As a child, I’d translate permission slips and notes from my teachers to my immigrant parents. When I became an adult, financial and legal documents replaced the school papers.

I’m a translator. It’s not a role I chose. It’s one borne of necessity. I’m like countless children of immigrants who toggle between English and the language of our parents’ native country.

But I’m an imperfect translator all too aware of my shortcomings. Often I spew out multiple Korean words to translate one English word. If I don’t know the Korean word for dolphin, I might say in Korean, “The ocean animal. Not a shark. Very friendly. Jumps in and out of the water.” Then I watch my parents. If they nod their head in understanding, we move on. If furrowed eyebrows of confusion appear, different word choices are in order.  

As someone who grew up constantly translating words, I’ve come to appreciate the many subtleties in language. The role has led me to some interesting discoveries about the differences between Korean and American cultures.

Tone, for example, can make seemingly innocuous words in English condescending or mean-spirited. Take for example, the simple “hello.” A long drawn out ‘o’ with an emphasis on the second syllable transforms the standard greeting. “Hello” becomes: “Anyone there?” or, “Duh. Hellooooo. Didn’t you just read the English sign over there?”

On the other hand, pabo in Korean means “stupid,” but with a change in tone, it softens and can be used affectionately by a parent to express sympathy in a “tough love” kind of way. It’s like when you skin your knees and sniffle, your mom might say, “Ayyy, pabo.”

In translating between worlds, I’ve grown more aware of how a language forces you into a way of thinking, sometimes by default. Americans theoretically assume everyone is equal. Younger people speak to older people as if they are no different. Being in a country that values youth, many older Americans even resent being referred to as “ma’am” or “sir.”

Yet the Korean language makes it important to know your age and social standing in relation to the person with whom you’re speaking. Knowing that will determine whether you can speak using a casual, honorific or ultra-honorific verb ending. My parents let me get away with speaking to them in a casual manner in America. But they remind me to add the honorific “-yo” at the end of a sentence when around older relatives or their Korean church friends. I know as soon as I talk with someone older, the respect for that person is built into the Korean language and selection of the appropriate verb ending. I am instantly made aware we are not on equal terms.

My dad says sometimes that Korean and American cultures aren’t just a little different, they’re exactly the opposite. One language seems to place more emphasis on the family and group, while the other focuses on the individual. My Korean name is Hong Se-ra. In Korea, my family surname comes first; the name my dad gave me comes last. In America, Se-ra would come first and Hong, last.