Two Names, One Identity: The Diaspora Double Life

If you grew up as a Korean-Canadian kid in the 90s or early 2000s, you likely possessed a superpower: the ability to shapeshift the moment you took off your shoes at the front door. Outside, in the hallways of my elementary school, I was "Jenny." Jenny loved pizza days, spoke English at a mile a minute, and blended right into the multicultural tapestry of Canada. But the moment the heavy front door clicked shut and I stepped onto the warm ondol (heated floor) of my home, Jenny vanished. I became "Ji-yoon."

In Korean pop culture today, there’s a trendy concept called Bukae (부캐), short for "secondary character." It originally comes from gaming, referring to an alternate avatar you play, but it has evolved to mean an alter-ego you adopt for different situations. Long before Bukae became a trending hashtag, diaspora kids were living it every single day. We had our English name for survival and our Korean name for our soul.

Why did our parents give us two names? For many first-generation immigrants, giving their child an English name was an act of fierce, quiet love. They wanted to spare us the microaggressions of a substitute teacher pausing awkwardly over the attendance sheet, butchering the beautiful syllables of our heritage. An English name was a shield. It was a passport to belonging.

But our Korean names? That’s where the roots lived. Korean names are deeply intentional. Many follow a Doollimja (돌림자) or generational marker—a specific syllable shared by all siblings or cousins of the same generation, rooted in Chinese characters (Hanja). So, while "Jenny" was chosen because it sounded pretty on a baby name website, "Ji-yoon" was carefully selected by a grandparent across the Pacific, consulting a philosopher or thick dictionary to ensure my name meant "a foundation of wisdom." No pressure, right?

Living this double life often led to hilarious cultural collisions. I still remember the sheer panic of having a non-Korean friend over for a playdate and hearing my mom yell from the kitchen, "Ya, Ji-yoon-a! Come eat watermelon!" My friend stared at me blankly. "Who is Ji-yoon?" Trying to explain to a nine-year-old that you are, in fact, two different people depending on your GPS coordinates is no easy feat.

For a long time, having two names felt like being split down the middle. I wasn't quite "Canadian" enough for the mainstream, nor "Korean" enough for the motherland. We were the "in-betweeners."

But as I grew older, the way I saw my dual identity shifted. I realized that my English name and my Korean name aren't in competition; they are in conversation. Being Jenny gave me the confidence to navigate the globalized world, while being Ji-yoon anchored me to my ancestors, teaching me the value of Jeong (정)—that deep, unspoken Korean bond of affection and loyalty.

Today, many younger diaspora parents are opting out of the double-name tradition altogether, proudly giving their kids easily pronounceable Korean names as their only legal names. It’s a beautiful sign of the times, proving that Korean culture is no longer something to hide for convenience, but something to celebrate globally.

As for us seasoned veterans of the double life? We carry both of our names with pride. We are the bridge between two worlds, seamlessly code-switching our way through life, one unlaced shoe at a time.