Growing up, my relationship with my Korean American identity was complicated.

During the week, I attended a predominantly white elementary school, but on Saturdays, I went to my local Korean school. This constant shift in environments left me feeling unsteady in my cultural identity. At school, I felt “too Korean” compared to my classmates, but on Saturdays, I was suddenly “too American” for the girls at Korean school.

As a third-generation Korean American, I never learned to speak Korean fluently. I remember sitting in a classroom, surrounded by girls my age effortlessly chatting in a language I struggled to understand. My Korean teacher would ask me questions, and I’d freeze, unable to respond — aware of the eyes around me, silently questioning why I couldn’t speak my own language. The alienation I felt in a space that was supposed to be mine shaped some of my earliest memories of isolation.

Yes, my family still practiced traditions — we bowed to our ancestors on New Year’s, and we ate traditional meals — but I never felt fully immersed in Korean culture. I didn’t grow up listening to K-pop, watching Korean dramas or casually speaking the language with friends in public. Despite attending Korean school for five years, I remained in the lowest-level Korean class for my age group. 

At one point, I decided that if I wasn’t “Korean enough,” I might as well fully embrace the part of me that was “too American.” I avoided bringing Korean food to school lunches, insisting on sandwiches and chips instead. I refused to tell people my Korean middle name. I even made self-deprecating jokes, sometimes leaning into stereotypes — brushing off my academic success by saying, “It’s just because I’m Asian.” But no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I couldn’t change the fact that I wasn’t white. I was, undeniably, Asian American.

The term “whitewashed” is often used to describe someone who has distanced themselves from their ancestral culture in order to conform to American norms. I once thought it was simply a descriptor for people like me. But now, I see it as a label that reinforces insecurity and minimizes the struggles of those who feel caught between two worlds.

A study from the National Library of Medicine found that accusations of “acting white” negatively impact mental health and ethnic-racial identity. What makes the term “whitewashed” especially harmful is that it frames cultural identity as something you either fully embrace or completely abandon. It ignores the complexity of growing up as a multi-generational immigrant where language barriers, cultural expectations and systemic pressures all shape our experiences within our heritage.

Additionally, the term “whitewashed” implies that adopting certain mannerisms, interests or behaviors commonly associated with white Americans means betraying one’s culture. But what does it even mean to “act white?” Is it speaking perfect English? Listening to Taylor Swift instead of BTS? Eating burgers instead of kimbap? The term assumes that culture is rigid and that engaging with anything outside of one’s ethnic background is an abandonment of heritage. But culture is fluid, and for many others, including myself, being Korean American means embracing both my Korean heritage and the influences of American society we grew up in.

Looking back, I now realize that the appeal of being “whitewashed” came from a larger societal idealization of white privilege. From TV shows, movies and beauty standards to history lessons in school, white culture was framed as the default and idealized version of American culture. This led me to the false belief that to be American was to be white. But, in reality, America is built on the diversity of countless cultures, ethnicities and experiences. If America has an identity, it should reflect all of us, which raises the question: why has white culture been upheld as superior?

It wasn’t until COVID-19 that my perspective truly shifted. Headlines of anti-Asian hate crimes flooded the news — elderly Asians brutally attacked in the streets, shootings at nail salons and xenophobic comments blaming the “dog eaters” for the pandemic. Fear spread through the Asian American community as we became scapegoats for a global crisis. In those moments, I wanted to disappear more than ever— until I attended my first anti-Asian hate protest.

For the first time, I wasn’t shying from my identity; I was fighting for it with pride. Through activism, I was finally able to fully connect with my Korean identity in a way that was unique. After the pandemic, I became involved in the push for an Asian American studies curriculum in New Jersey. I realized that my detachment from my heritage wasn’t just personal but systemic. The education I received had failed to reflect the history and contributions of people like me. Advocating for this bill became my way of fighting for both my Korean and American identities in one. 

I understand the word whitewashed in a joking setting. When my brown friends call me “whitewashed,” I laugh and agree. To them, I am someone who doesn’t speak Hindi, perform Indian dance or watch a lot of Bollywood movies. I laugh because I know they do not actually think I am “whitewashed.” They know that I love my culture and that those factors do not determine how much of an Indian person I am. 

Outside of my Indian friends, the word is intended to be mean, and to me, it is. 

Living in New Jersey has been a positive experience as a person of color. We are one of the most diverse states, especially for an Indian population. But, like all states in America, we are dominated by white Americans. Throughout my years of growing up, you can see in my photos from birthday parties, school events and summer camp that I am the only Indian American girl among a group of white American girls. My American Girl doll was considered the “tan” doll, rather than one of color. My name was never on the little license plates you find at Jersey Shore gift shops. I have gotten used to substitute teachers saying, “I’m not even going to try this one” when they get to my name on the attendance list. There has been this constant feeling that I am different — that I’ll never understand my white friends, and they will never get me. Despite that feeling, it never changed how I felt about my race and my religion.

The pride I felt for being a Hindu-American girl did not stop the world from making me feel as though I was extremely disconnected from my culture. During the pandemic and even now, I scroll on TikTok and come across Indian teenagers sharing their experiences as brown girls growing up in America. They post about the clothes they wore, all of the Indian food they ate in a day and how they go to the temple every week. Other users in the comments share their experiences too, each validating one another. I remember relating to some of the content but others not at all. I then came across a video where the creator said she rarely attended the temple and could not speak her native language fluently. This was something I could relate to. However, when I went to the comments to find people with similar experiences, they were all criticizing her. They called her a “coconut,” referring to the idea that she was brown on the outside and white on the inside, and they called her “whitewashed.” This was the first time I became conscious of the wonder: am I “whitewashed?”

This led me to the insecurities I have now, such as feeling guilty when I pick pizza over dosa or Chipotle over idlis. I ask myself, “Would a real Indian pick fast food over homemade Indian?” I get mad at myself, and those choices I make continue to stick with me as I eat my Americanized meals.

My next run-in with the word was when my white friends began to call me “whitewashed” as a joke. During my freshman year of high school, I wore a lot of Lululemon and strictly listened to Taylor Swift. My best friend told me I was “whitewashed” for this. She did not intend it to be mean; I don’t think she fully grasped what the word meant as a white girl. Despite this, I took it to heart. I did not understand how a girl who actively loved her culture could be seen as someone who hated it. I had a similar experience with a guy who told me I was not a “real Indian” due to my inability to speak my native language of Tamil. Again, it brought me back to the question: how could someone who is proud of being a Hindu and loves being Indian be seen as “whitewashed?”

I may not go to the temple every week or see many Bollywood movies. I may not eat Indian food every day of the week or speak my home language fluently. I may not wear traditional clothing to school or have done Indian dance growing up. But I love my culture. I love being a Hindu, and I love being Indian. Being called ‘whitewashed’ will never take that away from me.