(D.S. Hwang is a contributing writer for Bakka Magazine and he lives in Los Angeles.)

Although out of college nearly six years now, I am still of Korean descent; I was an English major; I’ve been accused of being a hermit and acting extremely reclusive; I’m oftentimes a very angry man; I occasionally fantasize about being a public spectacle; women have complained about my unwanted advances (much to my drunken chagrin); and, up until the four doughnuts I just consumed, I possess most of the physical characteristics of Seung-Hui Cho.

Cho, the troubled Virginia Tech shooter and late author of the play Richard McBeef, burst open a mixed bag of controversy when he methodically gunned down teachers and fellow students on the Virginia Tech campus several weeks ago. His horrific actions catalyzed identity issues and exposed latent racial tensions in South Korea while only mildly stirring the melting pot of America. Shortly after Cho was identified as the gunman, the South Korean government attempted, unsuccessfully, to send a delegation to offer condolences on behalf of the Korean people. South Korea’s ambassador to the United States even implored Koreans living in America to fast for repentance. Most Americans, on the other hand, chose to mourn the loss of innocent lives and grieved over the senselessness of a college student committing mass murder and suicide.

When I look at the much publicized images of Cho – the bespectacled student, the militant loner, the brooding doomsday reaper of justice – I see someone who bears an uncanny resemblance to many of the people I’ve seen in schools, in bars and clubs, on TV, and on the freeways of Los Angeles: a repressed, angry young man quick to transfer his frustrations, illness, immaturity, or all of the above, onto others. But it was not so much his actions or Americans’ responses to his actions that piqued my curiosity and emotions – I’m content to sit quietly on the bandwagon that would relegate him and his behavior to the tragic tip of the “mentally ill” iceberg (and perhaps the editor of The Korea Herald was correct when he so eloquently proclaimed, only days after the massacre, that the gunman was “just a psycho”). Rather, it was the response of Cho’s homeland – my homeland – that flushed my face and awakened the butterflies in my stomach.

Well before the Virginia Tech tragedy, South Korea displayed an odd sense of aloofness and nationalism, as if its very independence and pride required bullish stances on race and ethnicity. About the size of Kentucky but representing the tenth largest economy in the world, South Korea is most certainly my favorite East Asian peninsular nation. But there is a misplaced schism in my beloved Hermit Kingdom. Politically and economically, South Korea is far more progressive than its northern brother, willingly entering a free trade agreement with the United States and spouting the need to open its doors to the rest of the world. But culturally and socially, my homeland is not unlike the Dear Leader’s regime, hell-bent on protesting the vile presence of the U.S. military and all of its “bastard children.” The nation mutters insults at the imported English language teachers that it must, ironically, depend on to train its youth and remain competitive in today’s global business world. The nation praises and embraces the heroics of Super Bowl champion Hines Ward, the same Hines Ward whom it had shunned as one of the shameful “mixed-blood children” that true Korean nationals should be ashamed of. The lesson to keep in mind, then, is that in Korea you can be any race or mix of races that you like – just know your ABCs and run a 4.2 second 40-yard dash.

When I myself visited Korea several summers ago, sans Super Bowl ring, I received a strangely mixed, if not hostile, welcome. From random shoppers in the mall and taxi drivers to my own aunt and uncle, South Koreans treated me as the worst kind of American, a Korean American, who was shameful and “less than Korean” because I had copped out and had been tainted by my move to the U.S. As I walked around in my flip-flop sandals, camouflage cargo shorts, and bright red T-shirt with “KOREA” emblazoned across the front, it seemed they wanted to judge me by what I wore and how I looked.

On one memorable occasion, a salesperson at a department store glared at me and evaluated my appearance top-to-bottom-to-top-again as I perused the latest fashions hanging on the racks – that is until I opened my mouth and asked a question in fluent, unmistakably American, English: “Is everything made here, in Korea?” Pursing his lips and forcing a tight smile, the salesperson sheepishly moved away. He was nodding politely, yes. Suspecting that he did not fully understand, I asked the same question in crisp, clear Korean (albeit crisp, clear, country-accented Korean). The salesperson now stopped in place and seemed to stand taller. “No, we have many garments from America!” he proclaimed in his proper, honorific city accent before turning around to tend to an elderly Korean couple that had been bickering loudly about fabric materials. Evidently, the salesperson did not know what to make of me, so I left the store and ate a Kimchi Big Mac at a nearby McDonald’s.

Perhaps my “KOREA” T-shirt (which was indeed made in Korea) achieved a cruel deception in labeling me as one thing when, in reality, there was far more about me that could not be labeled so easily. Like a Samsung cell phone or a sleek new Hyundai Sonata, I was “Made in Korea” but I was assembled elsewhere. Despite my Korean hue and complexion, my round face, my black hair, and my bold manufacturing label, I was neither completely American nor completely Korean. To the salesperson, and to so many other Koreans I encountered, I represented the enigmatic dash in “Korean-American” that their cultural filters could not process.

South Korean behavior is eerily reminiscent of the “I’m not snobby, I’m just eccentric” attitude of the Victorian era, when one could distinguish a gentleman and a lady from a working peasant and commoner simply by the manner of dress and, to a lesser extent, the manner of speech. To the Korean salesperson’s credit, I am sure the Victorian salesperson, in strict observance of conventionalities, would have ignored me outright had I walked into his store.

Granted, similar attitudes exist in parts of the U.S. and across the world, but it is particularly haunting when it emerges in such a historically closed, shiftily anti-American country like Korea. Put in the context of any major American city, a Nazi swastika is troubling, yes, but worthy of ridicule and dismissal as “extreme” and utterly ignorant. But that same swastika in Munich or Berlin or Ku Klux Klan America would most certainly heighten my awareness of where the nearest exit signs are. I like to assume that in any multicultural, melting pot society, Victorian-like stereotyping and labeling are in the minority, but in South Korea, I fear such naïveté, xenophobia, and disunion of identity are in the majority.

In June 2002, in the midst of World Cup fever in Korea, a United States Forces Korea (USFK) armored vehicle accidentally ran over and killed two Korean schoolgirls on a road just south of the DMZ. The two girls were on their way to a birthday party. Oddly, The Korea Herald did not report the incident and The Korea Times ran the story once, the day after the accident, but no more. When other Korean media ran the story, they featured it almost daily for weeks and even months, but they only first ran the story nearly a month after the accident occurred, after the completion of the World Cup tournament and after the last foreign soccer fan boarded a plane for home.

Though the consensus was that the incident was a terrible accident, the death of the two young girls unleashed an orgy of hate against the United States. Hundreds of thousands of Koreans staged massive anti-American protests, and several civic groups even promoted hatred among elementary school children by teaching songs, set to popular children’s tunes, that featured anti-American lyrics. By most standards, the nation’s behavior, and its media, would seem enigmatic, shocking even. But in reality, it is not surprising. A few weeks before the World Cup opening ceremonies, President Kim Dae Jung stressed the importance of minimizing open displays of anti-Americanism for fear that such sentiments, if viewed by the foreign press, would harm Korea’s image and possibly threaten its economy should U.S. consumers become angry. Evidently, the people obliged, and any anger they might have had about their media’s puzzling reporting habits was redirected toward the U.S. tenfold.

South Korea yearns to be open to the world, but quietly and, if need be, artificially. Some of us might be familiar with the stereotype that Koreans, especially in the United States, are like other Asians in that they succeed because they “fly under the radar” and embrace the status quo. With the USFK accident and following the Virginia Tech shootings, it appears South Korea has reinforced that stereotype. Perhaps the Korean government’s response to Seung-Hui Cho’s actions was a genuine gesture of compassion, sorrow, and empathy, but perhaps it was an involuntary display of the schizophrenic identity that Dr. Kim Gi Bong, a history professor at Kyonggi University in Seoul, lamented in his reaction to the shootings: we Koreans “have not narrowed this discrepancy between official history and our genetic memories – instead, we lead schizophrenic lives.”* Indeed, it is unfortunate that the nation just below the 38th parallel – a nation that has shown remarkable resiliency and progressiveness despite years of imperial occupation and a divisive civil war – still harbors deep-rooted nationalism and clings to a mono-ethnic, exclusive ideal of society.

Maybe the “Made in Korea” mentality – that outdated, misguided view of humanity – can help explain why the South Korean government immediately identified Cho as its native son, as “one of us,” instead of as the Korean American that he was. He was, after all, born in Korea. But he, like myself and countless other “1.5” generation Koreans, was raised in the U.S. from an early age; he learned to read, write, and speak the American language; he ate American food; he listened to American music; he complained about American society and culture; and he adopted the American penchant for guns.

Don’t get me wrong; I do recognize that Korea’s actions may have been a Confucian-based show of support, and I acknowledge that it may have been a sign of true remorse, just interpreted the wrong way. I also recognize that we are all products of our experiences, heritage, location, culture, and personal circumstances regardless of what the tags on our shirts say. Yet, at the same time, we are what we wear. As we slip on our T-shirts and track jackets and get our cash from ATMs that communicate in several different languages, it is this clothing, this dynamic fluidity of identity and perspective that make us so unique and refreshingly individual.

Cho was made in Korea, as was I, but we are more than a single country’s or a single race’s responsibility. I will continue to cheer for the Korean Olympic team – especially against the U.S. – while I drive on the American roads and through the American cities that I love. I will continue to tout the positive qualities of my Korean ancestry – even down to the supposed royalty of my last name – as I revel in being American, whatever “American” means on that specific day and with that specific outfit. I will change clothes weekly, daily, even hourly, and I’ll tell Adam and Eve exactly where they can go with their skimpy little fig leaves: it’s not about “keeping it real” and standing naked anymore. It’s not about donning the proverbial mask and hoping that it stays secure. I will bask in the contemporary threads of my generation and wear the clothes that I want to wear, as mismatched and ill-fitting as they may be. And nobody, South Korea included, should feel inherently responsible for who I am or how I look – except maybe my mother.

When South Korea reflexively staked its claim to Cho, it unwittingly exposed itself to the world by raising its skirt and showing us its slip – a slip with “Freud” embroidered on the tag. Like me, the Korean nation is, at once, a country that embodies a coexistence of wildly contradictory and incompatible elements. But they, unlike me, are either too afraid or not ready to admit it.

I might follow the South Korean ambassador’s advice and fast for repentance – I’m sure my arteries and waistline can use the help – but if I do, I will be repenting not for a Korean or a Korean-American or an American. Rather, I will be repenting for an unstable young man who believed that he had no options in his actions or in his life. I will be fasting for the victims of a senseless tragedy and repenting for those who believe race and ethnicity must necessarily identify each of us as who we really are and what we represent.

In his message of condolence to President Bush, current South Korean President Roh Moo Hyun expressed: “I was gravely shocked and horrified to learn of the tragic incident…and I sincerely share the deep sense of grief and profound sorrow with you and your people.” Indeed, most of us are at geographical and cultural distances from each other, but if “you and your people” are about YOU, and they and their people are about THEM, who or what am I?

I don’t know, but I’ll check the tag on my shirt.

*“The Legacy of Cho Seung-Hui,” JoongAng Daily, April 25, 2007.