Shin 1

Christy Shin

English 1101

Jamey Dunham

17 September 2021

Educational History Narrative Essay

Listening to my mother’s calls, I finally woke up and crawled out of bed. I quickly got

ready, ate my breakfast, and grabbed my lunch box. Catching a glimpse of my mother smiling

and waving goodbye, I ran out the screen door to catch the school bus. The scent of the sweaty

morning dew filled the air as the sunlight glistened through the windows. Overhearing the other

kids chit-chat in the background, I sat alone quietly and gazed outside while clutching my

bookbag until it was time to hop off.

“Welcome to another day of first grade,” says my teacher excitedly. I sat at my desk and

looked around the tidy classroom. I realized I was outnumbered. There were significantly more

of those with pale skin, light-colored eyes, and blonde hair than those with tanned skin, black

hair, and “smaller” dark eyes like myself. As I wandered in the hallways later on in the school

year, a few older boys pull the corners of their eyes and chant “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees,

look at these.” Thinking “I’m not Chinese or Japanese,” my confused seven-year-old self

continued to strut away.

On the other hand, I spent Saturday mornings and Sunday afternoons trapped in the stone

walls of a Korean school. Several kids and I practiced reading, speaking, listening, and writing

for hours every single week. Since my parents demanded fluency and academic perfection, I had

to take the same level classes as my older peers. I dreaded not being able to relate to my school

friends and their routines.

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Growing up Asian American as a first-generation immigrant, I yearned to fit into both

cultures harmoniously. At home, I would speak Korean, and everywhere else, I’d speak English.

However, the delicate balance between the two inevitably withered; the connection with my

Korean side started to disintegrate. With time, my sense of cultural identity crumbled like leaves

falling from trees on a windy autumn day.

I allowed myself to be consumed by western standards and expectations. Wanting to

completely conform, I quit using Korean, quickly losing my grasp of the language. I dressed in

basically the same fashion as everyone else, but I couldn't transform how I appeared. I began to

despise the way I looked, the fact I was different from the rest, and that I was Korean. I caught

myself feeling lost — disoriented, amorphous, tethered to nothingness.

However, during my freshman year of high school, my human geography teacher

changed my perspective on individuality and conferred a foreign sense of confidence. Mr.

Curry’s welcoming eyes radiated into his classroom while his dedication reflected off the rich

burgundy-colored walls. The first conversation I had with him happened to be about my first

name and heritage. “Why do you care about what people think?” he asked. His curiosity drove

me to question myself.

In the class, we learned about how humans interact with their surroundings and develop

cultures, economies, and systems. It wasn’t until the third unit that I felt the curriculum, my

teacher, and the world speak to me. The lesson focused on cultural diffusion — particularly the

concept of assimilation. I realized that I quite literally reflected the definition. Here I was, hoping

to assimilate into white America at the cost of losing my originality. I spent so much time

marinating in the racism and bitterness, willingly absorbing them into my pores. I simply
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rejected differentiating traits that I could control one by one until I could finally comprehend the

damage.

After class one day, Mr. Curry and I had a conversation about my identity crisis. He

proposed that I write a random Korean word on the whiteboard in the back of his classroom

every single day. This repetitive habit inspired me to uncover more about myself and retrieve my

hidden knowledge. Not only did his class teach me about the world we live in, but his character

motivated me to hold on to my culture. As he always welcomed everyone with a warm smile, he

also guided me to think independently and reach for more. Now, I perceive perfection in each

individual’s uniqueness, including myself. I find that the effort needed to carry and reassemble

scattered remnants of identity into something that can promote ourselves is the beauty of the

human experience.