I am American-Korean. 

That seems like such a simple, declarative sentence stating one part of how I identify and function in American society. It took me the better part of 30 years to both settle on that identity, then to embrace and be comfortable with it.

How I embrace my cultural identity has evolved throughout my life. I was raised in Washington state in an area with a large Asian American population. I generally felt comfortable in my skin growing up, but sensed a real shift when I moved to Texas. My third day on contract at my first job as a teacher, an administrator called me “Oriental” because we had differing opinions on how to pronounce the word “sudoku.” His secretary’s eyes turned the size of saucers. And I didn’t have much to say as a first year teacher, who felt both surprised by the microaggression and powerless to address it.

In Texas, I became more aware of how I looked, and how people reacted to and treated me based on it. Sometimes I was “other,” different from everyone around me and feeling ostracized for how I looked, yet at the same time, easily grouped with others for looking the same (really, how many Asian music teachers are there in South Texas? Learn my name!) Other times, I questioned my level of “Asianness;” I felt like I was not Korean enough.  My comfortable Asian American bubble that I grew up in was gone, and I found myself questioning my cultural identity and how I “fit in.”

In 2017, when my Korean grandmother passed away, my mother said it was time for me to go to Korea to see my grandfather before it also became too late to spend time with him. So for the first time in 20 years, I set out to visit South Korea for two weeks. We stayed with my grandfather, who lives on Ganghwado, an island on the northwest corner of the country. It was so frustrating to be unable to communicate with my grandfather directly, and I felt so fortunate that my mother could translate. She was truly the only bridge linking me with everything and everyone around me. 

We visited as many historical and cultural sites as we could during that time (plus lots of shopping and eating too), including the Ganghwa Peace Observatory. Built in 2008, this observatory is in a Civilian Restricted Zone, and allows visitors to directly see parts of North Korea on the other side of the Han river. It also houses several historical installations that provide education about the Korean War.

I learned so much about Korean history during my visit there, but I experienced mixed emotions too; grateful to gather so much information, but I was also ashamed that I didn’t know it in the first place. For example, I was clueless about the Japanese occupation at the beginning of the 20th century. And while I knew about the Korean War -  reading stories, seeing pictures and videos at the Observatory Deck made it much more real to me. (The following summer, while at a teacher PD course in Washington DC, I would visit the Korean War Veterans Memorial and be overcome with emotions). 

One day, in Seoul, my husband and I happened upon a group of people performing in front of city hall.  Two women were dressed in traditional hanbok, performing a fan dance, while another sang Arirang, an iconic Korean folk song. For this group, the song represented their desire for the reunification of North and South Korea. I was fascinated. I became aware of a strong sense of nostalgia, as well as pride. Something from my childhood that I had seemingly forgotten was all of a sudden right in front of me, and it was amazing. Not just because of what the performers were doing, but because of the connection I felt with it. After we returned home, I knew I wanted to find a way to share about my travels with my students, but I had so many apprehensions.

I remembered hearing Arirang growing up, as well as in my Korean language class in high school. I remembered seeing it in a music textbook during my first year of teaching and my excitement in preparing to teach it to my fifth graders. And then I taught Arirang. The lesson ended with a student pulling at the edges of their eyes with their fingers to make them appear “slanted.” I was devastated. And now, as I have become a wiser teacher, and propelled by the pride I felt with reclaiming my heritage, I wondered if I could communicate the material in a more meaningful way. I was still scared my students would laugh at me and my culture, but I also knew there was something else behind my hesitation. Something much more personal and reflective of the internalization of my identity. Who was I to tell my students about Korean culture and Arirang? 

Yet again, I felt I wasn’t Korean “enough,” and had no authority to present anything about Korea.

I sat on my feelings and concerns for a long time. I researched Arirang, and its role in Korean culture. I learned that there are dozens of varieties, depending on the region; if the words “arirang arariyo” are present, then the song is considered an Arirang. My mom told me that she didn’t even remember when she learned Arirang, or from whom; that everyone sings it automatically, and that she remembered hearing it sung outside, and everywhere, by neighbors and friends. She also mentioned how Koreans would sing Arirang during the Japanese occupation, which was viewed as a form of protest. She called Arirang a part of Korean’s hearts, and a source of inspiration. In fact, Arirang are on the UNESCO Representative List of Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity.

I asked my mom how she felt about the song being used in a music classroom like my own, but without any context behind its meaning. She was confused. “No,” she said warily. “That’s not right. I remember learning songs in school from other countries, and the teachers always told us about why they were important in those places. They called them folk songs.” After telling me all about her experiences with Arirang, she didn’t want to guard it from others, but she did want others to understand its significance. 

After all my research, I came to the conclusion that I needed to share with my students (and later other music teachers) from my own positionality, as an American-Korean teacher who was also learning more about her own heritage. That is exactly how I shared it with my students who ended up being so receptive to my lessons and activities. It was an unbelievably uplifting experience for me. As I continued to share at professional development conferences and workshops, I was blessed to meet other educators of Korean descent who shared even more of their own perspectives and experiences with myself, as well as the participants in each event.

My mother says, “If you don’t know Arirang, you aren’t Korean!” But I’ve also discovered that when you know Arirang, you know that one Arirang’s meaning and significance varies. For my Mom, it’s a part of her identity as a Korean, practically indescribable. Imperative. Like breathing. For the group in downtown Seoul, it represented reunification. For me, it represents a reconnection to a part of my cultural heritage that I long for. But I do not always meet that yearning in a completely positive light. I feel great pride in learning about Arirang and its history. But other feelings are more nuanced and complicated. I felt relief. But that relief was because I felt I had passed the test of being “Korean enough.” There IS NO TEST. No one can tell me if I’m Korean enough or not. I remind myself of that all the time, and believe it a little bit more every day.

Real life is not like the movies. If life were so, then the story would have faded to black after I had made that self-actualization. Our journey to understanding and accepting our identity is constantly challenged, especially when we begin to understand ourselves even more. I recently had a less than stellar experience with this song. I found myself in a situation where this song, which has so much meaning to me as part of my cultural identity, was wiped of all its significance. All of the value and power Arirang holds was rendered sterile, and became  negligible in the presentation of the song. The subsequent emotions I had following the presentation were illuminating to me as an educator. First, I was confused, which then turned into concern. Then I became upset. And finally angry. Something so personal to me was ripped away, and used for a different purpose. It became a pedagogical tool, simply to check a box on a list of tasks to be completed, erased of any other value. As a student in a professional development course, I was expecting to learn, grow, and gather tools to improve my craft. Instead, I was hurt. Because of these emotions, I felt myself completely turned off by the actual purpose of the work I was doing, and the student to teacher dynamic that I was in became tinged with distrust.

As I was going through all of these emotions personally, I was also processing everything on a different level, as a teacher to my own students. I wondered how many times I had alienated my students by using materials or practices from their lives without fully understanding what I was sharing, whether I intended it or not. Because the impact is what matters, not the intention. Despite this frustrating experience, I choose to find value in it for what it taught me, and the perspective it gave me that will enable me to be a more empathetic teacher for my students. 

I ask myself these questions because of this experience. As a teacher, how can I learn and grow, and be a better teacher to my students? How can I be more responsive and respectful of their own cultures and identities in my music classroom? How can I take my own lived experience and use it as a reminder to be more reflective of my own biases and teaching practices? As a trainer and educator of other teachers, how can I also impart to them the importance of these ideals as well? It seems I have ended with more questions than answers, but I look forward to the work I will do and what I will learn from them.

The movie continues... 

Natasha Thurmon teaches K-5 general music, choir, strings, Recorder, and Orff ensemble at Boldt Elementary in the Northside Independent School District in San Antonio, TX. She has a BME in Music Education from Pacific Lutheran University and an MM in Music Education from the University of Texas at San Antonio. She completed her Orff levels and two master classes at Trinity University, where she now teaches Recorder, in addition to San Diego. Natasha is past president of Central Texas Orff, and has served on several subcommittees for AOSA, chairing the Social Media subcommittee, and most currently on the Recorder Teacher Apprenticeship Panel. She has presented at various workshops locally and at state conferences, as well as at the national AOSA conference and for Orff chapter workshops. She serves on the Professional Development committee of her local AFT union and on their Executive Board.