Wasia Can Be A Lot. It’s Fine.

When I was 24, a stranger on the internet called me a white man, and it sent me into such a tailspin that I changed my byline. Before then, I was going by “Alex Laughlin,” just my first and last name. I had started writing about race, and I’d made a podcast about multiracial identity called Other , but if my name was to represent me on its own, there was no way for a stranger to know that very special fact that seemed like it defined me exclusively: I was Wasian.

My Korean name is 수정, which is most often romanized as Soo-Jeong or Soo-Jung. No one has ever called me this. But in 2017, I decided to adopt it as part of my professional identity, as a way to signal my mixed ethnicity to strangers. However, when I tried to add my name to my Twitter account, I found that the standard spelling was too lengthy to fit with my long-ass last name. In order to squeeze my name into my Twitter header, I took some liberties, and for the last decade, my byline has essentially been a misspelling of my own name. It was more intolerable to be perceived imprecisely by a stranger than it was for me to commit to being perceived as what I imagine is the “Ashleigh” of Korean name spellings.

It was these awkward attempts at self-expression that defined my long path to moderately well-adjusted Wasian adult, and I recognize my younger self with a bit of affectionate cringe when I see fellow Wasians insisting on their identities in loud, public ways. I used to make a big deal out of every time someone asked me “What are you?” I used to have my feelings hurt when the servers in Korean restaurants brought my food with a fork. Now, however, I am more preoccupied with simply living a good life—I went to a Korean restaurant last night and smiled while the server explained tteokbokki to me. I want to offer my elder wisdom to this younger generation of Wasians. But I cannot and should not interfere. As they say on the internet: It’s a canon event_._