[A conversation among Black college friends]

Mya: What are you, Black or Asian?

Me: I’m both.

Mya: You can’t be both. You have to pick one.

Me: I can’t pick one. I was raised honoring both Black and Asian cultures and traditions.

Mya: The ‘one drop’ rule says if you have one drop of Black blood, you must be Black. So why are you denying calling yourself Black?

Me: [Growing agitated] I told you, I’m both. If I were to pick one, it would feel like I’m denying one of my parents.

Mona: You’re right, you shouldn’t have to pick one. The sad truth is that if you don’t pick, society will pick for you. Think about it: if there was a race war, whose side would you find yourself on?

I was born to an African American father who was raised in the rural South at a time when the Jim Crow Laws enforced racial segregation in the southern United States. Hundreds of miles away, my mother was at home with my grandmother taking care of her younger siblings while my grandfather served in the South Korean army. My mother and father met when he was stationed at the American military base in Seoul. They fell in love, got married and moved to the US to start a family.

It was 1971. Three years after Martin Luther King was assassinated. Four years after Richard and Mildred Loving, an inter-racial couple from Virginia, had won a battle in the US Supreme Court to be allowed to live together legally. It would take another 30 years for the last anti-miscegenation law in a US state to be repealed.

I have fond memories of growing up in a mixed household. It was common to find my father in the family room on Sundays drumming strings on his electric guitar to Black gospel music, while my mother was humming to Korean hymns in the living room. My favorite dishes were mac & cheese, fried chicken, steamed white rice and kimchi. We lived a modest life, but my brothers and I felt deeply loved and cared for.

As a child, I didn’t notice that I looked different to my mother and my father. They were just mom and dad to me. I learned I was different because others told me I was different. The white children at preschool called me an ‘oreo’ – black on the outside, white on the inside. Our neighbours yelled racial slurs at us while throwing raw eggs at our house. People stared and pointed at us in public. Child Protective Services made an unexpected visit to our family home to check whether the pigmented blotches on my skin were bruises. And, I was held back in classes because teachers felt I wouldn’t be able to keep up with my white classmates.

I often reflect on that conversation with my Black college friends years ago. As conflicted as I felt at the time, I knew they were right about one thing: my lived experience would be shaped by the way people see me.

Whether you’re speaking of ethnicity, gender, sex, or religion, identity is complex. And, it is personal.

How do I identify? I identify as Black. It doesn’t mean that I deny my Asian heritage. In fact, I’m very proud of being Korean, and I'm close to my Korean relatives.

So, why Black? I suppose this is in part because of my lived experience as a Black person.

If you were to ask me today:

Have I ever been bullied or ridiculed because I am Black? My answer would be yes.

Have I ever been called racial slurs because I am Black? Yes.

Have I ever been racially profiled because I am Black? Yes.

Have I ever been harassed by the police because I am Black? Yes.

Have I ever been refused service because I am Black? Yes.

These are common experiences among many Blacks. No matter how hard you try to put these events behind you, they change you..forever. They seed fear, anger, self-doubt, insecurity, and mistrust that stay with you for the rest of your life. They shape the way in which you see the world.

“Public judgment sweeps in to fill any void. If you don’t get out there and define yourself, you will be quickly and inaccurately defined by others.” - Michelle Obama

In honour of Black History Month, Wellcome’s BAME network introduced us to Afrofuturism , an exciting way of imagining alternative futures through a Black lens. We had the pleasure of hearing from Ytasha Womack who explained that imagination is a tool of resilience. Afrofuturism creates an alternative narrative that gives you agency to imagine a brighter future for yourself. It reconciles your past with your present and future. She cautioned, however, that you mustn’t let others’ expectations limit your imagination.

If my younger self could’ve imagined an alternative future, I believe this is what she would’ve imagined:

You discover your superpower at an early age. As a child of mixed heritage, you have an exceptional ability to adapt to any circumstance and connect to any community, no matter the language, culture or customs. You learn to embrace what makes you different and turn it into your superpower. Your superpower is breaking down barriers and building bridges. You build up a powerful network of superfriends – family, friends, mentors, sponsors, allies – who you call upon to harness their collective powers for good. When times are difficult and you face seemingly insurmountable obstacles, you don’t give up. You stay true to your authentic self. You ignore the naysayers. Because one day, with the help of your superfriends, you will become the first person of African or Asian descent appointed to the executive team of the second largest private foundation in the world dedicated to improving health for everyone. And, you will use your platform to amplify the voices of the unseen and unheard who have yet to tell their own stories.

To the next generation of emerging leaders: what’s your superpower?