2021 Content Award
Claire Choi
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Beautiful Jade
by Claire Choi
by Claire Choi
I used to resent my mother for choosing my email username for me. Knowing I was too young to choose my own, my mom came up with something short and simple to remember. The head of it consisted of my romanized Korean middle name, Galim, and some numbers followed right behind as its tail. When she showed me, I instinctively scrunched my nose, wincing at how awkward and out of place my email looked compared to all the “normal” emails that my “traditionally American” friends had. I soon learned that nobody understood me when I told them my email. To save myself from the embarrassment of repeating apparent gibberish in my mother tongue to them, I defaulted to spelling it out, hoping they understood.
When the first person asked me what my email meant, I felt the blood rush to my already rosy cheeks and stuttered answering that simple question. I became defensive and blamed the username on my mom, pleading how she was the one who made it, not me. I desperately wanted to erase my email account and to disassociate myself from such an alien name--one that even Koreans had trouble with because not only is it one letter away from a more common name, but it also bizarrely resembles the Korean word for “iron.” My name wasn’t perfect in Korea, and even less so in America, which made me want to shove it into a box and keep it hidden in the dark, unreachable corner of my closet.
That evening, I ran to my mom in the kitchen, as I was on the verge of tears, stumbling over hurried and unorganized words about how I wanted to change my name. I begged for an explanation of why she chose a name so strange in Korean and even stranger in English. I protested for a new email, a new name--an “American” name nobody would question. Slowly stirring a simmering pot of kimchi-jjigae, a stew unabashedly and unmistakably Korean, she looked at me with heartbroken eyes, telling me to sit down at the table. After measuredly turning the stove off, she followed me as I tried to swallow the lump building up in my neck while expecting a sparring match of wills.
“High Choi,” she said as her warm voice permeated the room along the ineffable scent of lacto-fermentation and briny whiff of the sea emanating from the stew. She explained how our last name meant high: high as the mountains, high in class, and high like the sky. It meant we were noble, dignified, and poised. She added, it also meant we were stubborn, joking that it was the reason why my dad was so.
She then explained my given Korean name--the one I didn’t like--comprised of two characters denoting “beautiful jade.” She chose the name because it meant I was beautiful and elegant, yet firm and strong-willed. She said she found beauty in my name and that she wanted her only daughter to be the same. She implored that no matter how much I like my American name more, I should still find the importance and grace implied by my Korean name. This name is a reminder of my Korean heritage like the jade necklace that hangs on me as I navigate my way through life in America.
After seeing that I was no longer in self-imposed shame, my mom went back to the kimchi stew and relit the fire beneath. I sat there, watching the blaze and reflecting on what my mom just said. Beautiful jade. Something was so mesmerizing and captivating about those two words when said in English. Slowly it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, my name in Korean wasn’t ugly after all.
Over time I grew to appreciate my name because I saw it from a different lens besides the American one. It is no longer some burden dangling around my neck, as it helped me reconcile who I truly am and should be proud of being: Asian American. My name is one reason to immerse myself in the Asian American community with which I stand tall with pride. Particularly, in recent times of increased hate and assaults against Asian Americans, I feel the pressing need for this community to come together for support and action. To those ends, Asian Americans should be called to stand in solidarity with beauty and strength; I will too, just as my name signifies.
When the first person asked me what my email meant, I felt the blood rush to my already rosy cheeks and stuttered answering that simple question. I became defensive and blamed the username on my mom, pleading how she was the one who made it, not me. I desperately wanted to erase my email account and to disassociate myself from such an alien name--one that even Koreans had trouble with because not only is it one letter away from a more common name, but it also bizarrely resembles the Korean word for “iron.” My name wasn’t perfect in Korea, and even less so in America, which made me want to shove it into a box and keep it hidden in the dark, unreachable corner of my closet.
That evening, I ran to my mom in the kitchen, as I was on the verge of tears, stumbling over hurried and unorganized words about how I wanted to change my name. I begged for an explanation of why she chose a name so strange in Korean and even stranger in English. I protested for a new email, a new name--an “American” name nobody would question. Slowly stirring a simmering pot of kimchi-jjigae, a stew unabashedly and unmistakably Korean, she looked at me with heartbroken eyes, telling me to sit down at the table. After measuredly turning the stove off, she followed me as I tried to swallow the lump building up in my neck while expecting a sparring match of wills.
“High Choi,” she said as her warm voice permeated the room along the ineffable scent of lacto-fermentation and briny whiff of the sea emanating from the stew. She explained how our last name meant high: high as the mountains, high in class, and high like the sky. It meant we were noble, dignified, and poised. She added, it also meant we were stubborn, joking that it was the reason why my dad was so.
She then explained my given Korean name--the one I didn’t like--comprised of two characters denoting “beautiful jade.” She chose the name because it meant I was beautiful and elegant, yet firm and strong-willed. She said she found beauty in my name and that she wanted her only daughter to be the same. She implored that no matter how much I like my American name more, I should still find the importance and grace implied by my Korean name. This name is a reminder of my Korean heritage like the jade necklace that hangs on me as I navigate my way through life in America.
After seeing that I was no longer in self-imposed shame, my mom went back to the kimchi stew and relit the fire beneath. I sat there, watching the blaze and reflecting on what my mom just said. Beautiful jade. Something was so mesmerizing and captivating about those two words when said in English. Slowly it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, my name in Korean wasn’t ugly after all.
Over time I grew to appreciate my name because I saw it from a different lens besides the American one. It is no longer some burden dangling around my neck, as it helped me reconcile who I truly am and should be proud of being: Asian American. My name is one reason to immerse myself in the Asian American community with which I stand tall with pride. Particularly, in recent times of increased hate and assaults against Asian Americans, I feel the pressing need for this community to come together for support and action. To those ends, Asian Americans should be called to stand in solidarity with beauty and strength; I will too, just as my name signifies.
