In Buenos Aires, the term chino (literal translation: “Chinese”) has several different meanings. Local supermarkets, for example, are commonly called chinos because Chinese immigrants own many of the grocery businesses in the city. The expression “chino básico” is used to describe a confusing situation or something incomprehensible, originating from the belief that Chinese is an extremely difficult language to master. Most natives when meeting me for the first time would describe me as a chino based on my physical appearance, even though I am 100 percent Korean. Although I understand that it is sometimes impossible to tell Japanese, Korean, and Chinese people apart, I cannot help but feel slightly annoyed at this categorization of all East Asians as Chinese.
What I have been more surprised by, however, is the lack of public interest—and in some cases, accurate knowledge—of Korea. I have not yet met a local native who has heard of k-pop or has tried Korean food but did meet several who were completely unaware that Koreans speak a different language from Chinese. In situations like these, I found myself passionately defending my Korean heritage, sometimes giving lecture-like talks to my host family over dinner on how Korea is not China. I might have been overreacting a little, but these events have made me wonder how native Porteños (people from Buenos Aires) view Koreans—with fondness or contempt? How prominent was the Korean community in Argentina? Perhaps it was more due to my intense craving for Korean food rather than curiosity, but I decided to visit Flores, a neighborhood of Buenos Aires with a large Korean immigrant population, to find the answer myself.
Conveniently, I had a family friend in the city that took me to the only Korean Catholic Church in Argentina, where I befriended many Korean-Argentines of my own age. It was a fascinating experience to meet first generation, Spanish-speaking Korean immigrants and to hear their perspectives on life in Argentina. Most of their parents came in the 1980s—the decade that saw the largest influx of Asian immigrants to Argentina—and established textile and clothing manufacturing businesses. Many of these shops continue to operate and thrive on Avellaneda Avenue in Flores alongside other Korean restaurants and karaoke businesses. I felt proud of how vibrant this Little Korea was, although I also got the sense that it was a very tight-knit community somewhat closed off from the rest of Buenos Aires. Perhaps it is because of this separation that there is a lack of interest and awareness of Korean culture among native Porteños. Even at a government-sponsored parade for multiculturalism in early March, I noticed that the Korean-Argentine community did not send a representative, despite having such a significant presence in the city. In my opinion, there should be a more conscientious effort made by both sides to encourage greater integration. If the Korean community opened itself up more to the rest of Buenos Aires, maybe more native Porteños would be able to acknowledge Koreans as separate from the Chinese population and take greater interest in Korean culture.
In the larger picture, however, I find Buenos Aires to be a city that is extremely accepting of different cultures. Values of diversity and pluralism are constantly celebrated, possibly because Buenos Aires itself is a hybrid of two different worlds: Europe and Latin America. Similar to New York City, Buenos Aires represents a melting pot of immigrants from all around the world: Italians, German, Chinese, Jews, Paraguayans, Chileans, and people of other Latin American countries. The city’s architecture is French, its cuisine Italian, and its leisurely lifestyle and passion for music and dance distinctively Latin American. It is a truly unique city that welcomes minorities like me. And as much as being called a chino can sometimes frustrate me, I feel fortunate to have chosen a city so appreciative of cultural diversity.