I wonder now if the other students in my high school classes saw me differently. I worry about my Korean peers' attitudes when I'm with my closest friends (none of whom are Asian). I'm currently experiencing an emotional reconstruction of what it means to be Korean, of what I missed and what I gained growing up in the Midwest, and hopefully, will never reach a clear conclusion.

The Wisconsin town I was born in had one movie theater, one bakery called "Gramma's," one gas station called "The Pit Stop," one park with one jungle gym, one hospital, and several restaurants with wood interiors along one main road, aptly dubbed Main Street. It also contained roughly two thousand people and one Korean family. From pre-school to high school, I was the only Asian-American in my class -- a distinction which never seemed to hinder or help me, and thusly, which I never noticed.

After what seemed like twenty-four hours had passed, the next guy started talking. But the lingering sensation persisted as we shook hands and said our good-byes: one of incredulity, puzzlement and above all, pity. I encountered the opposite end of the spectrum, too. My sophomore year roommate was Korean, yet decidedly anti-Korean: she had gone to high school in New York, where she nurtured a vehement embargo on "the Korean clique." Instead, she immersed herself into the world of New York punk: wearing spiked dog collars and experimenting with club drugs, associating herself with a completely different genre of "community."

Another Korean I know claims he could never date a Korean girl. Even the idea of kissing one gives him the heebie-jeebies because "It would feel like I was making out with my sister." All of these attitudes stunned me. It wasn't so much the nature of individual attractions or repulsion to the Korean community, but rather the mere consciousness of race that disturbed. On one hand, it seems impossible to ignore being born of a certain culture, one must necessarily take on the social responsibilities and respond; however, for the first eighteen years of my life, I've managed to avoid feeling classified simply because "Korean cliques" were never an option for me. In fact, I was completely (and perhaps stupidly) unaware of the concept before I got to New York. But was I? Recently I received an uproarious e-mail from a Korean friend with the heading, "You know you're Korean if..." with almost all of which I identified (such as, "Your parents root for the Asian sports player on TV" or "You had a bowl haircut at one point in your life"). It was a deeply satisfying humor, one which was exclusive, yet which included me lovingly.