My son is surrounded by English. But Korean won't reach him without me
As a Korean mother living in Canada, Noeul Kang finds herself constantly thinking about what it means to give her son a language that isn't regularly spoken outside their home.
I feel unexpected pressure knowing that I am my son’s primary connection to his heritage
Noeul Kang · for CBC First Person
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This First Person is the experience of Noeul Kang, who lives in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I was born and raised in South Korea. In 2018, I immigrated to Canada in my late 20s. I speak English and can get through my days without much trouble. But English is not the language in which I feel most like myself.
That language is Korean.
It is the language I turn to when I am emotional, joking, angry or trying to explain something complicated. It is the language in which I know how to express what is closest to my heart.
That's why I speak Korean to my 18-month-old son. From the day he was born, I have spoken to him in Korean. I tell him to come to mommy, eat his food, put on his shoes or look at the dog outside, even when I am not sure how much Korean he understands.
This should be simple. But sometimes, it isn't.
We live in Ottawa, where he will grow up hearing mostly English, along with French. Around English-speaking friends, neighbours and extended family, I sometimes speak English to him, too. Then, when it is just the two of us again, I switch back to Korean. Sometimes, I don't even notice that I have started mixing the two languages.
My husband is white and was born and raised in Canada. He is fluent in Korean, having lived in South Korea for three years, where he worked as an English teacher in a public school. Given that Korean is my mother tongue, we agreed I would take the lead in speaking it to our son. My husband often notices when I mix the two languages, pointing it out: “Korean and English,” as a gentle reminder of our pact.
Every time he does, a small flicker of doubt crosses my mind. Am I doing this right?
I often feel lonely. There are several Korean communities in Ottawa organized around faith or libraries, but not many Korean playgroups. I spend most of my time with my son at English-speaking and bilingual playgroups. I don't want him to experience only Korean communities. I want him to grow up among people from diverse backgrounds. I simply wish we had more opportunities to connect with other Korean-speaking families, even if only a few times a year.
Recently, I started teaching students from junior kindergarten through high school at a Korean community school on Saturdays. There was a time when I wanted so badly to assimilate into Canadian culture that I avoided jobs related to Korean language and culture. But since giving birth to my son, I have come to understand the importance of knowing your roots and preserving your mother tongue not just to communicate with others, but to understand yourself.
Isn't life, after all, about knowing who you are?
Some of the Korean language books Kang teaches with at the with Ottawa Korean Community School. (Noeul Kang)
And yet, I am not always confident in my choices. Speaking Korean to my son requires a surprising amount of intention. When everyone around us is speaking English, I sometimes hesitate for a split second. Should I just speak English? Would that be easier for him? What if I am making things harder than they need to be?
And yet I choose Korean. Again and again.
It is such a small decision.
“Dog, woof woof” becomes gae meong-meong (개 멍멍).
“Hello” becomes annyeong (안녕).
“Car, vroom vroom” becomes cha bureung-bureung (차 부릉부릉).
“Duck, quack quack” becomes ori gwaek-gwaek (오리 꽥꽥).
I make these choices dozens, perhaps hundreds, of times a day. Each one takes a little energy.
English will come to him anyway. He will hear it at school and speak it with his friends. English will be everywhere. I don't have to fight for English. But I worry that I have to fight for Korean.
Perhaps that is why I feel so much pressure to get it right.
Then, one day, my son said, “Appa.”
Daddy. In Korean. His first Korean word was for his father, not me. I was right there, and somehow, I found it both ironic and wonderful.
Kang often describes the world she and her son see on their walks in Korean. A red maple leaf, for example, is a ppalgan danpungip (빨간 단풍잎). (Hyeseon Yang)
For a moment, that one word felt like proof that all those tiny choices had mattered. That all those times I had spoken Korean, even when I wasn't sure he understood, had led somewhere.
Of course, one word doesn't prove anything. I don't know what his Korean will look like when he starts school. I don't know whether he will always answer me in Korean, or whether one day he will understand everything I say but respond only in English. I don't know whether I will always have the confidence to keep choosing Korean.
Even so, Korean is the language in which I know how to be his mother. So I will keep speaking it, even when I am uncertain.
Because English will find him. But Korean won't reach him without me actively trying.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Noeul Kang is a Korean language instructor at the Ottawa Korean Community School. She lives in Ottawa with her husband and son.
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