How Korean became Virginia's third most-spoken language
Korean is the most commonly spoken language in Virginia other than English and Spanish, per census data out last week.
Why it matters: It's one of only two states where that's the case.
The big picture: Virginia's Korean population is also the fifth-largest nationwide, reflecting the modern immigration patterns that have contributed to an increasingly diverse state.
While the Commonwealth has over a century of Korean history, it wasn't until the 1960s and 70s when Korean immigrants began settling in larger numbers in Northern Virginia.
And it would ultimately lead to Annandale becoming Virginia's original Koreatown.
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Business Insider
3 hours ago
- Business Insider
At 26, I landed my dream publishing job in New York City. I turned it down and moved to Taipei instead.
Catherine Shu, a Taiwanese American, had just started her career in New York when her boyfriend got a job offer in Taipei. The low cost of living in Taipei allowed the couple to explore the city while saving more. Shu still sees herself as American, but after 18 years in Taiwan, it feels like home. I had landed my first journalism job and was living in a basement studio. I was dating Ron, a fellow Columbia Journalism School grad, and we were scraping by on entry-level salaries. It was 2006, and we were happy exploring the boroughs of New York City together. Then, one evening, Ron called me and said that his financial situation was untenable, but he had been offered a new job in Taipei. He planned to leave in a month. He wanted to marry me and hoped I would move there, too. I was stunned by his de facto proposal and spent the next week ruminating. Ron wasn't a Taiwanese American like me. His family came to America from what is now the Czech Republic, Great Britain, and Ireland, but he had spent more time in Taiwan than I ever had. After studying international relations at Georgetown, Ron moved to Taiwan for postgraduate Mandarin studies before starting as a journalist. Meanwhile, I had not been to Taiwan since I was 11, when my parents took my brother and me for a family reunion. I kept thinking about how poor my Mandarin was. Ron was fluent, but I could barely string together a sentence. Unlike a lot of my friends, my parents had not forced us to speak Mandarin at home. I once asked why, and they explained that when they immigrated in the 1970s, they never imagined Mandarin would be considered desirable to learn. Reverse culture shock For the most part, I wasn't bothered by my Mandarin, or lack thereof. I was the first person in my family to be born in the US, and I grew up in a Taiwanese American community about an hour south of San Francisco. Almost all my relatives and parents' friends spoke English. I thought of myself as American, but there were times when I felt sad to be missing the Taiwanese part. After the talk with Ron, I began to imagine myself talking in entire Mandarin sentences. I applied for a language scholarship from the Taiwanese government. I called my parents and told them that I was choosing to leave my job at The Wall Street Journal to follow my boyfriend to the city they had left 25 years ago to build their careers as architects in the US. They were shocked. I assured them that becoming fluent in Mandarin would not only open up many new journalism opportunities but also help me be closer to our family's culture. Armed with my scholarship, I moved in August 2007. I was eager to embrace Taiwan, but I was immediately hit by culture shock. In New York City, I had been quite talkative, even with strangers, but in Taipei I felt bashful as my fragmented, heavily-accented Mandarin was picked apart. It soon became clear that looking like I could speak Mandarin, but barely being able to speak, made me an object of ridicule. I bristled when people asked how my parents forgot to teach me Mandarin. I wanted to tell them: "They did the best to navigate our lives as an immigrant household in the United States," but I didn't have the Mandarin to say that. Despite my intensive language studies, I felt like I was living on mute. Learning how to belong But I was also learning about my family, just as I'd hoped. I found out that my neighbor in Taipei had been my grandmother's classmate in elementary school. After the discovery, the neighbor began treating me like her own granddaughter. She invited me over for tea and told me stories about my grandparents. The low cost of living, affordable public transportation, and National Health Insurance meant that even though Ron and I still made modest salaries, we were able to explore the city while saving more. I felt safe even walking around at midnight by myself, giving me a sense of freedom I had never felt before. Ron and I got married in San Francisco, but held a wedding banquet at Taipei's landmark Grand Hotel. As my language skills improved, so did my confidence. I got a job at the Taipei Times, where most of my interviews were done in Mandarin, before I started covering Asian startup ecosystems for TechCrunch. I was worried about having a baby because of chronic health issues, but Ron and I were reassured by Taiwan's subsidized healthcare. Our daughter was born in 2016, and I spent my customary month of confinement resting in a postpartum maternity center. I have felt immense pride as I watched her grow up equally confident in Mandarin and English. This August will mark 18 years since I moved here. People often ask us when we'll move back. "Do you want to move closer to your family? Do you worry about the geopolitical situation? Do you miss America?" Of course, I tell them. But I think of the clean parks and hiking trails 20 minutes from downtown. I think of living in the neighborhoods where my parents and grandparents grew up. Most of all, I think about how I've spent most of my adult life here. I will always think of the US as home. I am culturally American and still have a heavy accent when I speak Mandarin. Even though I hold dual citizenship, I feel disingenuous when I tell people I'm Taiwanese. But I know I belong in Taipei.
Buzz Feed
9 hours ago
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Evocative Words That Exist In Other Languages But Not English
Have you ever heard a word translated from another language that is so descriptive, evocative, beautiful, or useful that strangely doesn't exist in your native one? Redditor oliviamonet asked, "People who are bilingual in English and another language, what's a word that exists in your other language that you are surprised doesn't exist in English?" Here are words from languages around the world with no English equivalent. "In Italian we have abbiocco, which is the drowsiness you experience after a big meal. It is a tiredness and brain fog exclusively associated with a full belly. Very useful in Italy." —exhausted_wombat "In Irish, beochaoineadh. It translates to 'alive crying.' It means a lament for those who still live, but you know you may never see them again, or are otherwise lost to you in a permanent, painful, and irreversible way." —Maboroshi94RD "In Korean 눈치 (noon-chi). It means the ability to notice other people's subtle emotions or thoughts. For example, if someone kept talking about something that clearly bores the other person, who is too polite to leave the conversation, you'd say that that person doesn't have noon-chi, or the ability to notice (that they want to talk about something else)." "Friolento! It's a Spanish word, meaning somebody who is too affected by the cold weather or is constantly feeling cold." —maccaron "Flâner in French. That's when you stroll aimlessly through a city, just enjoying the surroundings without a set destination." —Square_Positive_559 "In Polish, we have kombinować. You can't really understand Polish culture unless you grasp the whole meaning of this word. It means to find a way around something, find a solution to some problem, but in a slightly mischievous, not always legal, way." "口寂しい or Kuchisabishii in Japanese. It translates to lonely mouth, and it's stress or boredom eating like eating out of habit, or chewing on something to have something to do." —Gureiify "Finnish language is famous for kalsarikännit (getting drunk in your underwear), so I wasn't surprised it doesn't exist in English. But I was gobsmacked when I found out English has no casual word for tuuletus/tuulettaminen (a gesture for 'yay!!!' or 'wooo!!'). They just call it 'goal celebration' or wild." —republicofrhubarb "A beautiful expression we have in Italian is 'arrangiati.' There do exist turns of phrases in English that mean more or less the same thing, for example, 'do it yourself' or 'you're on your own,' but 'arrangiati' is the imperative and reflexive of 'arrangiare' (to organise, arrange, make do, manage) — basically 'sort yourself.' However, arrangiati has the same heft and directness, and general sentiment, of basically telling someone to go f*** themselves. No direct English translation leaves me satisfied as telling someone 'arrangiati!' "A Filipina lady said 'I was talking to my...' and stopped and asked me what the English word is for a parent of the person your kid married (aka the parent of your son or daughter-in-law). It's a relationship that we have no word for in English." —OlyScott "Kummerspeck in German, which is grief (or worry) bacon. It's the weight you gain from emotional eating." —Frau-Pfau "My favorite is the Japanese word tsundoku, which describes one who acquires more books than they could possibly read in a lifetime." —JET304 "In Portuguese, saudade, or a feeling of homesickness for something or someone." "Døgn, the Norwegian word for the 24-hour period between midnight and midnight." —Confident-Rough-8560 "Sobremesa. It's the period of time you stay seated at the table talking after you're done eating." —sapphicor "Prozvonit, a Czech verb which means to call someone and let it ring very briefly with the intention of them not picking up the call." —Disastrous_Alarm_719 "Icelandic has gluggaveður (window weather), aka weather that looks sunny and warm when looking at it out of the window, but it is actually bitterly cold when you go outside." —fidelises "In Swedish, we have lagom. It means 'the right amount.' For example, 'How many cookies do you want?' 'Lagom.'" —Konkuriito "In German, we have backpfeifengesicht. In English, this means a face badly in need of punching." "The Welsh word hiraeth is my all-time favorite. Basically, it means a longing homesickness for a place you have never been, perhaps a place that doesn't even exist." —Maveragical Do you have one to add? If you speak another language, what is a beautiful, evocative, specific, or useful word that exists in that language that does not exist in English? Tell us in the comments or in this anonymous form.
Business Insider
11 hours ago
- Business Insider
At 26, I landed my dream publishing job in New York City. I turned it down and moved to Taipei instead
Catherine Shu, a Taiwanese American, had just started her career in New York when her boyfriend got a job offer in Taipei. The low cost of living in Taipei allowed the couple to explore the city while saving more. Shu still sees herself as American, but after 18 years in Taiwan, it feels like home. I had landed my first journalism job and was living in a basement studio. I was dating Ron, a fellow Columbia Journalism School grad, and we were scraping by on entry-level salaries. It was 2006, and we were happy exploring the boroughs of New York City together. Then, one evening, Ron called me and said that his financial situation was untenable, but he had been offered a new job in Taipei. He planned to leave in a month. He wanted to marry me and hoped I would move there, too. I was stunned by his de facto proposal and spent the next week ruminating. Ron wasn't a Taiwanese American like me. His family came to America from what is now the Czech Republic, Great Britain, and Ireland, but he had spent more time in Taiwan than I ever had. After studying international relations at Georgetown, Ron moved to Taiwan for postgraduate Mandarin studies before starting as a journalist. Meanwhile, I had not been to Taiwan since I was 11, when my parents took my brother and me for a family reunion. I kept thinking about how poor my Mandarin was. Ron was fluent, but I could barely string together a sentence. Unlike a lot of my friends, my parents had not forced us to speak Mandarin at home. I once asked why, and they explained that when they immigrated in the 1970s, they never imagined Mandarin would be considered desirable to learn. For the most part, I wasn't bothered by my Mandarin, or lack thereof. I was the first person in my family to be born in the US, and I grew up in a Taiwanese American community about an hour south of San Francisco. Almost all my relatives and parents' friends spoke English. I thought of myself as American, but there were times when I felt sad to be missing the Taiwanese part. After the talk with Ron, I began to imagine myself talking in entire Mandarin sentences. I applied for a language scholarship from the Taiwanese government. I called my parents and told them that I was choosing to leave my job at The Wall Street Journal to follow my boyfriend to the city they had left 25 years ago to build their careers as architects in the US. They were shocked. I assured them that becoming fluent in Mandarin would not only open up many new journalism opportunities but also help me be closer to our family's culture. Armed with my scholarship, I moved in August 2007. I was eager to embrace Taiwan, but I was immediately hit by culture shock. In New York City, I had been quite talkative, even with strangers, but in Taipei I felt bashful as my fragmented, heavily-accented Mandarin was picked apart. It soon became clear that looking like I could speak Mandarin, but barely being able to speak, made me an object of ridicule. I bristled when people asked how my parents forgot to teach me Mandarin. I wanted to tell them: "They did the best to navigate our lives as an immigrant household in the United States," but I didn't have the Mandarin to say that. Despite my intensive language studies, I felt like I was living on mute. Learning how to belong But I was also learning about my family, just as I'd hoped. I found out that my neighbor in Taipei had been my grandmother's classmate in elementary school. After the discovery, the neighbor began treating me like her own granddaughter. She invited me over for tea and told me stories about my grandparents. The low cost of living, affordable public transportation, and National Health Insurance meant that even though Ron and I still made modest salaries, we were able to explore the city while saving more. I felt safe even walking around at midnight by myself, giving me a sense of freedom I had never felt before. Ron and I got married in San Francisco, but held a wedding banquet at Taipei's landmark Grand Hotel. As my language skills improved, so did my confidence. I got a job at the Taipei Times, where most of my interviews were done in Mandarin, before I started covering Asian startup ecosystems for TechCrunch. I was worried about having a baby because of chronic health issues, but Ron and I were reassured by Taiwan's subsidized healthcare. Our daughter was born in 2016, and I spent my customary month of confinement resting in a postpartum maternity center. I have felt immense pride as I watched her grow up equally confident in Mandarin and English. This August will mark 18 years since I moved here. People often ask us when we'll move back. "Do you want to move closer to your family? Do you worry about the geopolitical situation? Do you miss America?" Of course, I tell them. But I think of the clean parks and hiking trails 20 minutes from downtown. I think of living in the neighborhoods where my parents and grandparents grew up. Most of all, I think about how I've spent most of my adult life here. I will always think of the US as home. I am culturally American and still have a heavy accent when I speak Mandarin. Even though I hold dual citizenship, I feel disingenuous when I tell people I'm Taiwanese. But I know I belong in Taipei.
