Summers in Korea as a Korean American: Are you fluent?
August 2025
Esther Seo | B.A. in Psychology from Yale University
Our language is often the most visible marker of our inner conflict
When I was younger, summers in Korea were spent quietly on my part. I got a glimpse of my immigrant parents’ struggle with English as they ordered food and fielded relatives’ questions in Korean on my behalf. It didn’t help that I was shy and perfectionistic. Speaking in Korean made me nervous.
Our dual identities as Korean-American often leave us in the grey, and our language is our most obvious tell of our conflict. I always take a moment to answer when I’m asked, are you fluent? We know the typical laments, sometimes coming from ourselves. I should have stuck with Korean school. I should have tried harder, sooner. And the routine response is that we can always start now. But then we’re too old, too busy, and it’s been too long since we’ve been out of school. We then repeat the cycle when we’re reminded of our dual identities in facing someone who does speak the language or in the media. Can we really say we’re Korean when we can’t read the language? If we need subtitles and translation apps? If we don’t know vocabulary beyond the colloquial? I’m Korean. The implication that I should know the language is there. Even if it’s not expressed to me, the thought is already in my mind. I’m not as fluent as I should be.
Language barriers are not unique to Korean-Americans, and it’s not so much about identity labels as it is about belonging. Alongside other 1.5+ generation immigrants, we know that the struggle to communicate becomes so much more personal when it comes to family. In my recent visit to a college friend, her younger brother mentioned that he wanted to improve his Zulu. He didn’t necessarily want to practice the language because it would validate his cultural identity. He just wanted to be able to talk to his extended family.
My friend’s brother perceives music differently than the classical musicians I know. He produces music in a formulaic way, understanding what notes and progressions elicit certain emotions. It’s not only about how you play the music, but what’s in the music. In the same way, I believe we can have genuine, meaningful conversations without a shared language. It’s about the company and being wholeheartedly present in the moment.
Lack of verbal conversation doesn’t make our experiences with others any less meaningful or warm, nor does it invalidate our claim to our Korean identity and culture. In Korea, my aunts dole me portions from their own meals and treat me to cafes. My cousins guide me around on public transportation, and we listen to adults’ conversations together on the side, exchanging looks when they gossip and argue. Silence can be dialogue, too.
My fondest memory of my grandmother is when she showed me how to fold dumpling edges with Playdoh. I mimicked her motions, and she slowed down to show me step by step when she saw that I was struggling. When I proudly presented my finished dumpling, she nodded and smiled with approval. I don’t have many memories of verbal conversations with my grandmother. In retrospect, even if I could recall what was discussed, there’s no words, in Korean or English, that so accurately captures our bond. Family and culture are beyond words.
I’ve realized recently that focusing on what I lack distracts me from fully enjoying my time with my extended family in Korea. My grandmother is now hard of hearing, and I don’t want to shout my broken Korean. The conflict is a little ironic; I don’t want to shout at my grandmother, but I also want to ask how she is. So I sit in her apartment, sharing a meal and watching TV, and she shows me how she is. In the end, I don’t need words, and she doesn’t either.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Esther Seo was born in Korea and has lived in NY, LA, and OK. She holds double BAs in psychology and history and an education studies certificate from Yale University. Her research interests center around human development, ranging from childhood to young adulthood, in relation to academic and behavioral outcomes. She currently works at Yale as a psychology postgraduate research associate and also spends her free time working with the Fair Opportunity Project to improve college accessibility. Outside of work, she loves to take care of her plants and watch movies.
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