Being Korean in age of hallyu

"You’re an overseas Korean?" The taxi driver chuckled.

Yes, that’s right. I am overseas indeed. I am an American-born Korean in the age of the K-wave, living on an island. One descended from the many waves of migrants who left the peninsula before our pop culture began to wash over the globe, screens, and headphones. Here in Taiwan, I always start with the usual introductions, and I share them with you here:

"My name is Esther Kim."

"I am Korean. Sorry for my Mandarin."

Because "I am American" rarely satisfies others’ curiosity in East Asia, I try to give them the "Korean" part. I don’t look American – meaning, white like Bai Ruyu, 21, the representative character in my Mandarin language school’s textbook.

And then I will complicate it further: "I am American, and my parents are Korean," I say.

In the span of my 33-year life, I have witnessed the rise of South Korea and Korean soft power in the West. I have seen how it’s gone from an obscure country with a forgettable war to a culture powerhouse with high G.D.P.

How bizarre

Growing up in New York City’s suburbs, we were always unconsciously tracking the Koreans who had left the peninsula and settled elsewhere. Dad met the Ukrainian Koreans (Koryo-in) during his medical missions trip. My close friend’s mom grew up in Argentina and even celebrated her quincinera, her fifteenth birthday, there before immigrating to the States. A Korean Studies professor mentioned sharing her flat with the daughter of a wealthy Kazakh Korean who owned property in London’s swanky Fitzrovia. S.H.’s mom was friends with S.K.’s mom, both were nurses, and they had trained together in Germany. Later, through films and books, I learned about the Zainichi Koreans in Japan and others in Hawaii, the earliest Korean migrants to the United States, descending from early plantation workers and picture brides.

I picked up a lot from my dad, who identifies as “1.5 generation,” and grew up in the Bronx in the seventies. “It was 99.99 percent Puerto Rican and Black,” he still jokes. Since he was a minority, it was his bread and butter, his business to know where his people were. When BTS performed “Arirang” in Paris in 2020, he shared the performance on his screen with a certain pride and disbelief at how far we’ve come. From the ashes, this …! Once the Hermit Kingdom, or the land in desperate need of Peace Corps volunteers, missionaries and foreign aid.

Korean culture was barely acknowledged in the mainstream U.S. in my childhood. But I grew up ensconced in a Korean community in New York, a community that lived halfway around the world from the peninsula, but one that cherished its culture. As a child I constantly scoured bookshelves for stories about us. We eventually grew up explaining ourselves – kimchi was translated into spicy pickled cabbage and tofu was bean curd. North-South relations and the tragedy (or farce) of the North dominated most of the headlines. Today, I still find it both marvelous and disconcerting that Korea is now synonymous with stylish. Each time “Arirang” is broadcast globally or a hanbok-like garment is worn on stage before millions … or when British pop star Charli XCX or an American one like Hailee Steinfeld croons in Korean, I get the vague sense that the world is ending.

And in one sense one world as I knew it is over.

K-Fans

In Taiwan, I encountered so many curious people:

At the Mandarin Training Center, Generation Z students from Guatemala, Indonesia and Vietnam, tell me in the busy hallway between bells that they wanted to plot their futures in South Korea. “I wanted to study in South Korea actually, but,” they’ll glumly add, “I didn’t get the scholarship.” They practiced their Korean phrases with me and taught me proverbs, too. They took Korean classes at their local Sejong Language Institute in Indonesia or Guatemala. Classes were excellent and affordable for the public, one says. Another casually jokes in Korean, “You want to die?” completely out of context, a phrase she learned from TikTok.

One Indonesian classmate was obsessed with BlackPink. “It makes me so proud to be Asian,” she said. I was surprised by this fierce sense of kinship and ownership of K-pop. Is it too far-fetched to say that there’s some growing pan-Asian consciousness through Korean pop culture?

In Malaysia, a former Samsung employee says almost wistfully, “The Malays love Korean culture. There’s no East Asian baggage for Korea like there is for the Chinese.” An uncle imitates the middle-aged aunties, who squeal, “Oppa! Oppa!”

Most recently, I met a Frenchwoman, 50, from Reunion Island, a former colony off Africa’s east coast, for the first time, and she exclaimed with sheer delight: “You’re Korean! You’re the first Korean I’ve ever met in my life!”

Taking on soft power

I am both delighted and mystified by this change. Koreans have worked hard for it. The Ministry of Culture, Tourism, and Sport has been working overtime. I know it’s no overnight success to break through some bamboo ceilings. I have benefited from others' labors.

Culture is built on an economic base of course. While I am no business or emerging markets expert, I am interested in hearing where Samsung, LG and Hyundai build out their factories because the workers and the people follow. And they bring their food and stories with them, too. And I am curious, with great (soft) power, do we see our great responsibility?

Esther Y. Kim is a freelance writer based in Taiwan. She was senior manager at the Asian American Writers’ Workshop in New York City and Tilted Axis Press in London, and a publicist at Columbia University Press. She writes about culture and the Koreas.