mafia. At the same time, I figured I might as well just say it, you know? Of course, her reaction was, “You can’t tell your dad.” I was like, “Yeah, I already know that.” I didn’t get into my first serious relationship until 2017. I have a short list of actual serious relationships I’ve been in, period. So that was probably my third.
What was it like? Did your mom say anything? Was she supportive?
My mom is very apolitical. My mom is very apathetic about a lot of things. If it doesn’t make her money, she doesn’t care. She could talk to me all day long about mortgage rates, the real estate market, and all this stuff that has to do with her job, golfing, going to the casino, and getting stuff for free and sales. But she’s not a very deep chat, deep thinker, emotional kind of person in that way. She doesn’t have an activist mindset. She doesn’t care about history. She’s very cut and dry about the things that she likes.
We have a good relationship, but I’m more like my father in the way I feel about things, which makes it [more difficult] to connect with her. That’s why they had a kind of weird marriage because they didn’t really talk a lot. They were just like two people who happened to enter a legal contract and raise a kid, and that’s it.
Did your dad’s being homophobic affect you a lot growing up?
No, that’s the weird thing. My dad taught me to think for myself, so I did, and he didn’t really like that. By the time I became an adult, I just straight up told him, “If you are going to use biblical reasons [for] why I should not believe in XYZ, I’m pretty much an atheist/agnostic, so you’re going to have to find something else.” And I just let it be.
Do you find that your cultural or ethnic background impacts the way you express other aspects of your identity, such as your gender or sexuality?
I would probably say it does. I kind of blend aspects of what are considered feminine Korean beauty standards with Black American beauty standards. I mean, I’m never going to go out there and get a protective style because that would look stupid on me. It’s not for me. At the same time, if I see the way they do makeup and if their skin color is more like mine, I’m going to do the same stuff. But I’m also going to do certain things that I see other Korean makeup artists do and try to replicate them at the same time. Some of the ways I dress might be a mix of both. This sweater I got because of Lisa Beasley, “Corporate Erin” on TikTok. I love that character so much. I saw it and was like, I need a ‘Corporate Erin’ sweater. So this is my “Corporate Erin” cardigan sweater.
How did you get involved with Korean advocacy work and circles?
It actually started at a Pride in West Hollywood. I came across the API Equality L.A. booth. I went there. The day I went to one of their meetings, Koreans United for Equality was also having a meeting, but it was more like a get-together, like a karaoke thing. So I stayed later for that. I kind of went to that one meeting and a couple of API L.A. meetings, and then I just completely veered off into Koreans United for Equality. I was in that group for at least a year and a half or two. It was a really good experience. That also branched me off into maybe not other organizations that I joined on a regular basis, but ones that I respected [the work of], and if I could attend [one of their meetings], I would go.
Koreans United for Equality also opened the door for me to learn about SUBAK — Socially Bad-Ass Koreans — which is the sister organization of HOBAK from Oakland, Hella Organized Bay Area Koreans. They’re an LGBTQIA+ inclusive, radical leftist group that is pro-Korea unification and anti-capitalist. I also found out about another organization called Adoptee Solidarity Korea-LA (ASK-LA), which is another organization that focuses on the adoptive practices between the U.S. and Korea, and how it harms children and, later, harms adults.
I learned about those issues, which I had no idea [about]. I mean, I knew it was cringey to meet Korean people adopted by non-Koreans, and then [the non-Koreans] know nothing about what it is to be Korean. But the rabbit hole they took me down was how capitalism has — on both sides of the [Pacific Ocean] — corrupted what we could have been or what we could be.
From there, I also started following other pages. I follow this one page on Instagram, but I can’t remember what their name is in Korean because I only see it written in English. If it’s written in English, it doesn’t make sense to me. If a Korean word is not written in hangul [한글 — the official writing system throughout the Korean peninsula], I can’t say it. Half the time, when they romanize hangul into English, it’s just gibberish to me.
A couple of years ago, in 2018, I went to QT-Con in New York. They even wanted me to represent KUE, but we don’t exist. It’s weird. I still get KUE’s mail sometimes, and the KUE hasn’t been around since like Hodges versus Obergefell. We’re just like, “Oh, we’re done!” I mean, I wasn’t, but one of the two cis guys who were running it was like, ‘We’re done.’ He got on my nerves, anyway.
Can you talk about what KUE is?
KUE is Koreans United for Equality. They existed before I knew about them, obviously. I think what sparked their creation was the way that the Korean community, the older Korean community, just jumped on Proposition 8 and voted for the state not recognize marriages between same-sex couples. They decided they wanted to work [toward fostering] more acceptance in the Korean community. By the time I joined them, we were obviously still working on that. Even after the Supreme Court decision, that’s something we still have to work on and more. But I will say this, like, when I joined Koreans United for Equality, I thought I was just joining an LGBT group. I didn’t know that I was joining a group that was very anti-colonialism, anti-capitalist, and anti-racist, which made it even better.
Before then, while I was proud of being Black and Korean — this may sound uncomfortable — I know what my place is. I know there will always be spaces where I go where I’m going to be treated less than because I don’t look Korean. I barely speak Korean. Actually, some people think that’s a nice trick when I do that because they think I’m not Korean. There are times when people are going to be rude to me just because I don’t look Korean. Even if they don’t know I’m half-black.
When I was living in Palmdale, we had the riots. I always knew there was a sect of people who are always going to look down on Black people because they buy into the model minority crap of, “I came from nothing and made it here. Why aren’t Black people doing the same thing for themselves,” without the context of systemic racism. But when I got involved with KUE, I met Korean people who understood that the model minority myth is also a weapon that white supremacy uses to keep us apart. Because if they knew — they know that there’s power in numbers, that there’s power in solidarity. They know that if they can keep Asian people — especially Koreans — and Black people divided and keep us resenting each other, keep us locked in this adversarial dynamic, that they, at the end of the day, win the game.
What I loved about KUE was that everybody there understood that it didn’t need to be said. They actually — I never really thought that was happening. I was just like, “Oh, there’s a whole bunch of Korean people who are just bougie, they think they got it all. They think they’re better than everybody.” I mean, I still think that about some people. I had this one friend who was willing to go have conversations with their family, and try to teach them a new way to think, help them unpack their racism and anti-blackness, and help them look at everybody as human beings. That meant a lot to me because that was what it should be, what it could be, and what it will eventually be. Even now, people I’ve met, even in this space, they’re not that different [from] the people I first met [in] KUE, especially age-wise in terms of commitment to POC solidarity.
That was a healing that I did not expect to receive from joining a group like that. I didn’t really foresee that. That is actually one of the things that makes me very grateful that I was able to — even for the short amount of time that we were all a group — that I got to experience that because had that not happened, I would’ve been living the whole rest of my life just thinking that there are just people like my keun imo, and not realizing that there are a lot of people doing work out there to fix that problem within our community.
What is your relationship to Koreatown?
It’s kind of funny that you asked that because for a moment — I mean, I knew that I had to do this today, but for a minute I did forget because I changed the date. Yesterday, when I was at the Gaju Market, I looked across and saw where I used to live. I thought to myself, I knew I never wanted to stay in Palmdale. I knew I wanted to come back here. Even though I don’t live here currently, I knew this was my home. Maybe I was only here for six years, but those were the six years that I feel like I was the happiest. So yesterday, when I was looking back at those apartments, that’s what I was kind of thinking to myself, like, “I came back here because this was the best time that I remember having, where I felt closer to all my family — even the Korean side. I returned to a better time.
When I think about Koreatown, it doesn’t matter how many people talk to me like I’m not Korean. It doesn’t matter how many people are — I mean, I’m not saying that people are rude to me on the regular, but even if they are, it doesn’t matter. Out of every place I’ve ever been, this is the only place I really feel like I belong. Even though I know people don’t look at me like I belong, I feel like I have the right to have the audacity to feel like I belong here.
I knew the entire time I was in the Valley; it was okay, but it didn’t feel like home. I’ll go back, and there are some good memories there. But I don’t have that love for Canoga Park that I have for Koreatown, even if it wasn’t the Koreatown like we know it now. I was even sad that I couldn’t go to jang tuh (장터 — open market; referring to the annual Los Angeles Korean Festival, established in 1973) while I was in Korea. I was in actual Korea like, “Dang, I’m not gonna make it to jang tuh!” But I’m like, Girl, you in actual Korea, shut up! I love Koreatown; it’s my home. Even if I live in South L.A. now, it’s still my home. I don’t think I will move out of South L.A. anytime soon because parking is a lot better. Don’t tell nobody that because then people will try to move over there! I will meet the parking competition!
When I come here [Koreatown], though, it feels so natural, even if I don’t know where to go because things change. But there are some things that are so damn staple. If they ever get rid of Kim’s Jeon-gi (김스전기 — Kim’s Home Center, an iconic household goods department store in Koreatown, Los Angeles, established in 1979), I’m going to die. They have to wait until I’m gone from this Earth before they demolish the Kim’s Jeon-gi. I already found out about Cafe Jack, and I’d only been there once. But Cafe Jack has been there so long that I’m just like, That’s sad. That feels like our history, you know? When I was walking down that same street where Cafe Jack was, [I saw that] it’s now some restaurant-bar thing, but it used to be Iota Brew Cafe. You used to get a pretty dang good brick toast there.
I think about when I first moved here, all the places that I had such good memories of that I returned to, and seeing them change or being demolished, it’s kind of sad. Shit can change the valley, I don’t give a fuck. Not that big of a deal. Pardon my language. I don’t give a crap. I don’t have as much emotion invested in stuff, except for that landmark park that goes away. I used to go to that park a lot.
With L.A., if they demolish the building that I grew up in, that I remember so fondly, I’m [going to] die. That’s too much. I remember that’s the first time I got stung by a bee. I remember the little version of me in that apartment building. I think that’s why I always feel like that’s a good place. Even though we lived there at the time, my dad’s car was getting broken into a lot, and his stereo was getting jacked. I mean, he had the audacity to drive a Celica GT in the ’80s, so I blame that!
What’s your favorite memory or place that you have in Koreatown?
[My old] apartment, definitely. I think I had a Strawberry Shortcake tricycle. [That was] before Strawberry Shortcake sold out and got that stupid wide-brimmed hat, when she was just doing her bonnet. I used to ride that around. There was a neighbor across the way from me who used to babysit me. I think that’s another reason why I connect — they weren’t Korean, though. They were Filipino. I still have a picture of that lady and me, even though we haven’t talked to the family for at least four decades now. I’m getting carried away just thinking about it and how I love that place. I missed that California/Mayflower Market, too. When they made the first Gaju Market — well, they converted the Mayflower into a Gaju Market, but it was a one-story building. So when I would drive by on [Western Avenue], I could look across and still see my old apartment building. When I drive by now, I can’t see it. Then yesterday, I decided to go to the Gaju Market. I noticed they have that rooftop thing. [I wondered] if I could see now, on this day, if I could look down on the building from there. And you can’t even do that. That kind of makes me sad. I have to actually go downstairs to be in front of it, sneak in the gate, or whatever, so somebody happens to think I live there. I’ve done that before.
Recently, Koreatown has become very multicultural. What do you think about Koreatown being accepting of queer individuals? Do you think that’s changed since your childhood?
I don’t really feel I can speak on that in that way because A) I live in South L.A. currently, and B) I don’t go out like that. To be honest, I don’t see any venues in my feeds about queer events that are based in Koreatown, so I can’t say it’s more or less accepting. I guess it could be [assumed] that as younger generations in Koreatown grow up being exposed to more open-minded ways of seeing the world, it will naturally facilitate that.
You mentioned Koreans United for Equality (KUE). Is that based in Koreatown? Is there something similar where you can feel safe talking about your gender identity?
I still have friends around. But one specific place? No, I wouldn’t say that. I would say that being involved has helped me create a community, but that community is not necessarily centralized here. We were centralized here at some point, and I was able to have that. So if I go to other places, I know people.
When you were centralized in Koreatown, was there a physical space? Or was it all just person-based?
There were a couple of [spaces]. There were times when we met at people’s houses. You know Cafe Heyri? We used to meet in the second room. API L.A. would let us use some of its facilities. For the most part, it was mainly people’s houses because we were very grassroots at the time, which are my favorite organizations, the grassroots ones.
Moving forward, do you have any hopes for the growth of queer communities in Koreatown?
I don’t see why not. First off, there are more multigenerational Koreans here now than there were when I was growing up. That’s number one. Programs like this, and the atmosphere and environment we are curating these days, are going to make it easier for all queer Koreans to embrace themselves and show up. The more that happens, it’s kind of like — I don’t know if you guys [referring to interviewers] have ever seen “The Goonies.” Remember the beginning, that contraption that they made to open the door? That’s kind of how I feel like it is. One thing hits another that hits another that hits another, and then the next thing you know, the doors open. Communities like KUE were part of that first thing that triggers this.
Eventually, it has to happen because people are not going to be satisfied living in a bubble. People are not going to be satisfied living in boxes. I do feel hopeful that eventually that’s what it’s going to be. I hate to say this, but with less religiosity, people are more open-minded. Even as a country kind of trending that way, even though you’d never know from some of the laws we have, we’re actually trending more that way, so it eventually has to happen when it’s gonna happen. There’s no way of telling, but it’s inevitable.
What kind of advice would you give queer youth right now, especially those growing up in Koreatown?
Prioritize your safety, your multiple levels, whether that be emotional, [mental], or physical. I’m not going to say to come out to your family if it’s not safe, but I’m not [also] going to tell you to live in the shadows because that’s not healthy either. Finding your community of people that support you, that support you as a person of color, or wherever you intersect, if you don’t have the ability to share that with your family. But if you can do that with your family, definitely take that [support]. Capitalize on the support they can offer you because the world is really messed up. You do better when you know that the people who made you, share DNA with you, or have raised you have your back.
That’s what I really liked about the SGV PFLAG; it’s that you’re seeing all these Asian parents doing things that a lot of other Asian parents wouldn’t do. If you don’t have that support from your parents, you can always go to the SGV API meetings. They have [virtual meetings] but not very often. During the pandemic, Bay Area Asians were coming into the meetings, so I know they have a hybrid thing going on to support them. You can see what it looks like for parents to accept you unconditionally. You can see what it looks like, even for parents who will ostracize themselves from the communities that they’ve known for a long time to protect you.
That’s also something every queer Asian person should see. Whether you’re Korean, Japanese, or Southeast Asian, you should know what it’s like to see parents who will fight for you, because there are a lot of parents who will support you silently, but don’t want it to be known to the rest of the world. So when I see parents like Sung and Clara Yun, it’s nice to know they exist. My mom loves me unconditionally, and I don’t think that her lack of political or any other kind of support is because she wants to hide in the shadows — she just doesn’t care about that kind of stuff. I just accept that about her because you can’t change people.
When you see that, it’s another reason to get up in the morning and exist as yourself or at least know that there’ll be a day, even if it’s not today, [where] you can be transparent about all of who you are, that there is a day that you can be. If you have the mental fortitude and support from others to keep going and wait until that day, then that’s good. If you don’t, I get it. But it’s just nice to know that that’s out there. If you’re struggling right now, the struggle doesn’t have to last forever, you know? Maybe hope doesn’t solve everything, it won’t solve your current family dysfunction, while you’re in that dysfunction, but hope is better — some hope is better than nothing.
If there are any last things you want to say, anything you feel is important that got left out, now is your time. Or, are there any questions you want to ask us?
It’s important for people to know that in every struggle for any marginalized people, there’ll come a day when it gets better. It might not be perfect. There are lots of marginalized communities that have been struggling for equality for years. But what they’re experiencing now is exponentially better than what they experienced before or their ancestors experienced before them.
Even if people have the audacity to treat you like you don’t belong, you do belong. You get to decide if you belong or not. Nobody gets to take that from you. Nobody gets to claim that or decide that for you. Nobody can tell me that I’m not half Korean. Nobody can tell me that I’m less Korean. Yeah, maybe genetically, I’m “less” Korean, especially now that I’ve found that I’m 6% Japanese. But I am a lot less white than a lot of black people, so that’s blessed! Nobody can tell me that I don’t appreciate who I am or how I am. I feel what I feel, and nobody can take that from me. I don’t need somebody to validate my identity for me. I don’t need to feel the same way [for that] identity to be valid. I don’t need to feel the same exact way every day. I have the right to be a mixed bag whenever I want to. If I feel that the core of who I am is X, it doesn’t matter if I do Y or Z. A lot of people, especially younger people, predicate their identity based on how others perceive them and feel — even their emotions — as [younger people] oftentimes don’t feel they have the right to own their emotions because people will try to gaslight you and not take accountability for how they hurt you. You always have the right to own everything; you don’t need somebody outside of you to tell you that you’re worthy of your feelings. That doesn’t mean that you cannot perceive something in a way that somebody didn’t intend. You have the right to feel hurt. You have the right to feel real feminine one day, not so feminine the next day, somewhere in between — fluid. However you feel like expressing yourself, or how you feel about yourself, that’s true in that moment. And that moment doesn’t have to be exactly the same as the next moment. You are only confined to the box that you put yourself in. If other people try to do that for you, you don’t have to accept it. Once you own that, your world is yours, and nobody can take that from you.