When I think about what I would say
to someone I’ve just met, I realize that introductions rarely give true or
genuine insight to who that person really is. And perhaps that's due to the fact
that that individual themselves has yet to pin down their identity. However
more often than not, the reason that strangers tend to swim in the shallow end
of another’s identity is because our deeper identities are intimate in such a
way that merits greater familiarity or kinship. But what is lost when our first
impressions are superficial? So instead of giving an application in the clever
disguise of prose, I’ll deliver a narrative of what I think were the most
significant moments of my life that dictate how I identify myself in this
moment.
My first day of elementary school
is not something I remember in terms of actions but by feelings. Lost,
confused, misplaced, and insecure are all words that describe how I felt as a
new immigrant into my would-be-home in Fort Collins, Colorado. English was
still something that I had to fight for to grasp and I didn’t understand this
drastically different culture that I was unceremoniously dropped into. And it
was at this point that began my long time struggle with my cultural identity. I
felt as I belonged in neither world given the clash between cultural
expectations from my home life and at school. Even though sleepovers are
commonplace among most American households, there is somewhat of a taboo
regarding the notion of staying the night at another individual’s home as a
child. I realized that how I look dictated a lot of how people perceived me at
first glance here in the States; more specifically I was an outsider. It wasn’t
until later on in high school when I visited my dad who is building his career
in Korea that I realized that rather that feeling that I don’t belong in either
realm that I should appreciate the fact that I can choose to be part of both
worlds in my own unique way from a perspective that can comprehend the nuances
of each side.
Moving past my heritage, I want to talk
about a great and terrible love that I have in my life. I don’t really recall
ever having an absence of music in my life. As a kid, I jammed out to Britney
Spears and Christina Aguilera. In elementary, I struggled with the ivories and
the fiddle, which was a struggle that continued brutally until I entered middle
school. While before I entered middle school I had a love-hate relationship
with the instruments that I played, I never conceded defeat in the war that was
musical education. It was when I sat down for orchestra for the first time my
seventh grade year that I became amorous towards my varnished friend all due to
the great passion instilled in me by my director, Ms. Elley. This love grew
deeper and stronger and I’m sorry to say that my black and white companion
quickly faded out of the picture. So by the time that I entered high school, I
was in a fully committed relationship with my violin and you could say that
things were pretty serious. If I think about all the times I’ve sat in a room
full of musicians who have committed themselves to weaving the breathtaking
tapestry of an orchestral piece, I can feel myself filling up with joy in a way
that no other experience has matched. There is something about the experience
of contributing your individual capacity and love for your instrument to the
greater whole that is not only cathartic but also fulfilling. But now that I’m
here in college where everything seems to be a possibility, I find myself
regressing back to my childish love for singing. I have always been a car
belter, meaning that I cannot possibly drive tightlipped if the radio is on.
I’d never felt as though my voice was something spectacular enough to showcase
but now I feel as though I shouldn’t shy away from the chance to start up a new
romance.
But as far as passion goes, I lost
a lot of it the further I got into high school. It was around my junior year
that I started becoming an insomniac. But the thing about those who stay awake
when all are asleep is that after a certain point if feels like there is
absolutely nothing to do. I tried my fair share of nocturnal activities:
watching the epitome of terrible late night television, reading and rereading
the books in my room, attempting productivity to relieve academic guilt, and
the list goes on. One night, I stumbled upon this link from a social media
outlet, one of the many that I sadly subscribe to, that took me to a Youtube
video that was titled ‘An Open Letter to Feminist Trolls’ and that marked the
first time that I started labeling myself as a feminist. I remember watching
this video around 2 in the morning and just watching video after video from
this Youtube feminist’s channel until the sun started pouring through my
curtains. I’m not sure I can really describe what I was feeling in that moment
and why that was the turning point in how I started thinking critically about
society and the media. For the longest time, I went about my daily life without
really feeling as though something was driving me forward or propelling me into
the next day. Hearing the strongly voiced, rational rhetoric of this feminist
just illuminated something within me and I think I can safely say that I felt
true passion, something that I had lost in the monotony of high school. I still carry that fire inside of me now and
I have a feeling that this fire will continue to burn as long as I can still
think for myself.
Even though I may not have
explicitly told you what my name was or where I’m from, I would like to think
that these anecdotes have told you more about who I am than any series of
introductory questions would have. So this is who I is my scintillating life in a nutshell.
