All posts by Kathy Khang

Turkey, Dressing (not Stuffing) and Kimchee

We’re just a few weeks away from Thanksgiving. It is the one time each year I bust out the wedding china and wish I had a double oven. We go all out with everything from scratch except for the dishes at our table I’m sure weren’t included at the first Thanksgiving.

Our family has been known to enjoy sashimi, kimchee, rice, spicy tofu, chapchae, bulgogi, kalbi and other yummy Korean or Asian-inspired dishes alongside roasted turkey with all the fixings. Fork, knife, spoon and chopsticks. 

So what does your Thanksgiving table look like, smell like, taste like? And feel free to share recipes if you’re game! I’m kind of in a rut with the usual sweet potatoes, dressing and cheezy broccoli casserole.

When You See Someone Like Me

What do you think about this video?

How willing are we to talk about the stereotypes we uncomfortably cling to? How have stereotypes affected you?

I remember the moment Hollywood’s version of teenage angst came crashing down on my reality – the movie Sixteen Candles and the infamous Long Duck Dong. My teenage takeaway was very simple – not only could I not be Samantha who eventually gets Jake, but the guys that “should” be available to me were along the lines of the Donger, who wins over jock-ette  Marlene. I can’t get Jake, and I don’t want the Donger. I can’t be Samantha, but I don’t want to be Marlene.

Please remember that I was not-yet-13 at the time.

Earlier this year my daughter, niece, nephew and I were watching Twilight when the “Eric” character came into the scene. Many Twilight fans weren’t expecting actor Justin Chon to be playing the geek. Let’s face it. Most of us were expecting a white actor. But my it was my nephew’s reaction that said it all: “Why are the dorks always Asian?”

Stereotypes run both ways though. My freshman year roommate was my worst nightmare – tall, blonde, bubbly. I figured we would have absolutely nothing in common, and it got worse when she and almost everyone in our small dorm decided to go through rush. I was going to room with a sorority girl. (Now, mind you. I had no idea what the Greek system was until that week. When I heard “Are you Greek?” I was utterly confused at how someone could mistake me for someone from GREECE.) My interactions with my roommate were completely driven by my stereotypes of tall, blonde, bubbly girls because surely she was dumb, all about getting the guy and having fun, and carefree.

I must confess that at this point I am 17 but still so painfully close to 13.

What I learned from living in close quarters with my roommate and many other young women, who at least on the outside lived up to every stereotype imaginable, was that we had a lot in common. We were all young, often confused, trying to find our voice and way. We all had huge aspirations and suffered disappointment just as deeply as the next. Most of us had very different backgrounds – ethnic, racial, religious, socioeconomic, but when we found ways to talk about those differences there was space to learn. It’s just that those ways were tough to find, tough to prioritize, tough to commit to.

So when you see someone like me in an elevator, what do you think? Does the mention of a college education change your perception? When you find out I’m in Christian ministry what are you thinking? Does finding out I have three kids surprise you? Does a little bit of my story change what you see?

When Your Star Shines Brighter

When the idea of a group of Asian American women writing a book about faith, gender and culture started out with a snowball’s chance in hell, I had one fleeting thought that unnerved and annoyed me: What if this book actually gets published? Will my husband be OK with my success?

Somewhere in quiet, indirect messages I grew up to understand that boys were preferred over girls and smart, successful girls are scary or, even worse, undesireable.

It’s not that I thought two chapters in a book would launch my New York Times Bestseller literary career. But I understood that in the ministry world I’m in being a published author opens up opportunities that may have taken a lot more to open in the past. This is no time for false humility. After spending five years in the marketplace and then nearly a decade in ministry part-time, loving and learning from college students while raising a young family, my star was rising.

It is no small feat to be able to write a statement like that. Culturally there is no place for self-promotion – self-effacing comments, maybe. And by culturally I mean having grown up with a certain brand of Korean-American spirituality/fundamentalist/evangelicalism that let me know that under no circumstances was I to take credit for anything that I happened to achieve or fail. 

Good grades? I was lucky, or God pulled through. A promotion at work? I was lucky, or God had a plan. A big project flops? Bummer, or it wasn’t God’s will. Oversimplified? Without a doubt.

I will say here that my husband has been very supportive, but even then the kind of comments he would field while I traveled hinted at the audacity of what I was doing – pursuing a rising career. Men and women would gush over his willingness to babysit the kids while I was away writing or speaking, as if he had granted me a favor. Men at church would joke about “letting” me have so much time away from him and the kids. Women would ask how I could spend so much time away from my family.

It was as if my rising star needed to be explained away as an anomaly or excused as a luxury.

I’m not sure if it’s the sudden change in weather that is making me a bit cranky these days. I’m pretty sure it’s because over the past few weeks I’ve talked with a few other women who have wrestled with being a supportive wife and present mother who has an opportunity to stretch her wings and fly a bit. And maybe my fuse for this internal conversation is growing short…I want to respond graciously when I’m asked about the toll of my travel schedule on my family (because I really do agonize over it). I want to respond confidently when I’m asked about my ability to speak to a large audience about matters of faith and life. But I know I’m cranky.

Anyone else cranky out there?

Does God Care I’m an Asian American Woman?

So my posts about becoming an American has been generating some great on- and off-line conversations and comments about citizenship, identity, etc.

My job involves engaging people into the conversation about multiethnicity/multiculturalism & Christianity. The conversations are always rich and often difficult. A question that “AS” brought up in her comment is one that often bubbles up to the surface:

What does it mean to say that “God doesn’t care if you’re black or white, male or female, rich or poor?”

What do you think? Does God care? Does it matter to God?

Saying Goodbye to the Green Card – Say Cheese

The application has been filled out in black ink and capital letters.

Now, it’s time to say, “Cheese” or in my family it would be time to say, “Kimchee”.

The catch? Lots of details. Glasses on? Glasses off? Well, it depends. If you’re reading the USCIS website – off. If you’re reading the USDS website – on. Glossy. Color. Two 2×2 copies. Head has to be between 1″-1 3/8″. White to off-white background. “A” number and name printed lightly on the back. Neutral expression (I am rarely neutral), which means I actually don’t get to say, “Cheese” or “kimchee”.

I think I look angry…or like I’m posing for a traditional old school East Asian family photo. (Raise your hand if someone in your parents’ yearbook/wedding photos had this same expression on their face!) Peter thinks I just look tired. Bethany thinks I look weird.

Taking the completed application to the post office this afternoon felt weird. It’s difficult to explain. Unlike immigrating to the US and being born a Korean female, applying for citizenship was a choice. And for someone who is still asked, “Where are you from?” or “Where did you learn English?” choosing to become an American when I know very well that there are places where I will never be seen as American is a choice to engage.

Please don’t get me wrong. My faith, not my country or culture or gender, come first. But I do not believe any one of those parts of  my life is separate from the others, and neither can one single-handedly define or direct me. Does that make sense? Agree? Disagree?

Regardless, I think we can all agree this is not the most flattering photo I’ll ever have of myself. But in a funny way I think it captures well some of the many choices I’m blessed to have.

Sometimes we do get to have our cheese (with some lactaid) and kimchee (but not necessarily together but not unheard of) and eat it too.

…fortunately we still have a white wall in our home for this do-it-yourself passport-style photo…

Saying Goodbye to the Green Card – Step 1

I carry a green card. It’s not actually green, but it means that I am a legal permanent resident of the United States of America. I can stay as long as I stay out of major trouble and the US government says I can stay.

My parents and I immigrated to the US in 1971. The Republic of Korea was undergoing enormous change, and martial law was feeding unstable political flames. I’ve asked my parents several times why they chose to leave their families behind. They have repeatedly said that America was where they wanted to raise their children.

My parents packed a few suitcases, including a box of instant noodles and party dresses. My mother had had the dresses made out of the beautiful silks and brocades she had received from her in-laws as part of traditional engagement and wedding gift exchanges. My mom once told me that she fully expected to wear those party dresses in her first year in America. Most of them hung unworn in her closet and forgotten until I coaxed them and their stories out of the dust.

My green card combined with my ability to speak my second language better than my first has meant access & privilege – things many “Americans” born into citizenship may never consider as such. I don’t know. Nothing is a given when you are an “alien” amongst “native-born”.

After 9/11 my father begged me to get my citizenship. After Virginia Tech, my father called me up again asking me why I hadn’t applied. There were legitimate, deeply philosophical reasons behind my maintaining legal Korean citizenship, but as things in my adopted homeland continued to look at immigrants with raised eyebrows my father’s wisdom kept gnawing at me.

Step 1 – fill out 10 page application complete with legal signature, photographs, copy of green card and a check for $675 will be in the mail no later than Friday.

I have spent my life living in between cultures, but today it seems all the more so.

The Asian American Sidekick

Bethany doesn’t play with dolls anymore, but every now and then I’ll talk with a mom of  a younger girl who happens to still be very much in the AG doll phase. I don’t know what came over me tonight. Maybe it was thinking about culture in preparation for a Sunday School series I’ll be teaching at church later this month? Maybe.

I went on the AG website and was reminded why I was grateful when Bethany announced she had grown out of that phase of childhood.

Currently AG, from what I can tell, has two Asian American dolls. And both dolls are the sidekicks to a “main” doll. Again, finding affordable, quality, multicultural dolls is not the most pressing issue in the world, but it is a pretty typical parenting dilemma for many of us. Our kids want dolls, and while they might not immediately care whether or not its a blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll, some of us parents do care for a variety of reasons.

Anyway, these two dolls are the sidekicks, and of course I have my theory. (I’d love to hear yours if you have one.) My theory? They haven’t figured out how to create and then market an entire line of historical fiction-based matching outfits and accessories for girls and dolls based on the Japanese internment or the immigration/resettling patterns of East, South East and South Asians.

Oversimplifying Asian American history? Yes. And really, isn’t that what the line of dolls is? It makes history (or historical fiction) accessible for those who can afford it, but it isn’t without its share of stereotypes which in the hands of young girls can be a bit tricky.

“Sidekick!” – it makes me think of the movie “Sky High” where new students attending this special school for super hero-type kids had to show off their super hero skills. Cool skills like super-duper strength mean you go to the super hero classes. Other skills like turning into a rodent mean you are a “Sidekick!”

My favorite doll growing up was a little “rag” doll my mom made out of a pattern. She cut out two pieces – the front and the back – sewed and stuffed. Voila! The other doll I remember loving was my “life-sized Barbie-like doll”; she was a black doll! My parents couldn’t find an Asian doll so they figured better black than blonde I guess. I can’t say I remember noticing or caring. The dolls were mine, and that was all that mattered.

Is it always that simple?

Homecoming Weekend

During the fall of 1985, a strange wind blew through my hometown. That wind carried me to the steps of the homecoming court, and then promptly dropped me on my behind just shy of the court. It was weird.

To this day I am convinced that it was some joke that never completely saw the light of day. Yes, I was on poms, but hardly a popular girl. Hmm.  How shall I put it? I was a geek. A geek who had rhythm and stage presence. Perhaps someone thought it would be funny if I actually made it on that float with the Homecoming Queen as a member of her court and threw my name in the hat. Whatever the reason, it didn’t make any sense to me, and to be honest it was a painful reminder of what I was not and what I would never be.

Instead of becoming a great punchline or strange photo in the yearbook, the nomination created a very awkward, difficult and sometimes tense situation at home. Why? My parents had never experienced “Homecoming”. My parents had experienced high school but that was decades prior in a country that at that time was often referred to as a third world or developing nation. As if high school isn’t tough enough, imagine going through high school trying to translate it in Korean.

“Um-mah, Ah-Bbah, (Mom and dad), would you please leave me alone and comfort me. I know this nomination is a nong-dam (joke) but there is a part of me that wants to ee-gyu (win) and there’s a part of me that knows it will never happen. Instead, come an-juh (sit) in the bleachers and wear a big ggote (corsage) with a button created out of a sah-jin (photo) of me in my poms uniform?  And then later that night you will need to snap sah-jin (pictures) of me and my nahm-ja-ching-goo (date) and my ching-go (friends) and their nahm-ja-ching-goos (dates) as we head out, this time I’m wearing the ggote (corsage), to juh-nyuk (dinner) and then a dance with a boy who calls me “Kate”. Oh, and did I mention that during the week leading up to your time in the bleachers and mine in a dress I borrowed from you, I will be gone decorating the hallways for spirit week. Oh, never mind. It’s OK. You don’t have to come.”

To the person who thought it was funny to put my name in the hat for sophomore attendant: I have almost forgiven you. 

It’s homecoming weekend here. The storefronts down “Main Street” are decorated in anticipation of the festivities, complete with a parade, football game and reunions. We have to get Bethany to the beginning of the parade route early so she can “march”. She lucked out this year. Being a member of last year’s poms squad she gets to “dance” in her poms uniform, which I must say is cuter than the band uniform she wore last year. She brought the uniform home today, and all I could think of is next year when she’s in high school this weekend has the potential to look and feel so different. She’ll know it. And I will so know it.

My parents did the best they could with a 15-year-old cultural interpreter. My hope is that through our experience together defining Korean American I am a better interpreter for my children.

Working Mommy=Unhealthier Kids? Work, Parenting, Calling & Roles

I’m always telling my children that they have the “meanest mommy in the whole wide world” but apparently I now have proof that they are pretty lucky kids.

According to a new study out of Britain, researchers have found that children of mothers who work full-time were the unhealthiest of the bunch. The second group of unhealthy kids belonged to part-time working moms.

Why? Because those kids ate more sweets, chips and sweetened drinks in between meals and spent more time than did their stay-at-home-mom-kids counterparts.

Hey, Bethany, Corban & Elias! Stop whining! You may have spending limits on clothing, and restrictions on the types of movies you are allowed to watch, but YOU get more sweets, chips, high fructose corn syrup enhanced drinks & tv/computer time than your friends whose moms do not work outside of the home. I have research to back this up!

I told you you were lucky to have the meanest mommy in the whole wide world!

Studies like this frustrate me to no end. Apparently fathers and their presence or lack thereof is irrelevant. Because their working trends have not changed significantly since the stone ages or so, it is obviously up to women to stay at home and raise healthy children. Razzle, frazzle.

I have worked outside of the home since Bethany was born (minus the first six months of her life when I was recovering from nearly bleeding to death, but that’s another story for another day). I may have been a career-driven 20-something, but when I was holding Bethany, and then Corban and Elias, in my arms I did not care whether or not I would see another byline again.

I have often wondered what it would be like to be a SAHM (stay at home mom) and to never feel that work gets the very best of me on some days while my children get the tired, worn out version of me. I have listened to SAHMs who refer rather wistfully to my “trips” away to exotic destinations like Madison, WI; Champaign-Urbana, IL; and Cedarville, MI. (OK, Seattle and SoCal are better!) What we’ve learned in living the journey together: the grass is always greener on the other side if all you’re doing is looking at the other side.

I’m in my 14th year of parenting with a lifetime to go and thousands of years of Korean American cultural baggage of guilt and shame with a splash of Christian fundamentalism to weigh me down. I do not have the energy nor the desire anymore to take on more false guilt or spend energy frustrated over things I cannot change. That is how I do it.

For those of you moms out there, what have you done to make it “work” for you and your family – whether you are a SAHM or a mom who works outside of the home? What about your situation has frustrated you or made you feel guilty or even envious of the other side and how have you dealt with it?

And out of curiosity, what do you think? Are kids with SAHMs better off?  Are kids with moms who work outside of the home better off? Does it have to be an either or?

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