Welcome, Ji-Young

Ji-Young, Sesame Street’s first Asian-American character, is here.

Coincidentally, I am a 1.5 generation Asian-American, and my name is Ji-Young. Or, it was.

My grandfather named me Ji-Young, but I only had that name for four years of my life. Four years that aren’t even in my memory. At the age of 4, I followed my parents to New Jersey, and as soon as I started attending the American school system, my parents picked an English name for me: Cindy. While I only officially changed my name to Cindy after getting my American citizenship years later, ‘Cindy’ was the name everyone knew me by.

I still vividly remember - a memory that is undoubtedly shared by most Asian-American students - American teachers going down the attendance list and hesitating to pronounce my name. “Ji-Young Park?” Then they awkwardly look at me, a pause, waiting for me to provide an English name. I hated that pause. I quickly learned to calculate where in the attendance list my name would fall, and yelled out “Cindy!” before the teacher even attempted to pronounce my name in front of the other students.

It’s an insignificant memory. I had been so used to it, so used to accepting that we needed to provide English names in an American classroom. I didn’t think of it has hiding my Korean name. And growing up as ‘Cindy’ for most of my life, I had learned to identify more with my English name. I even had to ask my parents numerous times about the meaning of my name. They replied: ‘Ji’ is for ‘Wisdom,’ ‘Young’ is for ‘Beauty’ (the meaning depends on the specific character that is used).

It was an insignificant memory, until my friends started sharing posts of Ji-Young, the new Sesame Street character. I kept seeing this Ji-Young on social media posts, where people celebrated this big step for Asian-Americans. My friends excitedly told me, “Hey, this is your name!” But was it? It was a strange feeling. This Ji-Young was being celebrated everywhere, but I had spent the last twenty something years of my life pushing her away. I wasn’t Ji-Young. I was Cindy. Cindy to my friends, Cindy on social media, Cindy on my job applications.

And honestly, for many Asian-Americans growing up in the 2000s, Korean culture wasn’t something to be celebrated. Having to worry about causing a smell in the cafeteria if you brought a Korean lunch that day (although you made your mom promise not to), having to worry about your clothes smelling like kimchi or other strong Korean ingredients (even though they were your favorite foods). Buying clothes from Hollister and Abercrombie & Fitch and throwing away your ‘Korean-style’ clothes and accessories. Never letting your parents visit your school because the teachers would feel uncomfortable by their accents that were ‘too strong’ (you were always correcting their grammar and being embarrassed, although they were 100% fluent in another language).

Living with two names is constantly balancing two identities. I only let myself be ‘Ji-Young’ at home, but outside, I only let people see ‘Cindy.’

But now, we are (hopefully) in a completely different generation. A different generation for Asian-American kids who are growing up and learning that they can proudly celebrate, and not hide, their culture. For the kids who can see themselves represented in the media.

So welcome, Ji-Young.

I can’t say I see myself in you at all. Rather, I see a completely different version of myself that I would have become had I grown up as a kid in this generation. In you, I see the other Ji-Young’s, the other Asian-Americans who will see themselves in you, and learn to embrace who they are:

Wise, Beautiful, and Courageous.

growing pains

Last night, my brother woke me up in the middle of the night, crying. He felt a pain in his leg that he could not understand — growing pains. He is fifteen, with a late growth spurt. I could barely open my eyes — it was 2 AM — but when neither my mom or dad got up, I gave in. With an Advil and a heating pad, I tucked him back into bed, and came back to my room. But I could not fall asleep right away.

So I decided to write something about, yes, growing pains. Whether you are an only child, an older or younger sibling, everyone experiences their own growing pains. Small things, moments, that mold you into who you are as a sibling, and as a person. For me, my growing pains are specifically about growing up as an older sister of a brother who is ten years younger, and who is on the spectrum. What I learned about myself through my brother, how the world viewed him, and how I fought back against what I saw as an unfair place.

My growing pains are also about the beautiful moments, moments that would have been undoubtedly different if my brother were not on the spectrum.

These stories are for my brother to read eventually, but also for others to better understand my brother for who he truly is. For those who found it hard to approach him or accept him because of labels, because of the different way he socially interacts with people. Most of all, because my brother deserves someone who knows and appreciates him more than anyone in the world to show the sides of him that others don’t bother to see.

These are my growing pains. The process of growing up. Yes, sometimes crying. But Justin, you’ll one day realize that after those tears, after those long nights of holding back the pain, that’s when you realize you’ve grown just a teeny bit.

two apples

When I heard news of a Sibling entering my life, I had been an only child for my whole life of ten years. Children typically are extremely excited or extremely unhappy/shocked when they hear that their parents are giving birth to another child. I fell under the latter. In fact, I was so unhappy that I told my mom I wished the baby (in her stomach) would die.

It’s not a proud moment. Especially since my mom had two miscarriages after I was born.

She tells me that I had said that in front of the doctor at her OB/GYN appointment. (I was ten, and obviously not very aware of filtering myself in front of others.) Obviously, the doctor did not know how to react.

To be honest, I cannot remember the moment when my mom first broke the news to me. I just remember thinking “Oh. No. This cannot be happening.” Getting a sibling was just something that I had understood was never, ever going to happen to me. I had never, ever told my parents I wanted a sibling. I was content with being a selfish child who got all the attention to herself.

My parents must not have known how to deal with the extent of my emotions. They knew I would be shocked, but they didn’t know I would hate the baby this much. I vented out for the next few months. My whole life was changing, and I definitely did not want to know exactly how this baby had come to existence.

They tried many things to console me, to make me understand that a sibling was not going to change the amount of attention/love I received.

”You see, let’s say that there is an apple that represents how much your dad and I love you. When the baby is born, the apple does not cut in half—instead, it’s doubled, so that there are two apples,” my mom said.

That’s the kind of things that parents will say to console a ten-year-old. It meant nothing to me. The apple metaphor didn’t even make sense. Things were definitely going to change.

I was grumpy and scared for the months leading up to my brother’s birth. Then, as soon as I met him in the hospital, every bad thought melted away. Heck, I’ll even say that an apple grew inside of me. I had been an only child, and I never knew how to love. I don’t know if you can say that children really understand at a young age what it means to love a parent, it’s more that you look up to them and rely on them. But love for a sibling is completely different. It’s almost tangible, like an apple.

I still can’t say that my mom’s story about the apple becoming two makes sense. Having a baby realistically does mean that a lot of attention is taken off the first, older sibling. You can’t tell your child one thing and behave in a way that contradicts what you said. But one thing is true: the moment you meet your new family member, you understand what it means to strive to do anything in the world for their happiness. Even if it’s something as nonsensical, or something as magical, as making one apple into two.

"애시당초 없었으면 괜찮았잖아"

꿈에 그리던 자취를 하게 됐다.
미국에 있는 가족을 떠나 한국에 와서 할머니랑 둘이
1년 넘게 살다가 할머니 집을 나오게 됐다.
그동안 불편했던 점들, 할머니의 코 고는 소리,
침대가 없어서 잤던 딱딱한 바닥,
핸드폰에서 유튜브나 카카오톡 쓰는 방법을 몰라서
날 귀찮게 했던 질문들,
할머니가 끓이던 온갖 이상한 음식의 냄새들,
새벽 6시에 나를 깨우던 밥솥 소리.

익숙해졌던 점들, 아침에 일어나면 풍기던 따뜻한 밥 냄새,
할머니 혼자 핸드폰으로 영상을 보며 웃던 소리,
밤 늦게 들어가도 코 골며 누워있던 할머니의 모습.

익숙해진다는 것이 얼마나 무서운 건지 깨달았다.

내가 떠나는 날 할머니는 내게 말했다:
”애시당초 없었으면 괜찮았잖아, 애시당초 안 왔으면..”
할머니의 눈에 눈물이 고였다.