I have a phrase I use to describe myself: proudly Korean, fiercely Canadian. It’s accurate. It’s also telling.

Growing up, I was given two choices for how I should approach my identity: pride or shame. For me, the choice was obvious. I’m proud to be Korean – why shouldn’t I be? My grandparents lived in a nation that was first torn apart by Japanese colonialism, and then by internal division.They lived, first-hand, through a country that went from having one of the lowest GDPs in the world to one of the highest; from a time when hunger, not designer brands, described the average Korean’s appearance. I’m proud to be Korean, because we, as a people, have overcome so much and continue to always strive towards excellence. This pride is by choice. But, in another sense – I have to be proud. Other people – mainly white people – define me primarily by difference. I am Asian, I am Korean, and that makes me different. When difference becomes your distinct and defining characteristic, I think your personal relationship with your difference can manifest in one of two ways – pride to be different, or shame.

Nothing has defined my identity more than my appearance: my flat face and my feminine, delicate body. This isn’t by choice – certainly, not mine. This is how other people have categorized, labeled, and treated me– by judging what I look like and determining my identity based on those judgments. No two words have been used to identify me as much as “Asian girl.” Over the years, the preceding adjectives have changed. Ugly, hot, bitchy, smart, stupid – the list is endless in its cyclic continuity, but fairly short with original content.

If I were not proud, I would be ashamed. I would be ashamed to be seen as the “Other”: the girl with slit eyes, a low-set nose, dark-brown hair. However, when society tries to define me, they often do so by contrasting what they think an “Asian girl” should look like, and what they judge my appearance to be. My physicality either falls within their expectations – or it doesn’t. Compliments are never simple, or truly flattering. “You’re really hot – for an Asian. You have big tits – for an Asian. You have big eyes – for an Asian.” There’s also the flip side, when my appearance falls in line with their preconceived ideas: “I love your beautiful Asian eyes. You’re one of those cute Asian girls. You’re a smart Asian girl.” I’m not saying it’s inherently wrong to point out aspects of me that are inconsistent (or consistent) with some general trend. But it’s wrong when part of my actual identity is reduced to stereotypical social constructs that are contrasted by expectations of my physical appearance and body. It baffles me that I have to say this, but twenty one years of bewildered lived experience have taught me that I do: My race is not the singular causal determinant for my intelligence. I’m not smart because I’m Asian. I’m smart because I inherited my parents’ intelligence, because they raised me with care, because I grew up loving to read, because I’m curious, because I like learning, because I AM smart – me, Ki-eun Peck, not “That Asian Girl.”

The thing about being “Other” is that the preconceived ideas of supposed exotic mystique create room for fantasy. I am the voyeur’s favoured genie, ready to grant personalized wishes from a customized lamp. For those who have a fetish for Asian girls, my physical features represent their Orientalist fantasy. For those that want to see someone ‘unique’ and unconventional, they see me as the Canadianized Asian. Some aspects of the way people see me have become internalized, and I have struggled against letting this affect the way I view myself. I’ve gone through periods of wishing I looked more like Lucy Liu, the solitary Western pinnacle of Asian feminine beauty, with her high cheekbones and trademark almond eyes. I’ve also spent hours staring at the mirror, wishing my nose was higher, my eyes were larger, and my skin had red undertones instead of yellow. However, I will say I’ve escaped relatively unscathed. Like anyone else, I have my insecurities – but this hasn’t resulted in internalized self-hatred or shame. For a long time now, whenever I look at my reflection I’ve seen “Ki-eun” more than stereotypes and (failed) expectations. At the same time, it concerns me when I wonder whether this is because enough of my appearance is relatively consistent with societal expectations of beauty, whether they be from the “East” or the “West”.

What do I define myself as? Proudly Korean – fiercely Canadian. Fiercely, because my Canadianness is doubted. Challenged. Scoffed at. Even if I didn’t embrace my Asianness, my Koreanness, my femininity, that wouldn’t stop people from using it to define me every day. But it’s rare that people define me as Canadian. I’m fiercely Canadian because that is the part of my identity I need to defend. Throughout my life, I’ve been asked the eternal question: “where are you from?” To be frank, it’s usually asked by men – at parties, masking ignorance with alcohol; in cafes, masking interference with interest; on the street, jeering, masking harassment with ‘flattery.’ I am from Port Moody, British Columbia. It’s a quaint little city in metro-Vancouver, notable for its scenic nature and saltwater surroundings. I was born and raised in Canada; my passport says, with clinical certainty, “CANADIAN.” My portrait, next to this word, should be more than enough proof, rather than a cause of doubt. This isn’t an essay about what it means to be Canadian – that’s a whole other can of worms and documents cramped with words. But I will say this: for myself, there is no necessary or inherent mutual exclusion between ‘Canadian’ and ‘Korean’.

What do I define myself as? As a child, English was my strongest subject. Cabinets are filled with report cards, scattered with compliments and phrases like “Ki-eun is a writer!” I was constantly writing, and constantly excelling. English was my strongest subject, and English is still my strongest language. I don’t remember learning English, in the same way I don’t remember learning how to breathe.

I don’t remember learning Korean. Nor do I remember losing it – but I know I have. The longer I am away from home – away from people who can call me 기은, who can switch seamlessly between Korean and English, tongue embracing lips and sounds with the same easy grace as water touching sand at the edge of a beach – the longer I am away from this, the heavier my own tongue grows, and my voice shakes not with excitement but fear.

Language is my most intimate identification. A large part of how I define my Koreanness, my connection to a Korean community and culture, is through language. I do not exaggerate when I say one of my greatest fears is losing my language – because, for me, I would be losing my connection to an important half of me. This connection is rare, and it is precious, because it is one that I conceptualize as internal to myself and untouched by my body and society’s external expectations. This is my personal passport – proof that I am still “authentic,” that I am not a ‘banana,’ that I have not stumbled under the heavy weight of assimilation. I know these conceptions are not right. I know, rationally, that I am Korean as firmly as I know my favourite colour is blue and mint makes me sneeze. I know I will be just as Korean even if my preference switches to red in the next 5 minutes. I have faith that I will never truly lose Korean, that my mind will read my world with 한글 as much as English. But every time I stutter or wait a beat too long when responding in Korean – I am struck by fear. I simply pray that the fear will never overtake my faith.
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The first half of the band’s track “Rise” fit the celebratory mood well: the dreamy keyboard chords, lulling guitar riffs, cushy percussive rhythms, and drawling vocals provided a lovely soundtrack to the cool summer air, fading Montreal sun, and beer-soaked grass. Lead singer Matthew Rogers did most of the talking, but as a whole, the band’s stage presence was cohesive: easy and natural, a calmer sort of pull then what may have been expected. To be fair, the band did appear a little nervous at the beginning – there were minor issues with tempo, and possible technical difficulties. But the earnestness in their playing is undeniable.

Fleece’s initial claim to fame was their parody video, “How to write an Alt-J song.” Boasting over 2.5 million views, the Youtube hit is hilariously accurate. In the video, Rogers, munching on rice cakes, repeats nonsensical phrases with deadpan delivery and progressively adds harmonies using a flashback delay. The end result is… an Alt-J song. Somehow, the two band members eating rice cakes and having some fun with a pedal managed to replicate the sound of a Mercury Prize-winning band in just a few minutes, which showcases their incredible talent. This is the magic of Fleece.

Of course, there’s more to Fleece’s music than parodies. Fleece’s debut album Scavenger is an alluring and explosive blend of psychedelic, jazz, and grunge. Out of their five-song set at OAP, three tracks – “Wake and Bake,” “Rise,” and “DLXVII” – came off Scavenger, while “Crocodile” and “Transitions” were brand new. Regrettably, the jazzier songs of Fleece’s repertoire – “Gabe’s Song” and “Demanding” – didn’t make the live set.

Fleece performs with honesty, and anyone could tell they genuinely enjoyed closing OAP. Kudos to OAP for another great two weeks, and kudos to Fleece for ending the run on a high note.

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Kendrick Lamar holds the torch as hip hop’s latest prophet – and, at this rate, the torch will only pass when his hands are cold. To Pimp A Butterfly was released on March 16 to overwhelmingly positive reviews from fans. As usual, his lyricism is poetic and powerful, made even more effective by the versatility of his voice.

The opening track contains strong jazz and funk influences, setting the tone for the entire album. “Wesley’s Theory” is an appropriate sample of Lamar’s typical artistry, with tight production, politically charged lyrics, and clever literary devices. A track feature from George Clinton references the album title’s metaphor: “When the four corners of this cocoon collide/You’ll slip through the cracks hoping that you’ll survive […] Are you really who they idolize?/To pimp a butterfly.”

Lamar raps the first verse from the perspective of an artist yet to be make it big (“When I get signed…”), fantasizing about the material wealth success will provide (“Platinum on everything…”). The second verse is from the perspective of ‘Uncle Sam,’ who lures Lamar with riches but betrays him in the end: “Get it all, you deserve it Kendrick/And when you hit the White House, do you/But remember, you ain’t pass economics in school/And everything you buy, taxes will deny/I’ll Wesley Snipe your ass before 35.” The first verse is the voice of the aspiring ‘butterfly,’ who is then ‘pimped’ and exploited by the second verse’s ‘America.’ It’s fitting that To Pimp A Butterfly is also a play on the American literary classic To Kill A Mockingbird – a novel celebrated for its racial commentary despite ultimately perpetuating the trope of the white saviour.

“Wesley’s Theory” is an appropriate sample of Lamar’s typical artistry, with tight production, politically charged lyrics, and clever literary devices.

Lamar goes on to address systemic racial injustice, particularly in the album’s second single, “The Blacker The Berry.” He began writing the track after watching news coverage of Trayvon Martin’s murder, and his anger surrounding the situation translates onto the track – Lamar delivers abrasive lyrics (“I’m Black as the heart of a fucking Aryan”) in strained tones.

But the album is not all about anger: Lamar also highlights the importance of Black pride. “i,” the lead single off of To Pimp A Butterfly, stands out as an upbeat song that celebrates self-love. The album edition contains an extended ending, in which Lamar explains his belief in the n-word. He reclaims the historical slur by linking it to the word negus, which means “Black emperor.”

From the brazen, unapologetically rapid flow in “The Blacker The Berry” to the smooth and sensual delivery in “These Walls,” Lamar disproves the pejorative claim that hip hop lacks musicality. Throughout the album, Lamar uses his voice to maintain the driving rhythms. At times, his low-pitched rapping acts as a bassline of sorts, utilizing lighter percussion effects to complement rather than support his flow. Though different in style from his previous album good kid, m.A.A.d city, this most recent effort is equally impressive.

2015 is too young for any ironclad proclamations that To Pimp A Butterfly is the album of the year, but it has undoubtedly set the bar high. Lamar’s newest work is yet another shining example of his explosive talent.

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