Writing Portfolio

Short Stories/Flash Fiction

"An Unspoken Name"

They told us not to speak his name-so I wrote it. My fingers trembled as I gripped my pencil and covered the paper with letters. F-E-L-I-X. His name stared at me, a clear reminder of what was gone forever. His name taunted me. Every time I looked at it, I could almost hear his voice saying “it’s your fault.” Tears blurred my vision as I wrote his name again. Writing his name was the only way I could remember him, since my parents had forbidden my younger sister Hazel and me to say his name. His name is all that’s left of him now. I continued to fill the page with his name, over and over again. Felix, Felix, Felix. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Memories of him constantly flooded my mind. The last time I had seen him was on that fateful day. I was in my English class when I saw him walk past the door. He stopped and waved at me, flashing his signature grin. I smiled and waved back. 

“Hi,” he whispered. That was the last word he spoke to me. Not even an hour later, he was dead. The rest of the day was a blur. I only remember the sounds. We all heard the loud gunshots and voices yelling in agony. The screams were blood-curdling and piercing. Chaos erupted in my classroom. Students were wailing and the teacher was panicking. We huddled together in a corner, petrified. I silently prayed that the gunshots wouldn’t reach our classroom. Fortunately, they didn’t. They stopped just as soon as they started. Sirens blared outside and footsteps approached our classroom. A tall, muscular police officer entered. 

“I’m Officer Scott Stauder. We have arrested the shooter. His name is Ahab Snyder. Sadly, he has killed three students. I am so sorry for this horrible tragedy. My condolences.” He turned around to leave but stopped. “I almost forgot, is Jake Conway or Harper Bennett in this classroom?”

“I’m Harper,” I stammered nervously, wondering what he wanted. 

“I need to speak with you privately.” He said solemnly. I stood up, legs shaking and heart pounding, and slowly walked to the door. 

“You may want to sit down for this,” Officer Scott warned. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I took a deep breath and waited in anticipation. “Your twin brother Felix was killed. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

I gasped. The news hit me like a slap in the face. I was completely and utterly speechless. I couldn’t breathe. I felt suffocated, like all the air in my lungs was squeezed out.

When I finally found my voice again, I asked, “are you sure? Maybe you have the wrong person.” 

He shook his head sadly. “We’re certain it’s him. We found his body on the floor, and a teacher identified him as Felix Bennett.” 

“Why did it have to be him? Why not me instead?” I asked, my voice cracking. Officer Scott patted my back comfortingly. “This is all my fault!” I sobbed uncontrollably. “I’m the one to blame.”

“It’s not your fault at all. There was nothing you could have done to prevent the shooter from committing this heinous act.”

“You don’t understand! I helped him. This morning, when I was walking to school, a man with blonde hair and a baseball hat bumped into me. He introduced himself as Ahab and asked how to get to Forest Hills Middle School. I didn’t think he would end up shooting the school; I just thought he was someone’s parent. So I gave him directions,” I admitted and broke down crying. The officer looked surprised at my confession.

“This is new information. We’ll look into that when we interrogate Ahab. But still, you’re not responsible for this.”

“It feels like I am though,” I choked out, wiping tears from my face.

“I’m deeply sorry,” Officer Scott said sympathetically. “I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” I nodded and turned around to march back into my classroom. On that day, I had broken into a million pieces, incapable of being glued back together. A part of me had died with Felix, and I would never be able to get it back. The past year was a blur of depression and sheets of paper. I started the habit of writing his name the day after his death. My parents were so grief-stricken that they threw out all remaining traces of him. His clothes, belongings, pictures of him, anything that reminded them of him. They refused to acknowledge his existence; it was too painful for them. It was extremely painful for me to write his name, but I continued doing it every day, in honor of him. Now, I stared at the paper in front of me. 

Hesitantly, I whispered, “Felix.” 

I closed my eyes and pictured him in front of me saying, “I love you.”

My eyelids opened and there was nothing but air. The silence was overbearing.

“Felix,” I repeated, louder this time. My door flew open, almost coming off the hinges.

“What did you say?” My mom demanded.

“Just his name.”

“You know we do not say it, ever,” she said sternly.

“Why can’t we say his name? Don’t you want to remember him?” 

“Just forget about him; it’s easier that way,” she said tearfully.

“But I want to be reminded of who he was.”

“No!” she yelled. “He’s gone forever! It’s about time you realize that.”

“Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. “He never lived to see his 14th birthday. So I’m going to live enough life for both of us. If that means telling his story to everyone, then so be it. If that means yelling his name on the rooftop, I’ll do it right now. But his legacy will not be erased. He will not be forgotten. His name will no longer be unspoken.”

"One Last Memory"

I jolt up in bed, terrified of the horrors I witnessed while I was sleeping. The images replay in my head as sweat glistens on my forehead, my heart races, and my stomach flips. I try to breathe, but can’t seem to calm down. What should have been a peaceful sleep is interrupted by the same horror story night after night. The nightmare that tortures me is based on past memories that I try to forget, but they continue to invade my thoughts and even my subconscious mind. The memories of that fateful day come crashing down, a tsunami of grief and despair. It was the Universal War of 9008, the war that threatened to end humanity. The war was between humans and Malum Cyber Bots, an army of robots that was led by Dynamo Vex, the evil mastermind that tried to overthrow the human government. My city issued a military draft to recruit soldiers to fight in the war. My older sister Ashlyn enlisted in the military, insisting that she needed to serve our country.

“I can’t let the Malum Cyber Bots win this war,” she had said. “I’m going to fight with honor and dignity for Cobalt City, our home.” I nodded, trying to be brave. A tear slowly escaped my eye and fell down my cheek. Ashlyn pulled me close and hugged me tight. “Don’t worry Brinley, I’ll be back before you know it. Be good, okay? I love you.” My parents and I watched with heavy hearts as Ashlyn walked off to join the army. A few days later, I decided to join the army as well, because I couldn’t bear the thought of my sister fighting alone, and I missed her terribly. I tearfully said goodbye to my parents and began my journey. Once I reported for duty, the General stationed me to the same military base as Ashlyn, Fort Chromium. The second I arrived, I was taken aback at the hundreds of soldiers already in battle. Our army was outnumbered and the Cyber Bots were too powerful with their laser blasters and advanced weapons. Looking around at the battlefield, it was full of chaos. Sounds of gunfire and shouts rang out. I desperately searched for Ashlyn until I finally spotted her black hair in her signature ponytail. She pulled me down in a trench, ducking to avoid the nuclear bombs that were flying across the sky.

“Ashlyn, I’m scared,” I whimpered. 

“Don’t be. You’re okay, I’ve got you,” Ashlyn reassured me. Suddenly she whipped around, to see none other than Dynamo Vex. His titanium eyes gleamed as a devious grin spread across his face. “I need to go after him.” Ashlyn gritted her teeth, narrowing her eyes. She ran out of the trench as I screamed,

“Ashlyn, come back!” I leapt up and halted in my tracks as I saw Ashlyn and Dynamo Vex staring each other down. As he crept closer, Ashlyn scowled and tightened her grip on her gun. Dynamo Vex raised his own weapon, a cyber sniper. 

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he snarled. 

“Not as much as I’m going to enjoy seeing the look on your face when I beat your sorry excuse for an army.” Ashlyn replied, smirking. 

“I wouldn’t be so confident if I were you. There’s a fine line between confidence and stupidity, little girl, and you just crossed that line. Now you’ll have to suffer the consequences.” Dynamo Vex aimed his sniper at her forehead and in the blink of an eye, pulled the trigger. I watched in disbelief as my sister crumpled to the ground, her life gone in an instant. At that moment, it was as if time had stopped. The war raging on around me didn’t matter, the loud noises of fighting were drowned out by my thoughts. Sounds of gunfire, bloody screams and shouts, and chaos faded into the background. Nothing else in the world mattered except for Ashlyn. When I ran to her and saw her pale, lifeless body and cold eyes, my heart shattered into a million pieces. I collapsed next to her, sobbing uncontrollably.

“No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening,” I cried. “Please, no. Don’t you dare leave me Ashlyn.” 

I sat by her side for what felt like an eternity. I hadn’t even realized the war was still going on. As Dynamo Vex approached me with his gun, I ran out of the military base as fast as I could. My heart was beating as loud as a drum and my feet pounded on the gravel road. I sprinted towards my house as fast as I could and when I finally arrived, I told my parents the tragic news. Nothing was the same after that. Ashlyn’s death broke our family. We were all overcome with grief, especially me. The traumatic experience of having to watch her take her last breath destroyed me. The memories of witnessing her death ripped me to shreds. Every night I dread going to sleep, knowing that I’m going to relive the worst day of my life and see Ashlyn die again. Every morning I wake up screaming, the nightmare feeling too real. All the joy and light are sucked out of me; the spark that used to be in my eyes diminished, and the bounce that used to be in my steps is gone. I now live every day in a foggy haze; nothing matters without Ashlyn. All the days and weeks blur together and I have no idea what day it even is today. I now sit in my bed, the effects of the nightmare mostly gone by now. My breathing and heartbeat have slowed; I’m no longer crying. I take some deep breaths just as my therapist recommended, to mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. I pick up my phone from my nightstand and look at the time; it’s 8 AM. I groan at the thought of enduring another day without my sister. I barely have enough energy to get out of bed, but I do anyway. After a few hours, my best friend Bridget comes over to check in on me, like she has every day since Ashlyn’s death. Usually she provides emotional support, but today, for the first time, she offers a solution. She suggests that I use Extermina Memoria.

“It’ll be good for you,” she says softly with sad eyes, rubbing my back comfortingly. “You can erase all your memories of Ashlyn so you won’t have to suffer from your nightmares anymore.”

“But I’ve never used Extermina Memoria on a person before, only insignificant memories I never cared about, like failed tests and dumb things I’ve said. This is different, Ashlyn was my sister and best friend. How can I erase her and pretend she never existed?” I ask.

“But your memories of her are making you depressed. You don’t have to keep living like this. Wouldn’t it be easier if you could forget? That’s what Ashlyn would want, for you to be happy.” Bridget says. “Besides, I’ve used Extermina Memoria plenty of times. There’s no harm in using it. That’s why the government created it and installed it in everyone’s brains, so we can be free from all those memories that haunted us and the memories we wished we could forget. Trust me, this is what’s best for you right now. It’s the only way you can move forward.” 

I sigh, not wanting to admit Bridget might have a good point. “All right,” I relented. “I’ll use it.” With shaking hands, I roll up my sleeve to reveal my Techno Band. It rests quietly on my wrist, its silver hues glittering. It stares at me, taunting me. It was almost as if it was waiting for me to use it. I trace the outline with my fingertips, hesitating. I turn on my personal brain hologram and scroll through the menu until I find the EM button. I take a deep breath and click on it. Although I’ve used it about a million times before, I’ve never felt this anxious to use it. A bright screen flashes, asking me which memories I wanted to delete. With tears blurring my vision, my trembling fingers hover over the file labeled ASHLYN. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I click on the button, and a kaleidoscope of memories surrounds me. Ashlyn’s face, her voice, her laugh, the moment she died all appears in front of me. 

The last thing I hear is Bridget’s panicked voice yelling, “wait, that’s the wrong-” 

Then the world went dark. 

Silence. 

Nothing. 

Little did I know that using Extermina Memoria would be the one last memory I would ever have, before all of them were wiped away forever.

Who am I? That is the question I’ve been asking myself for the past 365 days, and I still do not know the answer. It is a question that has haunted me every single day. Confusion swirls around in my mind as I gaze into the mirror, and a complete stranger stares back with emerald green eyes. I don’t recognize the girl standing in front of me. She is tall with brown, silky, wavy hair and freckles. She is wearing a grey sweater, jeans, and sneakers. She is someone I once knew, in a different universe. I hope to meet her again soon. But right now, I don’t even know the name of this girl. Who am I? I asked myself again. Before I could think of an answer, two strangers walked into my room, a thin woman with grey hair and a sad smile, and a middle aged man with a scruffy beard. Although I was certain I had never met these people before, there was something familiar about them, almost as if I had known them in another lifetime. “Who are you?” I ask them, suspicious of how they knew me.

“We’re your parents,” the woman says.

“But that’s impossible, you can’t be my parents. My parents are…” I trail off, searching for a memory of my parents and what they looked like, but my mind was blank. I was unable to recall who my parents actually were.

“Sweetheart, I know this must be a little shocking, but we’re telling the truth. Your entire memory was wiped out last year,” the man explains. I furrow my brow, not understanding how my memory could have disappeared. 

“Is that why I can’t remember anything?” I ask.

“Yes,” the woman replies.

“How is that possible?” I ask. Before the people that called themselves my parents could reply, our conversation was interrupted by the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” the woman stands up and answers the door. “Hello Bridget, come on in.”

A short girl that looked around my age entered the room.

“Hey Brinley,” the girl says.

“Who’s Brinley?” I ask, genuinely confused. “Also, who are you?”

“You’re Brinley,” the girl says. “I’m Bridget, your best friend. I was with you during the accident when you lost your memory.”

“Really?” I ask dubiously, not sure if she was telling the truth. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Of course.” Bridget nods. “Take a seat.” 

I sit down and brace myself, preparing to hear what would be the scariest story of my life. 

“It all started with Ashlyn, your sister. There was a huge war and she decided to fight in the army. You joined her and had to witness her death. She died from a gunshot by an evil robot. After her death, you were so depressed and grief-stricken that I stupidly suggested you use EM, or Extermina Memoria, which has the ability to erase certain memories you want to forget. I only wanted to help, I didn’t think the results of using it would be this horrible. So when you opened it up, you accidentally clicked the delete all memories button instead of delete Ashlyn, which was right above it. That’s how all your memories were erased.” Bridget gives me an apologetic look. “I’m really sorry for convincing you to use EM. I never should have said that because now I feel like it’s my fault that you can’t remember anything.”

“Wait, did this really happen?” I ask, unsure of whether to believe Bridget or not.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she says with a grim smile. 

“Well how can I get my memories back?”

“I don’t know if you can. There’s nothing we can really do about it because EM is permanent. Once your memories are gone, they’re gone forever. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” 

I sigh, frustrated at the world. “So I’m going to have to live like this forever? How am I supposed to relearn who I am when my entire memory is gone?” I ask, exasperated. “How am I supposed to put my life back together when there are so many missing puzzle pieces?”

“But you won’t have to do it alone. I’ll help you try to get your memory back; there has to be some kind of solution.” Bridget says with a reassuring smile. “You know, this kind of memory loss is really similar to an ancient health condition called amnesia. I learned about it in history. Amnesia was a condition back in the 21st century, but a lot of people were able to recover their memories and be cured, and I know your story won’t be any different. I know you can conquer your memory loss too.” Bridget gives me a much needed hug. My parents soon join in, and my eyes well up with tears. Although my memories were still gone, I didn’t need them to know that I was loved. I could feel it all around me, which gave me hope. The fact that all the pages in my book had been ripped out, leaving me with no idea of who I was wouldn’t stop me from writing my own story in the blank pages that lay ahead. There are many words and pages left unwritten, but I am sure I will be able to write them and make my mark someday soon. I can forge my own path and find the girl I once was. I look forward to meeting the true Brinley.

Poetry

"Window"

Everyone is looking out a window.

A window that changes every day but remains the same simultaneously. 

Everyone spends hours staring out the same window every day. 

While everyone looks out this window, they can see the entire world but fail to notice life moving on around them.

This window allows them to have the whole world at their fingertips.

Time moves lightning fast in this window.

When people finally stop staring out the window, they realize how much time has gone by in the blink of an eye.

At first, looking out this window is a safe haven.

But its enticing, glittery exterior is deceiving. 

After days of the same window, it is not the joyful sanctuary it pretended to be.

The window is a trap that lures people into its prison.

Everyone is looking out this window but they are trapped and imprisoned in it.

There is no escape, no hope.

The same suffocating window that enslaves people is the very same window they were begging to have.

Maybe one day people will stop looking out this window and see the beauty around them.

But that day is not today, or anytime soon.

"One Point"

At one point in life, glitter will turn to dust.

Sparkles will turn into ashes.

Unicorns will disappear, magic will fade, and fantasy will become reality.

Childhood friends will become ghosts, left behind in the past.

Stories will only exist as a figment of imagination, and happy endings do not exist.

At one point in life, a world that was once filled with color and creativity will diminish into a dull, grey world. 

At one point, laughter will be an echo of youth.

At one point, we must say goodbye to childhood.

"Bubble"

At what point did the bubble burst?

When did it pop?

It could have been when a little girl was told that unicorns aren’t real,

Or when a boy’s dreams of being a superhero vanished.

The bubble will eventually disappear.

It will slowly fade over time until one day you realize that it’s completely gone.

The bubble never lasts long; it pops after only ten years.

The moment that bubble bursts is the day you finally see how cold and dark it is without it.

When the bubble bursts, the curtain is pulled away and the sparkly lens you used to view the world with is replaced with a clear one.

The bubble is precious and priceless.

One would do anything to get the bubble back, but once it’s gone, it’s gone forever, never to be found again.

My bubble has already popped.

"Divide"

You stand at a fork in the road.

The road is divided into 2 paths, both looking equally enticing.

Which path to take?

In a world where the path you choose defines you, it is impossible to choose.

The judgement of choosing either path is like a pile of bricks weighing you down.

Both sides are screaming to choose theirs.

You cannot think, the noise is deafening.

Chaos is swirling around in your mind.

What to choose when underneath the surface, both paths are flawed.

One path is covered in vines that trip you up.

The trail is full of stones, rocks, and dirt.

It is a much too narrow road that can barely be walked on.

The other path is a clean, wide road, but eventually leads to a cliff.

This path is dark, with not a single beam of light.

Along this road, there are wolves and bears waiting to attack.

Which path to take?

Time is almost up.

Whichever path you decide to take labels you for the rest of your life.

The decision you make is to forge your own path.
You make a trail down the middle of the 2 paths, and walk down it with joy.

"Mask"

I wear a mask every day.

It covers up my insecurities and flaws.

Leaving nothing but perfection.

I’m forced to play this role.

Every day I put on a costume, wear the mask, and say my lines on the stage that is my life.

I never wanted to play this role.

This character is fake.

My image is fake.

Everything is fake, just for show.

The script is full of lies.

Strategically written to deceive others into believing that my mask is real.

But eventually the mask starts to feel real.

It becomes harder and harder to take the mask off.

The line between lies and truth becomes blurred.

The mask becomes a part of me.

The mask makes it harder to see myself.

It makes my vision hazy.

But one day the mask will come off for good.

All the layers will be peeled back until there is nothing but the real character.

I will finally be able to see clearly again.

No more script, no more costume, and no more mask.

Goodbye, mask.

Personal Narratives

"Finding My Voice"

There are only eight pages left in the 12th chapter of my book. Eight more pages and 237 paragraphs of memories, rising action, plot twists, and conflicts. Although the 12th chapter is going well so far, my favorite one would have to be the 11th chapter. This one was special. It wasn’t any ordinary chapter; it was transformative. It was the turning point of the plot, the moment where the protagonist reached her full potential and grew into the person she was meant to be. This chapter was when the protagonist found her voice. 

I first discovered my voice in elementary school. I was in kindergarten with big dreams of becoming a bestselling author. From the second I first learned to read and write, I fell in love with books. When I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my answer was always the same: an author. So I wrote as many stories as I could with the hope that I would be able to reach that dream in the future. 

However, as time went on, that dream slowly faded away. As I got older, I didn’t have the time or inspiration to write anymore. I became so busy with my other extracurricular activities that I completely lost my passion for writing. My old stories sat abandoned in my closet, collecting dust. My love for writing was long forgotten, like an old childhood memory. Soon, once I entered high school, writing turned into a chore, something I simply did in English class to see that A+ on my report card. The joy I used to feel when I wrote was replaced with stress and dread with every essay that was assigned. Every word I wrote in research papers that confined me to MLA format and thesis statements, restricted my creative freedom and authentic voice. The voice I had discovered back in kindergarten was lost, with no hope of being found again. That is, until the 11th chapter. 

During this chapter, I finally rediscovered my spark, thanks to my English teacher whose unique teaching style and engaging lessons inspired me to begin writing again, but this time, not for a grade — for me. For the pure joy and pleasure of it. I still remember the feeling of finishing the first story I had written in over five years. It was a science fiction story that I never expected to write. When I finished writing the last word, it was like meeting an old childhood friend. It was a breath of fresh air after being suffocated inside a small room. It felt like a light switch turned on, or a flame ignited. That flame was my creative spark. At last, I reunited with my younger self who loved reading and writing more than anything. I finally found my voice again, and I was not afraid to use it. 

There are only eight pages left. The 12th chapter of my story is nearly finished. The day will come when it is time to begin the next chapter. On that day, a blank piece of paper will sit in front of me. My Spanish teacher last year once said, “The scariest thing in the world is staring at a blank piece of paper.” Although finding the right words to write my next chapter may be a little scary, a blank piece of paper can be a wonderful opportunity to use my newfound voice. I plan to use it to positively influence the younger generation as I major in childhood education, and to inspire them to discover their own voices. So when I turn the last page of the 12th chapter and begin the next one, I will bring with me my unique voice, my creativity, and my passion. The pencil is in my hand now, and I’m ready to write.

"Foreigner"

“Ew, what’s that smell?” A girl sitting across from me asked in disgust. I looked down at my container of kimbap in shame. Although she didn’t mention my name or the kimbap, I knew she was talking about me. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I stared at everyone else’s lunches. Their odor-free lunches. Everyone was eating the stereotypical American school lunch: a sandwich or pizza, chips, an apple, and chocolate milk. My kimbap stuck out like a sore thumb. Of course they didn’t like the smell of it. After all, what Americans liked the smell of seaweed and fish? Why couldn’t I just have a normal lunch like everyone else? Why did I have to be the only person with Korean food? 

I took one more bite, closed the container, and stuffed it into my backpack, shoving it, along with my Korean identity, as far down as possible. I reached into my lunch bag and pulled out the other food my mom had packed for me. Orange slices, grapes, and Oreos. Normal food. Not smelly, Asian food. As I ate, I couldn’t help but think of my kimbap sitting at the bottom of my backpack. It was one of my favorite Korean foods. The rice, crab sticks, egg strips, cucumber, yellow radish, carrots, and spam with sesame seeds wrapped in crispy, salty seaweed blended perfectly together to create a symphony of flavors. I stared at the container of kimbap longingly, wishing I could eat it without getting made fun of for eating “weird” food. 

I hated the fact that I couldn’t eat my lunch freely. I hated being stared at. I hated the strange looks I got from my classmates. I hated how I was stereotyped, judged, and made fun of for my ethnicity. Many kids asked me if I could speak English, not knowing that my English reading and writing skills were actually above average. On multiple occasions, I was asked if I was from North Korea. Everyone would constantly mispronounce my last name, whether it was students or teachers. My classmates made fun of the way I talked, and I didn’t even have a thick Korean accent. They made fun of my Korean food and my small eyes. They would repeatedly ask me where I was from. Then they would try to guess my ethnicity and would guess wrong every time. It was almost a game. The first one to guess Olivia’s ethnicity wins. The most common guesses were Chinese or Japanese. One time, someone even guessed Mexican. When I told them I was Korean, most of them had never even heard of it, and if they did, they would know nothing about it. They only knew 2 countries in Asia, China and Japan. One person asked me if I was white or black, even though I was neither. They treated me like an alien with green skin and five legs that came from another planet, or an immigrant from another country. I hated feeling like a foreigner in my own country. 

It was only my first month at my new school in Ohio, and the start of fourth grade, but I already wanted to move back to New Jersey. Back there, nobody batted an eye if someone brought food from their culture. Whether it was curry, sushi, or kimchi, that was considered “normal” food. At my old school in New Jersey, I looked like I belonged there. But here in Cincinnati, Ohio, in the middle of nowhere with no Hmart or a decent Asian restaurant less than an hour away, I didn’t belong. I was the only Asian in my entire grade. I felt so far from my heritage and cultural background. 

Food is a vital part of Korean culture. Food is every Asian mother’s love language. Food was how we connected to our heritage, and also to each other. Food always had a way of bringing people together. There was nothing quite like the feeling of sitting down at the dinner table and eating Tteokbokki, a spicy rice cake dish. Or helping my mom make Donkatsu, deep-fried pork cutlet, in the kitchen. One time my whole family made Mandu, which is another word for Korean dumplings, out of scratch. We rolled out the dough for the outside of the dumpling, mixed together vegetables and pork for the filling, steamed them, and ate them with soy sauce. Since we didn’t have access to Korean food anymore, home-cooked Korean meals were rare. This was one of the reasons why I didn't like living in Ohio at first. It felt wrong not to have Korean food every day. The Asian grocery stores my family and I took for granted in New Jersey were nowhere to be found in the Midwest. 

Korean food was one of the few things that connected me to Korean culture and made me feel like a true Korean, instead of a white-washed Asian American who was better at speaking English than Korean. I felt so disconnected from Korean culture because I couldn’t eat my favorite Korean dishes, both at home and at school. The one time I was able to bring Korean food to school, I couldn’t even finish it because the smell bothered people. I felt disconnected from Korean culture also because of the fact that there was not a single person at my school who shared the same culture and love for Korean food as me. Not a single person looked like me.

I felt like an outsider when I first moved to Ohio. I was always standing outside looking in at everyone else. I knew I was different from them. I spoke a different language at home, ate different foods, and even dressed differently. Unlike my classmates, I was not the light skinned, blonde hair, blue eyes, Cincinnati Bengals loving local that was born and raised in Ohio. I didn’t know the entire neighborhood and school like the back of my hand. I didn’t know if the Bengals were going to make it to the Super Bowl, and frankly, I didn’t care. 

I felt so out of place the first few months in Cincinnati. It didn’t feel like home. I didn’t even know where home was anymore, after moving so much. I had no idea who I was supposed to be: Korean or American. I felt stuck in between the two identities, like they were separate. I was standing in the middle, feeling like I couldn’t choose one. I always felt like a foreigner. In school, I felt like a foreigner because of my race, and around my relatives I felt like a foreigner because I was born in America while my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins were all born in Korea. No matter where I went, I knew I didn’t belong. I wasn’t the Ohio kid that had never been out of the country before, but I also wasn’t the Korean native that was 100% fluent in the language. I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I wasn’t enough for either culture. I wasn’t American enough to fit in at school in Ohio, and I wasn’t Korean enough to fit in with my relatives. I felt like a foreigner was all I could ever be.

Today, though, I am no longer a foreigner. I am both Korean and American; I don’t need to choose one over the other. I am proud to be a Korean American. I hope the little girl who was scared to eat her Korean lunch at school knows how far she has come, and how far Korean culture has come. The food that was once considered smelly, gross, and weird is now the very same food that many Americans want to try. The same culture that was mocked eight years ago is celebrated and appreciated today. I hope the young 9-year-old Olivia knows that it’s all right to eat her kimbap at school, because eight years later her American friend would ask her if she could try it. But most importantly, I hope my younger self knows that she can be both Korean and American at the same time, and she will not be a foreigner for much longer.