“You are the most Korean out of all of us.” 

Due to my time overseas, I’ve been blessed with the camaraderie of different communities. And while some would call me Korean, some would define me as something else – something that’s not Korean.

I distinctly remember the day our family left Korea. My daydream in class was interrupted by a familiar face entering the room. Taken out of school, I was told that our family was leaving the country. I remember gazing at the panorama of farmland as I sat in our car, trying to decide how I felt. I never got the chance to say goodbye, but I don’t remember myself being sad. Only after a long reflection over many years did I realize, with some sense of shock, I felt nothing. I did not understand the implication that day held — the day I got cast away.

With that began my life outside of Korea. Never staying in one place for more than five years, I moved from school to school, district to district, even to another country. Contrary to what many might think, moving wasn’t too hard. Making new friends or leaving old ones were never a serious concern; I was quick to move on. Yet somehow, the annual visit to my home country became a constant test of courage. Not only because I had to face the scary Korean kids who, in my imagination, would take my lunch money, but also because the trip had become a mirror to reflect how different I became from the rest of my kin. Not quite Korean, not quite American, not Chinese even by the slightest. 

Obviously, where you spend your childhood is important. It’s a history of your soul and mind, the DNA of your self-identity. The books you read, the people you hung out with, and the culture you were exposed to come to define what you value and want. So in short, my time abroad placed me on an undeniable position of uniqueness. I realized one’s roots therefore is not merely an indication of one’s ethical heritage, but a representation of who you belong with, and where you stand. Without it, you are cast away. 

Granted, being unique can very often be a gift, but it can also be a curse. Being different from everyone else around you gives a nuanced loneliness impertinent to your social status. You can be surrounded by a group of friends and still feel the inherent gap between you and them, a reminder that you don’t belong. It’s like chronic back pain, sending a wave of pain to remind you of its existence whenever you move. And that is when friendship comes into place, becoming your only solace when you cannot find land to put down your roots.

Friendship comes not from the similarities you share with others. Sure, it may begin there. Yet I believe it goes beyond just looking for commonalities. It comes from acknowledging the differences in thoughts and actions of others and respecting them. And most importantly, from sharing time and memories — which have grown to become my roots in a place where I did not have any. Of course, the difference in our upbringing means we are different. Conflicts and mishaps may surface. Sometimes we might feel 200 miles away from each other. We might shudder at the utter stupidity of each other. We might even vow never to talk to each other again. So it takes courage — courage to go through the storm and admit our differences. And to go forth and apologize (if your ego allows it), because the time spent together means much more than that.

Unless, your friend is a volleyball.