My dad embarked on a journey from post-war Korea to the United States, dreaming of the American dream. He immigrated with me and my brother, starting his new life on a student visa. He studied finance but found his best class was Art 101. Despite graduating with a perfect 4.0, he often remarked how C students found jobs while the A students did not.
To make ends meet, he painted portraits for a few dollars, and our staple diet consisted of ramen noodles and kimchi. As our family grew with three more siblings and two denied work visas, we tried our luck with a green card. When we finally got the news, I was unsure of what to make of it. The life I knew was one of chasing the suburban dream, yet I questioned my identity—what was Korea to me, and what was America, a place where I felt rejection?
Deportation never happened, thanks to a church friend’s father, an elected government official, who intervened. A simple paperwork error was all it was. Now, we live in a suburban house with a green yard—my dad tends to it every summer day. I ponder who gets to live the American dream and why we were meant to stay. Who knows? But here we are, living it anyway.
