My Non-Korean Korean Identity
People often ask me, "Why are you so interested in Korea?" It’s a question I’ve heard countless times, whether on dating apps, Instagram, or in person. Another one I get is, “What ethnicity are you?” Some of my friends even admit, "I forget sometimes that you're not Korean."
It’s a complicated question to answer. First, let me clarify something: no, I don’t wish I was ethnically Korean. I may not feel a strong connection to Hong Kong, but I was raised with Hong Kong values. Both my parents are fully Chinese, and they made sure I grew up steeped in the culture. They sent me to daycare with Chinese speakers, enrolled me in Chinese school for over 10 years—where I won competitions in poetry and calligraphy—and brought me to countless Hong Kong cafés and dim sum restaurants. Even though I avoided Chinese food for years and now mostly cook Korean, Thai, or Japanese dishes, I still love going to Hong Kong cafés with friends who "get it"—fellow CBCers navigating that middle ground of cultural connection and disconnection.
I’ve always felt like I’m in between worlds, and my connection to Korea only complicates things further. I can speak Cantonese, but I can barely read or write it. Meanwhile, I’ve reached an intermediate level in Korean and continue to improve.
Am I avoiding my Cantonese identity? Maybe. But I see my "non-Korean Korean" side as a choice—one rooted in a connection I’ve felt since grade 8.
It all started when my friends and I were making a talent show dance. One of them introduced me to BTS. Their songs didn’t stick with me, but EXO’s Call Me Baby did. That became the soundtrack to our routine and a highlight of my early teens. From there, EXO became my first Asian idols, and Girls’ Generation followed soon after. Their The Boys music video, with its bold production and empowering energy, struck a chord with me. Seeing girls who looked like me—Asian, but glamorous and confident—felt transformative.
What began with K-pop evolved into a deeper appreciation. Korean influence was already present in my childhood—my mom took us to the original Jung Soo Ne restaurant when I was 10, and my parents watched K-dramas that I’d join them for until I started watching on my own. Eventually, I learned basic Korean, and the connection grew.
When people ask why I’m so drawn to Korea, I often explain it as a gateway to my Asian identity. Korean felt more accessible than Chinese, with its structured alphabet and strong cultural exports. Korea became a place where I felt a sense of belonging—something I struggled to find within my Cantonese heritage.
There’s something magical about being in Korea. I explore more, stay out longer, and feel safe wandering at night. I dress more femininely, dropping the guarded persona I often carry elsewhere. Solo adventures are joyful, not daunting. Life there feels intuitive—filled with opportunities to learn, experience, and grow.
I admire the cultural nuances, like bowing as a sign of respect or the array of side dishes at meals, each with its own story. I love how history and modernity coexist seamlessly. Over time, I’ve built a life there, with my own photographer, hairstylist, and dermatologist. Creative pursuits that once felt like dreams—modeling, cooking, dance—now feel possible, even encouraged.
Yet, I face judgment for my passion. The term “Koreaboo” gets thrown around, and it stings. Why is it shameful to deeply appreciate another culture? No one calls someone a “Canadaboo” or “Hong Kongboo” for moving to those places. I feel it’s not warranted for the level of geographical, cultural, and historical knowledge I have accumulated over 10+ years.
Part of me wonders if my attachment to Korea is rooted in nostalgia—romanticizing my exchange, past relationships, or cherished memories. But my trips in May and October 2024 proved it’s more than that. I thrive in Korea. My hobbies—dance, cooking, exploration—flourish. I feel alive, curious, and valued in ways I struggle to elsewhere.
Still, there’s an ache. I wonder if I’ll ever truly belong. Korean natives have been kind, but moments like being asked, “Where are you from?” remind me I’m still an outsider. Korean Canadians, meanwhile, often feel even more distant. It’s a longing for a place where I can feel entirely at home—where systems are intuitive, streets are safe, and passions are easy to pursue.
Korea lets me live an experience-centric life. Festivals, workshops, and activities are abundant. Food is healthy and aligned with my tastes. Dance studios and classes are accessible. Travel is easy, with adventures just hours away.
Ultimately, Korea represents opportunity. It’s not perfect—I struggle with the language at times—but I love who I am when I’m there. Energetic, feminine, bubbly, and curious.
So here’s to my "non-Korean Korean" side. No one else has to validate it, because identity is multifaceted. And this part of me? It’s mine.