"my name is article "write an essay in about 500 words. pls
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Answer:
Explanation:
Jason Kim is an Asian American screenwriter and playwright. In this personal account, Kim discusses his experiences emigrating from Korea at a young age and his struggle to fit into American culture while maintaining his identity. As you read, take note of the details that support how Kim feels about his identity.
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I will never forget the day I picked a new name. I was standing in front of my class on my first day of school at Craig Elementary in St. Louis, Missouri. I had, only a day before, landed at Lambert airport after a 16-hour flight from Seoul, South Korea. I was 10 years old. I was nervous, terrified, and jet-lagged, and I was wearing a vest because I thought it was chic.
For my entire life, everyone, including me, had known me by my Korean name: Jun Hyuk. But here, in this new country, in a brand-new classroom full of foreign faces, I had to pick a new, easy-to-pronounce, American name.
Jason.
Jason Kim.
How did I settle on Jason? Because I didn’t speak any English. Because my teacher didn’t speak any Korean. And because it was either going to be Aladdin, from my favorite childhood Disney tale, or Jason, from the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers.
I spent the next decade wanting nothing more than to look like a Larry Lorberbaum or a Garrett Kennedy. I still vividly remember my first time at recess, a confusing experience for several reasons, in large part because hanging off monkey bars and making each other cry during dodgeball were not educationally sanctioned1 activities in Asia. What was so fun about waiting in line, running up the steps, and going down a tiny slide over and over again? What was the value in sprinting after your classmate like a person with rabies, screaming, “TAG!”
Why didn’t anyone look, sound, or act like me?
I spent most days at recess sitting alone on the sidelines, eating the special snack that my mother had packed. The snack, a rice cake or a piece of candy from Korea, was always accompanied by a note, usually a joke, and sometimes embellished2 with a drawing, which often looked like an abstract painting when it was meant to be a sketch of our beloved deceased poodle.
A month had passed when a teacher finally tapped me on the shoulder.
“Are you OK, sweetie?”
Before I could answer, another teacher rang out, “Maybe he likes sitting alone. Maybe that’s the Asian way.”
But in truth, I wanted to participate. I wanted to run up to Timmy like a crazy person and yell, “YOU’RE IT!” I just didn’t know how.
Outside on the playground, sitting alone at recess, I learned to hate being Asian. I wanted desperately, more than anything, to be white.
I immediately forced my parents to stop calling me Jun Hyuk at home. I named myself after some guy in a live-action children’s television series, and by God, they were going to call me by that name. I got rid of my fitted vests for loose-fitting basketball jerseys. I bought tickets to an Incubus concert and threw away my K-pop3 CDs. I stopped reading Korean children’s books in order to figure out what the hell was going on with James and his giant peaches.4