Tiger moms are real. Born and raised in Seoul, South Korea, my mother and father were viciously influenced by the curse of traditional Asian parenting. While growing up, my imposed motivations were slowly changing to fit the requirements of the “American Dream.” I was always taught to respect Korean culture and eat traditional meals ever since I was a baby. Now despite the odd assumptions, I’ve learned to love Korean food, as it remains a constant norm in my life. The use of “ancient” exhibits my old perspective on the idea of tradition. I thought the food and customs to be irritating and trivial, questioning the reason why we still had to continue the routine. But over time, I’ve learned the importance of keeping culture alive, as it reinforced the lost identity I used to hate. Once college and careers became the focal point of my life, becoming “American” was a privilege in my mother’s eyes. While my father was strict about education, I’d like to thank my mother for being the biggest contributor to my broken identity. On rare occasions, my mother is able to stumble upon the words, “I’m proud of you” or “You are going to do great things.” I understand why they had exceeding expectations or degrading comments, but I never understood who I was supposed to be in these two worlds. I never had the English Dictionary definition of love growing up, but my Mom and Dad always held my “hand,” figuratively speaking. They taught me the secrets of overachieving the standards and how to excel in school. While “hand” represents the contingency of their aid, it also displays the paradox in my mother’s parenting. She’s guided me through the entirety of my journey to success but has also hissed at me for attempting to shake my grandmother’s hand as a greeting. This form of physical action built the foundation of my “brittle” identity. “Brittle” has a certain sting to it when read aloud in my mind. The pure edge of the word reflects the easily damaged part of my place in the world. I grew up with a naive vision of Asian American life only to be violently introduced to the harshness of reality. My mother viewed me as “brittle,” too frail to start something incredible of my own, and too weak to survive. Yet through the consistent reminders of her mortifying criticisms being masked as “I love you’s,” I quickly started to believe those moments of humiliation were true. She shaped me into a deformed, fluid, and messy pile of different things I needed to accomplish and people I needed to be. I have always been familiar with the word “strange.” I know it as an insult. I know it as love. But most importantly, I know it as my identity. I’ve never been able to truly unify both aspects of my cultural identity or deduce them into a singular one. Over time, I’ve become accustomed to the fact that I might “glue the brittle shards left of my individuality” and be who I am, whether it’s “brittle” or “strange.” In order to truly “bloom,” I must allow myself to be uncomfortable throughout the duration of never being finished or complete, for identity is not always clear or concrete. My mother associates the word “American” with “bloom,” but they reside in two completely different notions. The word “American” has been thrown around throughout my adolescence as an opportunity, a privilege more specifically. It’s something my parents were able to fight for and something I’m supposed to slave under. I don’t want to belong, pretending to be someone who isn’t marginalized behind society’s eyes. However, total estrangement from a community I’ve accompanied my whole life isn’t a goal either. “I am Korean and American.”