Minorly Korean, Majorly Asian-American

By Chloe Yeo ‘26

Last Friday night in Boston, where Surface Street intersects Essex Street, I was robbed. 

By the hood of the police car, the female officer and I conversed casually about sports, college, and whatever other light-hearted topic she could think of. When I told her I went to Milton Academy, expecting her to know the school, I found myself being right. Her voice faded out as she said, “great school…great school.”

When the detective led me to the crime scene, I found my cards splayed out and my phone face-down on the ground. As I inhaled the lukewarm Boston air, the police officer asked me if “this also belongs to [me]?”

I looked down, and my face stared back up at me. I bent down to touch my IA, but as an officer stopped me, one of the other officers also asked if I went to Milton Academy. Eagerly, I responded, “Yes.” He echoed the words to another officer, who kept verbalizing my school to another officer. They never brought it up again. Still, as I sat in the police car, I couldn’t help but wonder if being associated with a private college-prep school granted me access to friendlier smiles and more devotion to my case.

Earlier in the year, I was at a birthday party with a mix of my Milton friends and friends from home. Embarking in a Harkness discussion, as only Milton students would do on a Saturday night, my friend pondered whether he had given up the fantasy of an authentic high-school experience to come to Milton. We pondered indeed. One of my hometown friends broke the moment of collective telepathic, revelatory head nods and disagreed, saying something along the lines of, “I don’t think that you guys are missing out on anything. You guys seem happy. You go to a great school, and you all seem nice.” My Milton friends were nice enough to hold their tongues, but I could tell they disagreed; I, on the other hand, agreed to an extent. 

To be honest, I am afraid of saying something wrong because I realize that my experience as an Asian-American student, while important, protects me from certain adversity or alienation at this school. I’ve been steeped in American culture for my entire life and going to college in the U.S. was never out of the question for me. When I say I’m Korean, I don’t mean that I’m fully ethnically Korean or that some of my family lives in Korea. I am Korean in no sense at all. I do not know what I mean when I say I’m Korean anymore.

I’ve always been a minority as a Korean and as an Asian-American, but at Milton, I am no longer the minority. A part of me is an etch in Milton’s malleable yet rigid clay exterior. For the first time in my life, I attend a school where there are just as many people of color as white people, yet I’m closer to more white people than international and local Asian students.

In so many ways, I resonate with being a minority, but in the context of this school, I feel guilty for doing so. I’m left to grapple with this question: How can I exist as a minority and a majority at the same time?

How dare I submerge myself in this minority narrative while I see Asians in powerful positions? While I read student articles calling for more Latinx representation, I wonder if I have the authority to call for more Korean representation. Or will the school—the people who attend this school—roll its eyes and say, “They’re letting in even more Asians?”

Attached to the name “Milton” is a sense of responsibility. For you, maybe that responsibility lies in getting good grades, getting into a good college, or finding your group of friends. Or maybe, amidst this “good school”—as the police officer described it—you are searching for something interweaved in this school’s history, student body, and external circle: your identity.

My identity as a reasonably happy Korean-American student is lost in the grouping of “Asian” at Milton. I’ve been mistaken for Asian girls who have a completely different hair color than I, Asian girls who live in a different country from me, and especially Asian girls who have the same first name as me. While reading this long list of microaggressions, you probably see the word “Asian” so much that you forget what it means for a second. That single second, where the phonetics of “Asian” ring in your head like nails on a chalkboard, is how I define being Asian at Milton.

This school is “great,” and Milton does foster an overwhelmingly “nice” community, but I cannot forget that while the name “Milton” is a badge of honor, my honor lies in advocating for myself. No one can cultivate your happiness at Milton except you. No one will truly understand your experience unless you reach out. But most importantly, no one will call 911 for you unless you dial the number.