There is a word that has been quietly haunting my every move, for my entire life. “Gyopo,” or “교포” is a Korean word that refers to ethnically Korean people who live outside of the country of Korea itself. During my parents’ time, gyopo only pertained to Korean immigrants, but more recently, the word has evolved to encompass the Korean diaspora as a whole.
While the word may sound like a convenient, broad label, gyopo is usually used with a negative connotation. More often than not, native Koreans condescendingly call overseas Koreans gyopos when they’re not performing their Korean identity “correctly.”
To gain some more insight, I talked with a close friend who is also a Korean-American about our gyopo experiences.
As I think many Koreans would agree, the differences between Korean-Americans and native Koreans – and admittedly I’m speaking in broad generalizations here – are almost night and day. Whether it’s the way we do our makeup, our clothes, our slang, or even the way we think, Korean-Americans seem culturally different from native Koreans.
There are countless layers to this conversation about the fundamental differences between the East and West, as well as their similarities, but for now, I will focus on what I know: the Korean-American, gyopo experience and how it compares to the lives of “real” native Koreans. To gain some more insight, I talked with a close friend who is also a Korean-American about our gyopo experiences.
Gihye Choi, one of my best friends since middle school, is in a different position than I, despite our shared identity as gyopos. She is a Korean immigrant who left Korea at the age of two. Her parents communicate with her exclusively in Korean, and she lives with a distinctly Korean name. On the other hand, I was born in America with parents who are fluent in English (and Korean), and I have an obviously American name (derived from American archetype Alyssa Milano).
This interview has been edited and condensed for publication.
To start off, what does being a gyopo mean to you, personally?
Gihye: Definitionally, it means someone who is Korean living outside of Korea, part of the Korean diaspora. Personally, it doesn’t have the best connotation behind it. When my mom uses the word, it’s making fun of those Koreans because they’re not that Korean — they’re almost Korean.
Whenever I try to speak Korean, my mom says I sound like a gyopo. Like, I’m trying here!
Gihye: There’s a lot of hate towards gyopos for not doing the work to not be a gyopo, when really, it’s up to the parents in my opinion.
Right, and it creates this weird discourse between native Koreans and gyopos: native Koreans criticizing gyopos for not knowing what it’s like to actually live in Korea and gyopos condemning Korea’s social rigidity when it comes to issues like feminism, racism, and beauty standards.
Gihye: And because Korea is so homogenous, people there haven’t had to deal with racism in the same way. When people fresh off the boat come to the U.S., I’ve noticed they sometimes lean into racist stereotypes or make self-deprecating jokes just to fit in, completely unaware of how offensive it is because they’ve never been in the minority before. But I get it, it’s an easy way in.
I have similar experiences. When I was younger, I definitely wanted to fit in with white kids, and looking back, it’s sad how much pressure I felt to perform an identity I didn’t even align with. In kindergarten, when my classmates and teacher asked where I was born and if I spoke another language, I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t speak fluent Korean that I literally made up complete gibberish and lied that I spoke fluently. Everyone was super impressed, and I felt validated in the moment.
I used to feel so ashamed of how I actually learned about Korean culture. Honestly, most of what I know about Korea and the language came from Korean pop culture: K-pop, K-dramas, K-movies, and K-variety-shows.
Gihye: Same, I got into K-pop really young as a last-ditch effort to feel connected to Korea. When I tried to ask my parents serious questions about Korean culture, they would just give me vague answers or say it didn’t matter, so pop culture was the bridge for me.
Gihye: It makes for such an isolating experience when you’re young. When I first visited Korea after moving to America, it felt cool that everyone looked like me. But after a week, it started to feel suffocating — everyone wants to look the same, and if you’re wearing a tank top or have a tan, grandpas stare at you like you’re a total outsider, even though you look the same. It’s like Korea is just one giant version of a Korean church.
For sure, but at the same time, look at how we grew up. You immigrated when you were two and grew up speaking only Korean at home, while my parents assimilated more and gave me an English name. Even though we’re both gyopos, our exact paths are so different.
Gihye: Yeah, I think class, education, and age all change your experience. But as I’ve gotten older, my feelings about being a gyopo have shifted to being pretty accepting. It used to suck when we were kids, but now I’m sure that I don’t align with [what seems like] the hyper-capitalist anti-feminist life in Korea.
People act like toxic beauty standards or social pressures are “innately Korean” and can’t be questioned, but growing up in a diverse place gave us a lot of freedom that people, like those in Korea, trapped in rigid systems, don’t always get. I love being tan, I love eating, and I love living life on my own terms.
Gihye: Same here. Sure, I wish I was more fluent or connected, but at the end of the day, “gyopo” is just a label.
As Gihye said, “gyopo” really is just a label. It’s my choice what to make of it. So if being a feminist who loves to tan and wear tank tops makes me that much less of a Korean, so be it. I’m a g*ddamn gyopo and I’m damn proud of it!