Write for the Americans

I’m a writer. One who kind of knows how to write in both English and Korean. I mostly read in English, but I almost always speak in Korean, since I live in Korea (duh).

Most of my close friends, the ones I actually meet in person at least once a month, read and speak in Korean. I also publish a podcast and host online workshops, all in Korean. So I get direct feedback when I release something in Korean. I occasionally receive nice emails about my writing in English, but that happens maybe once every two months.

Despite the circumstances, I’ve been pushing myself to write more in English. Why? Because the world has way more English speakers than Korean speakers. Because people say English speakers have the biggest purchasing power. Because English speakers come from more diverse backgrounds. Because it’s easier for me to express raw opinions in English. Because in Korea, writing in English just sounds sexier than writing in Korean.

Also, the upcoming extinction of South Korea worries the hell out of me. Korean babies are now as rare as giant pandas. This country will collapse when most of the population is over sixty. That’s not a hundred years from now. I mean within fifty years, assuming the world’s lowest fertility rate doesn’t suddenly rise. This statistic never fails to depress me to the core of my soul.

I’ve read works by Korean Americans and Korean adoptees struggling to understand their identities. But I rarely come across stories from people like me. People torn not by cultural clashes or racism, but by the lifelong pressure to be a “global citizen.”

My parents gave up most of their assets to fund my education abroad. For years, I liked to brag that I was educated in China and the U.S. I knew my life sounded more “interesting” if I acted unfamiliar with Korean culture. Based on others’ reactions, I told myself I had to become more American. Read the best American novels. Pick American role models. Always be prepared to leave Korea in case things start to fall apart.

Look at gomtang. It suddenly became a proud symbol of K-food when The New York Times praised a gomtang restaurant as one of the best in Manhattan. Even Korean food, the most Korean thing next to the language, becomes globally valuable when New Yorkers realize there’s more to it than just kimchi. Try running the best gomtang place in Seoul for decades. Even if you dedicate your life to that quest, no one will call you one of “the proud Koreans.” New York’s approval is like a blessing from Jesus himself.

But then I started asking, what’s so wrong about writing and publishing in Korean? There are more than 50 million Korean speakers. Would I really be missing my shot at greatness if I focused on them? Why do I care so much about others? What’s wrong? Should I resist this thought, or give in?

Yes, execution is what actually matters. It’s silly that I still let these brainwashed goals get the best of me. I’m so caught up thinking about the audience that I’ve lost sight of what I actually do well. I don’t even know if I truly enjoy writing in two languages. I might be stuck in this maze forever, living as a mediocre blogger, rambling about self-doubt, and envying Pulitzer-winning artists who get to share their work with the world.