Here at Rice, one of the most frequently asked questions whenever people meet each other for the first time is “Where are you from?” I usually answer, “I’m an international student from South Korea,” which always catches people by surprise. “Really? I could never tell, your English is so good!” they say, with their eyebrows raised. Though this might offend some, I never took it personally. To be fair, I don’t have the accent that people might expect from an international student.

My mom, who hears this often when we’re together, always responds with a playfully widening smile in her confidently imperfect English: “Because I put a lot of money into this guy!” So, how is my English so good? The short answer: a lot of time, effort, and, yes, money went into it. I was born and raised in South Korea, and I spent the first 14 years of my life in the country. My parents sent me to an international school from a tender age where the emphasis was to learn the English language. It wasn’t just about the schoolwork; I grew up reading Percy Jackson, watching Full House, and listening to MJ. This was not a common path for any Korean family, but my parents had a manifest vision for my future. 

Even when I transferred to a public middle school in Korea, English was still a part of who I was. It had felt like a secret tool I had that others didn’t: my English was legitimately better than my middle school English teacher’s. When I moved to Tyler, Texas, for high school, attending a boarding school, by then, English had become second nature. But even in Texas, though, my primary spoken language remained Korean.

Despite such an expansive English background, I have always considered Korean to be my “real” language. It is the language of my family, my childhood memories, and all the little things that make me who I am. But then, as I spent more time in the U.S. and my English skills continued to develop, I started to wonder-what language am I actually more comfortable with now? I used to secretly judge Korean Americans who couldn’t speak Korean fluently, thinking they had lost touch with their roots. I had thought this could never be me, since after all, I had been born and raised in Korea. Nowadays, when I go home for the summer or Christmas, I sometimes catch myself using the wrong vocabulary or searching for the right words that I immediately know how to say in English. My mom jokes that my Korean is at a middle school level. I always deny it, but deep down, I ask myself—is she right? Maybe I am more comfortable speaking English. 

Maybe I’m just afraid to admit that my first language isn’t the one I feel most at ease using anymore.

This realization has been too unsettling. 

I never thought I would be a foreigner with my native language, yet here I am. Oddly enough, I felt more comfortable in reading and writing in a language that wasn’t even “supposed” to be mine. 

And that’s where it gets complicated. I am fluent in English, but with this comes always the negotiation of an identity. The battle between the two languages pushes me to debate who I am. The real answer to ‘How is your English so good?’ isn’t just years of schooling, practice, or the money my parents invested—it’s about learning to adapt and navigate between two worlds, balancing two versions of myself. 

I am good at English because I chose to live in it, to think in it, and to make it a part of me. But that doesn’t mean I’ve lost my connection to my Korean self. It just means my relationship with both languages is more fluid than I once thought. I am, eventually, learning it is okay to be ambiguous about this question. I am not forced into an either/or choice. I can be fluent in both Korean and English and yet hold onto my Korean roots. And maybe, just maybe, that will be the best answer to this question after all.