Ten years ago, I bought myself a titanium ring that was only 5000 Korean won from a street stall in the Hongdae neighborhood of Seoul. While it felt like a silly and spontaneous purchase, it symbolized a new start for me—a naive teenager who would miss every bit of Korea. When I asked the seller to engrave my name on it, he added a heart at the end. I hated it; it felt cheesy. Now I think of it as a sign of how much love I should have for myself, and for the unsettling feelings I would have to live with as an immigrant for the next decade or so.

Some might use the labels 1.5 or 1.75 generation, but I see myself as an immigrant. I take pride in being a Korean national in a foreign place. As a Korean who knows how to write a full name in Hanja and even sips with her head turned away from elders as an engrained drinking habit, maintaining these behaviors never felt like a part of the solution to the anxiety around my immigration. I was feeling lonely and confused during my undergrad program in Fine Art at UCLA, and questioning my place in the art world when I found GYOPO. From the moment I spoke to Ellie Lee on the door steps of the volunteer exhibition at Otra Vox, I was captivated by GYOPO as a community that offers security, assurance, love, respect and a space to grow without the pressure that comes with being a Korean artist in a foreign place.

Until recently, my definition of gyopo was a stiff dictionary definition. Gyopo meant someone born outside of Korea, but with Korean heritage. It was never me, nor did I ever think it ever would be. I knew what it meant to be Korean, but not gyopo. In a way, I was afraid that being a gyopo meant not being Korean enough. During the past several months as GYOPO’s administrative assistant, I have received unfathomable love and care. The support and encouragement of this community has allowed me to embrace my identity and all that it represents, including my passion for art. They were the ones who hugged me without any words, and understood my work beyond the frame of “identity art.” I’ve been waiting for that hug, the hug that would allow me to see myself as a gyopo.

Through open and honest conversations with GYOPO members and attending our many programs and events that are driven by a desire to understand what our common ground is, I came to realize that being a gyopo means so much more than just having shared heritage. It is about migration, navigating multiple cultures and identities, and finding a sense of belonging within a society that may not always fully understand or appreciate our experiences. GYOPO is built upon the stories and experiences of Koreans. Whether our immigration was driven by economic opportunity, conflict, persecution, family reunification, or for education, it is a beautiful and complex tapestry, woven together by the threads of hope, resilience, and determination. Our stories are of pain and struggle, heartache and loss. Our journeys are marked by challenges and obstacles, by moments of doubt and fear. Our families face the unknown with courage and bravery.

I finally found a reason to call Los Angeles my home and myself a gyopo. I am overcoming the fear of being a stranger in a place where I know I deserve to belong to, or at least I’ve paid dearly for. I can take up space now. I own and cherish my unsettled feelings as an immigrant now that I know it is a part of a larger, shared experience—just like how I gave myself a red and blue tattoo on the finger that I used to wear that silly titanium ring on. Being of the Korean diaspora is a part of my story now. It is not because of the global K-Wave, or mukbang becoming a household word, but the community that has allowed me to take up space within a collective. A community that understands both the beauty and pain of our experiences, as well as one that supports the arts without perpetuating the cliches and stereotypes of being a Korean artist outside of Korea.

Thank you for being a part of GYOPO. Thank you for listening to my story and sharing yours. I am beyond excited for what 2023 will bring our blooming organization. With your continued support, GYOPO can continue to provide a home for us where we nurture the warmth and hope that we carry for each other. With your contribution, GYOPO can continue to promote understanding and appreciation for the multitudes of experiences and perspectives we hold, through art, discourse, and community building. GYOPO has carved out a space for us, and it requires our collective participation and support for the organization to thrive. I look forward to continuing to build and grow with all of you, and most importantly, to create the world that I wished for ten years ago.

With love and respect,

Ji Hyun Lee