Between Belonging

During my grant year, I attended a graduate school’s virtual DEI session for accepted students in hopes of hearing some words of comfort, perhaps along the lines of, “There will be an H Mart opening in town!” — but to no avail. Instead, the PowerPoint opened to the first slide of definitions of DEI terminology before launching into an hour-long session on Why You Will Love Our School.

Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Attempting not to spell it any other way, universities and corporations have adopted DEI as a catch-all phrase for their institutions, working to quantify and optimize the patterns that promote belonging among their students, faculty, and alumni. But how does one truly measure belonging, and why is it defined with equally ambiguous acronyms that seem to point at each other in an endless cycle?

In Korea, the means of racial or ethnic identification are (thankfully) not a checklist. But they do feel almost binary: either Korean or non-Korean. Those in between, meaning part of the ethnic Korean diaspora, typically draw to one side more than the other. But even the between space holds another unspoken dimension of intra-diversity, where being Korean American can be further split depending on language skill, cultural knowledge, number of visits to the motherland, etc.

There were too many moments when I did not feel “Korean” enough in college, where I met Korean international students and other Korean Americans who were well-versed in the above criteria. While it ultimately helped form my understanding of what it means to be Asian in America, and ultimately formed the basis of my Fulbright research on Korean diaspora and belonging, I was brought back to this insecurity upon moving to Korea. Most of the Korean returnees I encountered in Seoul, if not visiting for tourism or studying abroad, held strong ties to the peninsula. I asked some Korean American friends if they could imagine themselves living here for the long term, and to my surprise, most of them answered yes. Their family all returned to Korea, and the flexible F-4 heritage visa incentivizes Korean diasporic residents to stay as long as they want.

But when I asked if they felt like they belonged, it was the opposite answer. “I feel more American, especially in Korea,” was one reply. “But there are a lot more privileges in being American in Korea than in being Korean in America.”

Since when does one have to choose between belonging or comfort? I was perplexed by these answers. Yet, nobody seemed confused by these conclusions. There comes a point in all this wondering when I stop and ask myself if my research questions matter, if I am the only one asking these questions in the first place.

When the DEI event opened for questions, I asked the question swelling inside of me. “I get that DEI is important, and the way to improve DEI seems pretty straightforward. But what about belonging? You can diversify a student population, and you can improve equity and inclusion in a similar metric, but how do you really improve upon belonging?”

The DEI representative’s answer was summed up into one simple sentence. Diversity, equity, and inclusion, when being worked on in their respective parts, produce belonging. I digested these words slowly, and over the week, I found relatable truth in her words. Despite their flaws and bureaucratic obstacles, American institutions that actively work on their DEI initiatives are addressing these questions for the sake of people who wonder if their questions matter, if they matter, thousands and thousands of miles away from the comforts of home. Because home no longer has to be a singular physical place, but one that can be called, constructed, and committed to.

In the words of the cheesy quote that I hung over my freshman dorm bed frame, “Home is where the heart is.” Comfort and belonging may not always come hand in hand, but there is always space to create belonging, whenever and wherever you choose.