Growing up, my dad always told me things like, “Life would’ve been so different if we spoke English perfectly like you, James. You’re so lucky!” Or, “Always remember: work hard, stay quiet, and protect your family. This country doesn’t care about Asians so look out for your sister.”
At the time, it was annoying to hear stuff like this. But I eventually understood why he was so persistent. He wanted me to appreciate my parents’ sacrifice for immigrating from South Korea to Silver Spring, Maryland so they could give us a better life.
So as much as I wanted to carve my own path, I felt the weight of that burden. I didn’t want to disappoint them so I worked hard to achieve good grades, wear the right clothes, and make the right friends. I tried to be a good kid. I tried to become the kid that other parents would be proud of, at least until I decided to become a hip-hop recording artist.
My Life Before: A Bubble of Privileges
It started with Nas and Eminem in middle school. I was usually picked last for soccer games, got average grades, and was bullied for my ethnicity. At a time when I was looking for belonging, I found acceptance in the hip-hop community. I was drawn to their stories and how the music made me feel. Hip-hop became my identity and my way to connect with others.
I think my story is more common than most of us would imagine. There are many Asian Americans with similar affinities for the hip-hop community. We respect the history of hip-hop and honor its lineage in Black culture. Through this, many Asian Americans have Black heroes. As a result, we find ourselves in spaces defending the imago dei of our Black friends. We’ve also come to realize that many of our Asian American peers live in their own bubbles that blind us to our own privileges that are different from White privileges.
Growing up, I would hear racist comments and questions from my parents and other Korean American immigrants — if we, Asian immigrants, are able to build a life for ourselves, why can’t Black communities? If they just worked harder, they wouldn’t be living on the streets. What they failed to realize were the systemic advantages Asians were given over Black people, such as the privilege of avoiding less discrimination when applying for loans or securing leases for our small businesses. We’re like the lower class portrayed in the movie, Parasite, cannibalizing another marginalized group in order to lift up our tribe at the expense of the other. At the end of the day, the wealthy class grows wealthier while everyone else fights for their tiny slice of the pie.
My Life Now: Appreciating the Rich Legacy of the Black Church
Before I moved to Atlanta, I got swept up in revival fever and believed the Korean American church would be at the forefront of a revival in America. I associated large crowds and the great number of “personal decisions” for Christ in our services as evidence for this. Then I moved and found a cross-cultural church in Atlanta led by a Black pastor and my worldview was flipped upside down. My eyes were opened to the rest of the world and I began learning from conversations that were absent in my Korean American home church.
One day, my church was talking about justice for unarmed Black children killed by policemen. I had thought I knew what the full scope of racism felt like, but I was wrong. I’ve never been pulled over because I fit the description of a suspected felon. I’ve never had store owners follow me around. I’ve never had to be scared when the police pulled me over. I’ve never had to think about wearing glasses to dress in a presentable fashion and to be treated with dignity and respect. I don’t know what any of that feels like.
But ask any Black person in America and you’ll discover it’s their everyday reality. I lived in a silo.
I’m thankful for all the Black Christians I met in Atlanta because I’ve learned so much from them. And whereas I initially thought I might lose my Korean identity at my current church, to my surprise, I’ve experienced the opposite. In fact, stepping away from the Korean American church has allowed me to see my culture with a fresh perspective, helping me to identify blind spots (such as our pulpit ministry’s emphasis on the soul at the neglect of the body) and the great things about being Korean (such as our rich praying tradition).
My Life Going Forward: Music as a Prophetic Medium for Asian Americans
Being a hip-hop artist has increasingly exposed me to the struggles of Black America. When I started making music in Maryland, I was not privy to the systemic struggles of the Black community. Rather, I was more focused on my own struggles. Truthfully, I was scared to explore these ideas and the systemic injustices around me because I was scared of losing friends and fans. I thought my music career would’ve been jeopardized and churches wouldn’t call me for shows, but that happens already.
I never saw myself as a leader or somebody with something worthwhile to say. But I think my journey as a musician has taught me to embrace the voice God has given to me and to leave it to him to bring my audience. And if I can leave behind anything in my journey as a musician, it’s this: Black lives matter. Be unafraid to talk about race. In light of our union with Christ, we’re not just our own, but each of us is part of a whole. Our words and actions contribute and add value to (or hurt) the global church. For me, creating music is my expression of worship and I hope to encourage the body of Christ (i.e., the church) to have greater compassion for the marginalized as we see our own continued need for Jesus.