Vida Marie Misook Adams was born in 1997 in Los Angeles, California, to a Korean mother and a Black father. An only child, she grew up in Koreatown before moving to Canoga Park in the Valley. As a Korean American of mixed heritage, she recalls how she often felt as though her maternal relatives were not as accepting of her, an unspoken racism which was realized in her exclusion from birthday parties and family photos. Yet at the same time, Vida has maintained a strong and profoundly intimate connection with Koreatown, the neighborhood she calls home and where she attributes the happiest days of her life to. Out of every place she’s ever been, she shares how it was in Koreatown that she felt like she “had the right to belong,” taking pride in the community’s history, and expressing an acute sadness at the fact that it has changed so much since her childhood.

Judy Han and Jennifer Chun were both born in Seoul, Korea; both also grew up in the United States. They talk about their individual experiences grappling with Korean and queer identity and the complicated interstitial space they’ve had to navigate in reconciling them. For Jennifer, “Korean American” was something she grappled with later in life; she recounts how in her childhood, perhaps owing to the socialization (and objectification) of Asian girls, she was more concerned with her gender. In college, she found the language and space to reflect on her gender identity, a process that she says is ongoing to this day. For Judy, the lines between Korean and Korean American gender and gender identity were always blurred; everything was so enmeshed with one another. They talk about how they knew they were queer from an early age but waited until college to express their identity for fear of worrying their parents. They sensed that their being queer would oftentimes disrupt Korean spaces, whether the space is church, family, or with others in their community. Though they’ve never wanted to make others uncomfortable, at a certain point, Judy realized that it was on others to put up with them, not the other way around. Both Judy and Jennifer acknowledge that there are “tensions which arise by accident” by being queer and Korean, but that they believe this discomfort can result in change for the better.

Lori Song, 65, was born and raised in Los Angeles to Korean and Japanese parents who arrived in L.A. from Hawaii in the 1950s. She has a twin brother who looks just like her, and a younger brother as well; with regards to her mixed heritage, she describes herself as a “fourth generation person on both sides.” From as early as she could remember, Lori recalls how she had always felt a sense of relief when cross-dressing, and remembers how transformative the first time she wore women’s clothing from head to toe had been. She recalls, too, how difficult her teenage years were (though she states that “teenage years are hard, no matter the era); eventually, Lori decided to give one last shot in “trying to be a man,” but knew, deep down, that it wasn’t who she really was. Slowly, she began coming out to her friends and family, and although some responses have been more lukewarm than others, she feels joy in how today’s younger generation are accepting of her as who she is. Recently, Lori began hormone therapy, and although she says that changes have been slow because she started later in life, she encourages us to “be brave enough to just do your thing,” no matter how young or old we might be.

Lana Yu was born on March 14th, 1952, in Korea during the middle of the Korean War; after fleeing Seoul for Daegu, she and her family returned to Seoul when she was five years old. She recalls how life after the war was difficult, as food was often scarce, but she found some joy in music and singing. In 1976, she and her family immigrated to LA, where despite initial difficulties with English, Lana worked a variety jobs including at a bank, the Los Angeles City Hall, and even as a casino dealer in Las Vegas! The most formative experience of her life in the U.S., however, was when her son came out to her; tearing up at the thought that he didn’t feel like he could come to her sooner, she reminds us that “there are way people who understand you than you think,” and encourages all of us to find the people who can support us.

Kyung Wan Kim was born in 1940 in Yeondeungpo-gu, Seoul, during the Japanese occupation of Korea. When she was 2 years old, her father was offered a job in Hwanghae Province, which today is a part of North Korea. The family lived in Hwanghae Province until 1945, when Korea was liberated, after which the family moved back South to a rural part of Gyeonggi Province. She recalls how, around the age of 16, people began expressing interest in marrying her, and that because food was so scarce, her parents tried to wed her to a stranger; eventually, she ran away to her uncle who resided in Seoul. Her uncle enrolled her in school, but because of a shortage of funds Kyung Wan had to find a way to make money, which she did by offering tutoring services. She graduated with a license in typewriting, and soon began working for the National Assembly Secretariat, where she stayed until the 5.16 coup of 1961. In 1967, she married her husband who had just quit his job; with no source of income, Kyung Wan made and sold banchan for 2 years, after which she took up tutoring again. Soon thereafter, her sister—who had moved abroad to Chicago—invited Kyung Wan and her husband to come to the US, and in time the couple moved to New Jersey, where Kyung Wan became a licensed therapeutic massager, opening up her first clinic in Flushing with her husband as her assistant, and then a second one in New Jersey. Even in retirement, people still visit her at her home for her massages, sometimes bringing small gifts and fruit. Though her life has been marked by many ups and downs, she reminds us to remember that whatever happens—good and bad—will all pass one day; it’s better to find your footing in the present, and just follow the flow.

Stephanie Jang was born in South Korea the eldest of three sisters. She describes how, in the 1970s, many Koreans wanted to come to America due to political and economic turmoil; when she was 19 years old, she, alongside her parents and sisters, were one such family to immigrate to the United States after being sponsored by close relative in Massachusetts. Her life as a new “Korean American” began smoothly: she attended college, met her husband, and had a daughter. In 1994, she moved with her husband and daughter back to Korea, where she was put through a series of hardship as the sole daughter-in-law (“myeoneuri”) of her husband’s family, an unsolicited title which came replete with burdensome expectations. After having a second daughter, she decided that she did not want to raise her children in the difficult environment, and so moved back to the United States to start her life anew at the age of 39. Empowered by her education, she pursued a career in business, and then in teaching, and today works as a college counselor as well as a Councilwoman for Palisades Park, taking pride in her work to uplift the Korean American community.