As a Korean-American living in this time period, I don’t struggle to see my culture represented. I see Hangul characters I can’t understand on generic skincare labels. I taste the mass produced frozen rolls of kimbap on grocery store shelves. I hear countless social media influencers raving about the latest unconventional kimchi recipe I must try, or else my life won’t be complete, and watch cartoon animations of k-pop idols being revered by people who wouldn’t be caught dead listening to BTS.

Is that all there is to being “Korean”? Is it that easy?

I wouldn’t know. I grew up in an untraditional Korean household with just enough Korean aspects to classify as one. No shoes in the house, a big bag of white rice in my basement, kimchi jars in every cabinet of my kitchen, and a last name to match. I didn’t realize that there was more to the culture until I got to middle school.

Conveniently, that was around the same time when Korean products were hitting a new level of popularity unknown to the generations before.

In every store you walk into now, you can find almost any product imaginable with the label “Korean” slapped on it. Regardless of whether it’s actually made by a legitimate Korean company or not, I’m willing to bet that that product sells better than its competitors. Why? Because South Korea is trending.

Music, food, beauty products, and entertainment are all marketed in a way that angles its Korean authenticity to consumers, which appeals to people who hold Korean culture on a pedestal. Not a very high one, I would like to mention, because despite the popularity of Korean goods, racism still runs rampant in the United States.

Companies slap the “Korean label” on their products in order to make them sell better. It’s a good business strategy to use trending buzzwords to gain exposure, but by consequence, companies cheapen the mainstream perception of Korean culture and capitalize off of the “Korean label.”

These tactics aren’t unique to Korea, and we can see them applied to other minority groups such as the LGBTQ+ community during Pride Month, or the Black community during February. In the context of South Korea, I believe that strategies such as these reinforce the idea that Korean products are just a temporary trend that will be replaced by something else in a few years.

Although, by doing this, companies spread awareness and representation of Asian culture that was previously underrepresented in the past, they reduce Korean heritage to only the parts that can be bought and sold. Inherently, this isn’t a problem, except that Americans are usually only attracted to the digestible aspects of foreign cultures and refuse to acknowledge, and even reject, the parts that seem too “strange” or “weird” or “exotic.”

So while kimbap, tteokbokki, Korean fried chicken, and kimchi rise in popularity, the more “peculiar” foods such as ganjang gejang (soy sauce marinated raw crab) and sundae (blood sausage) remain on the backburner, only enjoyed by the people used to them.

And, as a Korean-American myself, I am not immune to these marketing ploys. As someone who is insecure in her own identity as a Korean, these products appeal to me as something that can potentially make me “more authentic” and acceptable.

Fundamentally, I can see where my upbringing differs from those who grew up under Korean immigrant parents, compared to my own second generation parents. One is not better than the other, but the differences are clear, and by my logic in middle school, involving myself more in the commercialized aspects of my newfound culture was the best way to integrate myself into those social groups. As a result, I became very familiar with the perception of “mainstream Korea.”

But things aren’t all bad. Because Korean culture was so accessible to my 13 year old self, I connected more with a part of myself that I didn’t recognize in previous years. I grew out of the habit of senselessly buying what seemed appropriate for me to buy, and developed a new sense of identity separate from the expectations I placed upon myself. I’ve grown to love Korean foods that I wasn’t exposed to when I was younger, and that is partially because I saw them on my favorite k-drama or I finally knew what to ask of my immigrant grandparents.

The language is no longer as foreign to me because of Korean music and shows, and I’ve learned how to read what was on those skincare labels, even if I don’t know what it means. As a fellow Korean friend has told me so lovingly during a conversation about how others perceive my ethnicity, I am “obviously Korean-American, but heavy on the American,” and I am no longer embarrassed or offended by it.

Koreans are such a small percentage of the American population, but we have made such an impact. Whether for better or worse, Korea has made a name for itself in the US. So even while the typical American will turn up their nose at the smell of kimchi and scoff at the mention of BTS or BLACKPINK or TWICE, I also know that they have a jar of kimchi in their fridge and nod along to the lyrics to HUNTRIX when they come on the radio.