The Speech

Recently I had the chance to speak during an Asian Appreciation Night at my old university. I spoke about being bi-cultural, growing up White and Asian, growing up in America and Korea. I spoke what was in my heart. I spoke with more confidence and courage than I expected. I spoke without hesitation or fear. It was a conclusion in many ways to a healing process that started years ago.

My only hope is that what I say helps someone like me. Someone who is searching for answers or just the simple reassurance that no, you aren't alone. I'm sure there are people better apt at speaking, better apt at writing, but I spoke.

Below is a copy of my speech...

It’s been an interesting experience growing up bi-cultural. I’ll write my name down on a job application, Robert McManus. And when I go in for the interview I get this slightly shocked expression when they say, “You aren’t what we were expecting.”

Conversely, I get this other experience where my supervisor will say, “You sure don’t have an accent.” To which I internally think, “Obviously this guy doesn’t know I’m American.”

My name is also Hong Sang Deh. It’s my Korean name. I try not to share it too often as I cringe when I hear it mispronounced. And like most Korean names, each syllable has a special meaning that most of my American friends can’t quite relate to.

My perception as a child was that the differences between my Mother’s Korean culture and my father’s American culture were irreconcilable. There was always this tension in our household regarding what to eat, what language to speak, what clothes to where, and which church to go to.

Now I have many friends that are in bi-cultural marriages raising bi-cultural children. The biggest difference I see between what I grew up with and how they raise their children is in their attitude towards their different cultures. Rather than viewing them as two separate incompatible worlds, they raise their children in one world, a very rich one. When I look back on my childhood with this perspective, I don’t see a household that’s attempting to start WW3. I see a childhood rich with color with experiences very unique and special to me.

Coming to this realization, has taken time because my perception of my differing cultures has not always been so positive.

I was born in Florida. I lived the typical American childhood of racing through the neighborhood on my tricycle and bullying neighborhood kids. I was utterly happy, and looked forward to kindergarten each day to play house with a girl named Jennifer.

When I turned six my family moved to Korea. My father volunteered for the position and so my family wasn’t “sponsored” by the Air force. This meant that my brother and I could not attend the American schools that were taught on base. Instead, my parents enrolled us into the Korean public school system, where I repeated Kindergarten but in Korean. Here I read Korean, wrote Korean, spoke Korean, sang Korean songs and ate Korean food.

I had Korean friends I would hang out with and like your typical kid, got in trouble. On one of our adventures my brother, friends and I were running through the rice fields. The fields were on fire for the annual burn off. In the process my brother ended up with getting his hair singed. Oh…how I remember my Mother’s Korean temper…

I also had family. I had older cousins we met and played with. I remember my Korean grandmother cooking all sorts of fantastic Korean food. I also remember visiting my family’s burial mounds and hearing the stories of my ancestors. I have vivid memories of competing in TaeKwonDo, taking trips to the sea and mountains, seeing the falling of the beautiful cherry tree petals. Except for my home life where we spoke English, I was fully immersed in Korean culture. I was Korean.

When I turned ten my father got orders to head to Salt Lake City, Utah. All my parents knew about Utah was that there were a lot of Mormons.

Coming to Utah was pretty challenging. I experienced a lot of friction in terms of language and culture. I remember being quizzed in the play ground for my ignorance on American pop culture. I was mocked for not knowing who the Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles were or who Michael Jordan was.

For the rest of my elementary school experience I struggled. But thanks to dedicated teachers and tutors I was able to catch up. By the time Junior High and High School rolled around I got straight A’s in school.

The area I grew up in was predominantly White, and for the longest time, without any other Asian reference, I perceived myself as Asian, my identity solid as a rock. My friends knew me as the Korean kid. My teachers were proud of their smart Asian pupil. And I was happy playing the stereotypical role of the nerdy Asian male.

My first vivid experience in dealing with my racial ambiguity came when I was given a standardized test in High School. “Please choose one of the following: Black, White, Hispanic, Asian or Pacific Islander, and Other.”

And in my head I said, “What the hell?”

I remember staring at that piece of paper and for the first timing saying, “wait, my father is White, my mother is Asian.” I’m other?

Am I an Asian kid with a White name? Am I a White kid with an Asian Mom? Am I an Asian kid with a White dad? Am I some Half-Breed?

Without any good answers I tabled this issue. For my race I settled with…Asian-ish.

In college I was exposed to a world of diversity, people not just from different races but from all over the world. I made friends with people from Hong Kong, Japan, India, Russia, and Korea. My multi-cultural background gave me a world view that allowed me to relate to so many different types of people. I understood what it meant to grow up in a different country and a different culture. I understood what it meant to be marginalized. But I could help because I knew the local language and the culture. I grew up here. However, as I was exposed more and more different types of people, I found very few Asians that were like me.

While I was in college my parents separated, and my Mother moved back to Korea. This hit me pretty hard. I didn’t realize it then but I think unconsciously I interpreted it as American and Korean cultures are not compatible. Trying to mix two different cultures is like mixing water and oil, it just doesn’t work.

For a time I tried ignoring these issues. I pushed them aside and focused on school. But within myself I noticed a struggle. I live in Utah, a predominately white culture. My friends are mostly white, but I’m not. I’m not exactly Asian either. Where is my Korean community? Where is my Korean culture and language from my childhood? What am I? Where do I belong?

In an attempt to try answering some of these questions I decided to fulfill a goal I had since High School and re-visit the 2 distinctly different area’s my parents had grown up in. I took an entire summer off from school and planned a trip where I would first visit my Dad’s mother, who lives in New York City, followed by a trip to see my mother in Korea.

While I stayed with my grandmother I got to understand my father’s side more and more. She shared with me the stories of our family. How my grandfather was a New York City fire fighter, how my great great great grandfather was a blacksmith, and how the first McManus in our family was an illegal immigrant. My grandmother gave me an anchor to my father’s side. She gave me roots and a connection to a proud Irish and German heritage. She gave me a new love and appreciation for my American culture.

With warm wishes from my family in New York, I boarded a plane and left for Korea. When I landed my Mother greeted me. It had been 3 years since I last saw her, but all that time seemed to disappear. (necessary? )

For those two months while I was in Korea, I spoke Korean, wrote Korean, read Korean, ate Korean, and sang Korean songs. I lived in my own tiny apartment, made friends, toured Seoul, road my bike along the Han River, went to Museums, and visited my Korean family.

My trip gave new life to my childhood memories, they are real. I traveled to the house I grew up in and walked the same places I did as a child.

My favorite memory from the trip is standing in the middle of the street in Seoul, cheering on the Korean team during the World Cup games, with thousands of others Koreans in Red clothing chanting in unison. I felt connected. I felt so very proud to have a Korean heritage. I felt Korean.

I came back to Utah with this new perspective, this global perspective. Rather than loathing my bi-cultural identity because it made me different, I began to love it. I loved my background for the amazing experiences and memories it gave me. I loved my bi-cultural identity because it throws my co-workers off. I love my identity because it gives me something I can share, anywhere.

My trip from New York, to Korea, and back to Utah helped me to make sense of where I come from. Yes, I am American. Yes, I am Korean. I honor and celebrate both my heritages. But more importantly, it solidified in me the fact that I am more than any race designation. I came to realize that no matter where I live on this planet, no matter what language I speak, I am a member of a greater community, I can always make a contribution, and inevitably feel that I belong.