Embedded Files
Though there are multiple identities I cling onto, the one that has been the most formative is my undocumented immigrant identity. I am a 1.5 generation Korean-American. My family first migrated to the States when I was 8 years old, and I fell out of status shortly after. I did not fully understand what this meant for me as a teenager navigating the K-12 system and the beyond, but I soon experienced how one’s legal status could limit access to opportunities and be a determining factor in my life trajectories.
motherland
I have fond memories of my childhood. Privilege is not a term I recall using in my childhood days, but I am now cognizant of the varying degrees of privilege I had in my earlier years. My dad taught Kinesiology at the university level and my mom was a stay-at-home mom. We lived comfortably and well. I recall having access to private tutoring and enrichment classes after school. My mom actively sought out additional opportunities for my brother and me; we had a myriad of teachers flowing in and out of our living room throughout the week ranging from English, Go (a game comparable to American chess), visual art, voice lessons, piano, math, and more. We also had strong familial ties and capital. My mom came from a large family; she was a baby of six and I was the 16th grandchild on her side. My dad was the eldest of three; my grandpa had served as the Air Force General in his time and had made a name for himself. My parents were dutiful in honoring Confucius’ norms of filial piety. We visited our grandparents every weekend and my brother and I grew up knowing that we were tremendously loved and treasured by many.
immigration journey
There was a steady rising number of young families relocating from Korea to Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and America in the late 1990s into the early 2000s. Many sociologists referred to this as the education boom. The Korean school system and the Korean workforce strongly believed that “Americanized schooling” was far superior than what was offered domestically. Those who were able to, chose to immigrate with the desire for a better life. My family fell into this category. My dad had received his Masters degree from University of Texas, Austin back in 1988, and he found a route for us to immigrate to the States. He applied to and was accepted into a two year contract as a visiting professor. He readily jumped at the opportunity for his two kids to have an early start at language acquisition. My mom, on the other hand, was said to have been a bit more hesitant given her family and her parents who she would have to leave behind. However, she agreed to a two year term. We departed Incheon International Airport for LAX on July 26, 1999.
My dad had a friend from middle school days who had settled in Burbank, CA. Mr. Lee acted as our host amidst our transition. My dad, having done this once about a decade prior, navigated the systems fairly well. Within a week of staying in an extended home stay suite, we found ourselves with a brand new fuschia Ford Windstar and a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment. We were quickly enrolled into a local elementary up the street– Joaquin Miller Elementary School– and began our journey in the American education system in September of 1999.
It was a rude awakening to say the least. I had taken all the English classes I possibly could in Korea and sat through my dad’s English boot camp all summer, but it still proved to be too much to listen, comprehend, synthesize, and follow along with what was going on in my classroom. This was also the first time I was a minority in a given space. Korea was a largely homogenous country and a monolingual country. But here in my 3rd grade class, I struggled to find any traces of home. None of it sounded like home to me. None of it felt like home to me. None of it felt right to me. Luckily, I was placed in Mrs. Diaz’s 3rd grade class. She was equal parts gentle and firm and encouraging and stern. She saw something beyond an awkward 8 year old who struggled to show up and find joy in learning. She saw potential and hope somewhere within me and did everything in her power to draw them out of me. In 4th grade, I was placed in Mr. Ragle’s class. I somehow, somewhere found myself and my voice in that room. I felt seen and honored in that space even though I did not necessarily have the language or the words to communicate with my peers or with the teacher. Perhaps it was the daily journaling he had us do in our faint yellow journals. He somehow interpreted my non-sense sentences; he addressed my free writes and journal prompts and wrote back to me. I found so much joy in actually being able to express myself instead of bottling up my thoughts. It was also in 4th grade when I was identified as a GATE student. I did not know what this meant besides being pulled out a few times a year for a “Pull Out Day” to mingle with other students who had been identified as GATE. Little did I know that this would play a factor in my secondary years as it would "track" me into Honors and AP classes.
While my brother and I slowly found our footing within the school system, things began to unravel at home. While we had initially set out for a two year plan, my parents saw how much my brother and I were thriving here in the States. They felt that the right thing to do was to let us be rather than pressing for yet another painful transition back. As my dad transitioned back to Korea by himself, my mom stayed put here in SoCal with us. There is a term that was developed to explain this phenomenon as it became a norm for many families in Korea. “Gireogi Appa” roughly translates to “Goose Fathers.” This term refers to fathers being able to make seasonal visits made by fathers to their faraway families. This became our reality. We depended on our weekly Friday phone calls and his biannual visits to keep in touch with our dad. While this worked for the first couple years, it did not last. The phone calls became less frequent and the visits as well. By the time I was an 8th grader, our family did not talk much about my dad anymore. We recognized this was not normal, but I think this was our way of protecting ourselves the best we could and the way we chose to cope.
falling out of status
My mom became the breadwinner of our family of three. She worked as a cashier at the food court in the mall and once again at a souvenir shop out in Hollywood. This was not the life she was promised when she moved to the States with her husband and her two kids back in 1999, but she was determined to do what she could to keep us going. She naïvely held onto the hope that these challenges of being an undocumented, single mom of two would come to pass once her children obtained degrees and got themselves jobs, thus achieving our version of the “American Dream.” My brother and I also bought into the idea that education would save us. I excelled in school in hopes that I could bring my family the relief we desperately needed. The GATE track I was placed on back in 4th grade allowed me opportunities for Advanced Placement classes and additional credits to be earned towards college. However, I saw that the education system that awaited me beyond K-12 was not created with folks like me in mind. My attempts to even apply to colleges were met with misinformation and discouragement.
“You do know that you can't go to college if you are here illegally.”
“You should know you don’t qualify for federal loans. Have you considered a different route?”
“To be considered for this scholarship, you must be a U.S. citizen or a legal permanent resident.”
I turned to Yahoo! search engine to navigate college applications and fill out my AB-540 paperwork. Once I was accepted to UC San Diego in 2009, we sold our 1999 Ford Windstar and family heirlooms to pay for my first two quarters. Then, we browsed Craigslist and the likes to find jobs that would pay under the table. I babysat, cleaned homes, waited on tables, washed dishes, watched the register, tutored students, or even a combination of these each day. Though it was physically laborious, nothing paled in comparison to the sinking feeling that sat in my stomach as I watched my peers grow and evolve. They were proactively exploring their academic interests and taking steps towards life goals while I looked on from the sidelines. I, too, had visions and aspirations; however, these were luxuries I could not afford to act on because I had to focus on surviving.
While I was a college student, I did not feel like one. I attended classes in the morning with breaks sprinkled in between then sat on the bus for 45 minutes at a time to work my afternoon and evening shifts. I would resume my collegiate responsibilities around 9:30pm with whatever fuel I had left in my tank. Unfortunately, I had nothing to show that would be deemed “worthy” as a college student; my resume lacked internships, externships, and field experiences related to my major. Academics took a hit as I, along with the rest of my family, sought out ways to pay for schooling because, once again, we held onto the belief that education would be our saving grace. Before long, it was my time to graduate. It was supposed to be a celebration, but I found myself dreading what was to come. I had to face the reality that my work may have been in vain. Without a valid SSN and an Employment Authorization Document to accompany my name, I was not able to utilize my degree in any capacity. I had poured in all I had to navigate and survive this intricate system called higher education, but what was it all for? There was no working my way out of my undocumented status. The mantra I grew up with was a mere fallacy; hard work did not always result in social mobility and opportunities. We gave so much of ourselves to grasp at the straws of this non-existent promise, and I felt duped.
deferred action:
my chance at normalcy
June 15, 2012 was a momentous day for me. Janet Politano, the Secretary of Homeland Security, announced that there would be temporary relief and protection to certain young undocumented immigrants for a period of 2 years, subject to renewal. This meant that I could potentially have a fair chance at a normal life, pending approval, every two years. I leaped at this opportunity and sought all the ways to “prove” that I was a worthy immigrant who met all the criteria. On the other hand, my brother cried out disbelief and opted for self-deportation in November of 2012. It was an extremely difficult season of my life as my one and only sibling chose to leave, but I also understood where he was coming from. It was exhausting and so tiring to live like a less-than for so long. We did not know if Deferred Action would lead to a permanent solution in the long run, and Chris felt strongly about not being “strung along for the ride anymore.” As my brother transitioned back into our home country after 13 years, my mom and I found comfort in one another. We depended heavily on Skype to stay in touch with Chris as he also struggled to find a home in a foreign country we once called our motherland.
For the first time in a long time, I had the luxury of asking myself what I wanted to do. I felt that my immigrant identity was something that I wanted to cling onto– this is what spoke to my soul. I also was able to recognize the level of education attainment that allowed me opportunities despite my legal status. I also thought of my first teachers in the States and saw some intersection with education and immigrant youth. I reached out to Mr. Ragle, my 4th grade teacher, to see how I could enter this field with little to no experience in the classroom and no coursework. He advised me to find ways to volunteer or work in a classroom to see if this is what I would like to do. With his advice in tow, I was able to find a Teacher’s Assistant position in Northridge, CA at Balboa Gifted/High-Ability Magnet Elementary School through a connection. I started the year in two 2nd grade classrooms. I was surprised at the number of parent volunteers I saw on campus each day and the amount of resources the school had at hand. They had on their staff a P.E. teacher, a science teacher, a computer lab teacher. This was unheard of where I came from. I was later confided by one of the teachers onsite that the PTA asks for an annual donation of $700 per student to pay for these additional resources. I was flabbergasted at this ask, and then realized that this– this was all part of this complex system we called schooling. I had spent much of my childhood sitting on the opposite side of the spectrum, and this part-time job allowed me to peek into what many in this community had at their disposal. I recall being so torn and frustrated and simply wondering, “How can this be?
social justice lens
During my year at Balboa Magnet, I applied to and was accepted into UCLA’s Teacher Education Program. My two years at UCLA were transformative and eye-opening in many ways. It challenged my understanding of what it meant to be a social justice-oriented teacher and an educator. It was refreshing to meet 26 other like-minded individuals who were also hungry and eager to create impactful, intentional change. My first student-teaching placement was in a self-contained 7th grade classroom near USC. I walked in as a 23 year-old, unsure of myself and what I could offer these 12-13 year olds. The students welcomed me with much needed grace and understanding as I learned to find my teacher voice. It was also in this space where I first saw and navigated the thick racial tension between my Brown and Black students. The school population was made up of about 60% Hispanic students and 40% Black students. As an Asian American woman, I felt like this was not the space that I could readily enter and mediate– at least not yet. This was when I first saw the need for gradually building and forming authentic relationships rather than hastily “fixing” students and situations as I saw fit. My second placement was in a 1st grade classroom in Westlake, just a mile or so outside of MacArthur Park. All 23 students in this classroom were bilingual; I found it particularly so amazing that these 6-7 year olds wove in and out of their home language with such fluidity. What the society may have seen were students and families in low socioeconomic standing who lived doubled and tripled up in apartments. What I saw in my months with them were proud 6-7 year olds who found so much joy in who they were. They were more than how society saw them and defined them. I was very fortunate to be supported by Dr. Sara Kersey and my Field Supervisor, Susan Oswald, during my two years through the Teacher Education Program. They guided me and challenged me through my novice year and my resident year and met me in my different seasons with patience and reassurance.
My master’s inquiry was on English Learners and how facilitation of teachers can greatly impact their engagement and participation. It was coming to a full circle. My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Diaz, and my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Ragle, both had very different teaching styles; however, it was in their deliberate and intentional, instructional practices where I found my voice and ultimately, the courage to take up space in schools.
I began my teaching career at Pacoima Charter School. It was here that I saw that schools could be more than just a place where learning occurs. There was and is a greater purpose to schools. Schools could be where communities can gather, where they can receive and provide resources. Pacoima Charter School was a home to 1,400+ students, spanning from Pre-K to 5th grade, but it was also a home to their caregivers and families. The school opened its doors to host families and the community members countless times a month. It offered immigration clinics, Know Your Rights workshops, health fairs, career fairs and more. Pacoima Charter taught me the beauty in investing into the community and building community wealth from inside out. To me, Pacoima Charter School and its community members were living embodiments of Tara Yosso’s work on community cultural wealth. I also got to confront uncomfortable truths in my time at Pacoima as well. As one of the two AAPI teachers on campus of 65+ staff members, I found myself wondering how the community would perceive me and receive me. Perhaps it was my childhood insecurity creeping in or maybe it was my realization of complexities of racial identities. I wondered if my identity as a Korean-American woman would deter students and families from growing authentic relationships with me. The school demographics were broken down as follows: 96.5% Latinx, 2.1% Black, 0.6 AAPI, 0.5% White, and 0.1% as American Indian or Alaskan Native. My fears were shown to be unfounded; the community may have seen someone different from them, but my racial identity was not a barrier in being welcomed into the school community. Never in my three years at PCS did I feel like a “less than” or an outsider.
At the tailend of my third year at Pacoima, there was an opportunity to transition to Burbank Unified School District. This was the district I grew up attending, so I was drawn to the opportunity. I was in disbelief when I was called into an interview at Joaquin Miller Elementary School in May of 2018. This was the school I had attended when I first immigrated to America– 19 years prior. I was offered a position as a 1st grade teacher and was to start August 2018. Upon receiving my keys, I walked down the same hallways, sat in the same auditorium seats, and walked up to the same hardtop as I had back in 1999. It felt so nostalgic, and yet it also brought me back to the days where I felt so out of place as one of very few Asian American students in the whole school. I am still here– five years later– having redeemed my experiences as a learner and proactively working to ensure that all students are seen, loved, and valued.
looking ahead
Though I do not necessarily know the very next steps in my career, I know that I am graduating this program with more passion, gusto, and clarity than when I entered this program. There are moments where doubt crawls in and I question my ability to lead, facilitate, care, and show up for my teachers, staff, students, families, and the community members alike. Then, I recall my lived experiences and look at my daughter and once again, vow to myself that I will fight and speak up for those who are often overlooked, unseen, and silenced– because the future generation deserves better; they deserve more.
The fight continues on– regardless of my title.
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