Asian American Voices: Katherine Ku

An author’s note reflecting on the last three conversations and her own life, in honor of AAPI Heritage Month.

It’s been a while since I published the last installment of the Asian American Voices series, but let’s just pretend I was saving this for Asian American Heritage Month on purpose (definitely not procrastinating). Regardless, I’ve finally been able to reflect on these conversations as a whole and why I even really wanted to do write about this in the first place. 

When you walk into a climbing gym or go out to the crag, you’re likely to meet people of all ages and careers - nurses, bankers, real estate agents, geologists, teachers… the list goes on. Yes, ethnic diversity in our sport has improved, especially when you compare a modern pool of rock climbers to the stereotypical long-haired, mustached, acid-taking, and overwhelmingly white trad climbers of the 60s and 70s. This isn’t to say that the legendary Stonemasters were not integral to the development of climbing - their contributions were tremendous, but the future of rock climbing still stands to gain much more from cultural diversity. 

As an Asian American creator and climber, I looked up to Jimmy Chin as a filmmaker. When I started watching comp climbing, I found myself rooting for Asian / AAPI climbers like Quinn Mason and Akiyo Noguchi. 

I remembered reading about another climber, Angela Lee’s story in the Climbing Zine. Her article, Parallel Traditions hit me hard. Instead of becoming a lawyer after law school, Angela instead chose to climb and work as a homestead farmer, where she “found happiness… reconnecting with nature.”  Her longing to make peace with her Korean culture, friction with her parents, and dedication to rock climbing seemed all too familiar. 

When I came across her article, I was working full-time as a management consultant and could barely believe what I was reading. While I was often miserable and working remotely 50-60 hour weeks, I could scarcely imagine an alternative at the time. 

I had worked hard to secure my job before I had even graduated college. When I received my offer letter, I had let out a sigh of relief - my years of schooling had paid off and I’d be, in my mind, set for life. I’d be financially independent, living the young professional life, and my parents would be proud of me. 

I thought I was ready for the lack of work life balance, reminding myself it was necessary and that I was lucky to even have a job in the wake of the pandemic. I had told myself I would stick it out for two years. Only then I would try something new. After putting my degree to good use, after saving up for a few years.

But instead, I found myself anxious, constantly checking my laptop and work phone, scrambling to complete tasks I often thought to be unreasonably time-consuming. While I sunk into the corporate lifestyle, my love for climbing grew. I began working through meal breaks, desperate to get off work early enough to rush to the gym for a late night bouldering session. 

Soon after, I began shooting climbing photography, taking my camera wherever I could. I began daydreaming about climbing as much as I wanted, taking photos for a living. I thought about Jimmy Chin, who moved into his car after graduation to become a fulltime dirtbag, despite his parents’ objections. And then there was Angela, who had faced similar cultural challenges and expectations. They had made it. 

So why couldn’t I? 

To me, there were a thousand reasons why not. Among the top: 1) I didn’t even go to art school so how could I compete? 2) I wasn’t a strong climber. 3) I just wasn’t good enough. And what would my family think? Just the thought of telling my mother that I wanted to pursue a career in climbing media made me sick. (To my credit, I was right to be nervous about this.)

It took me a year to decide to take a leave from my job to give working in the climbing industry a try. It took me three additional months to actually quit, finally removing myself from the simultaneously comforting and mortifying possibility of returning to my steady consulting job. 

During this entire time, I recognized that by allowing me to stay under her roof, my mother was expressing her reluctant support. She was doing what she could, providing shelter for me - no matter how much we argued or fought about my career decisions. 

But between yelling matches and slammed doors, I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t understand me. She asked me why I’d leave my office job for a physically demanding and unstable career. After all, my parents had worked hard so that I could avoid this struggle, yet I chose to spend long days hiking and hauling gear up mountains, often returning home covered in dirt and chalk.

I knew, like any parents, they just wanted the best for their child, but it drove me crazy that they couldn’t understand why I wanted to chase my passions. Even when I started to see their point of view, I just wished for an easier way out. It scared me to think that no matter what I did, I’d never make my parents as proud as when I had graduated from business school and gotten my consulting job. 

Almost any young Asian American knows that the pressure to succeed is pretty much just a part of life. At times it feels overwhelming to fight these cultural constraints while struggling to achieve professional and social success. 

To say the least, the AAPI climbing community has brought me a sense of empathy that I desperately needed. Being able to interview others granted me insight into each of our different stories, and I also saw the similarities among us. It made me proud of my heritage; I’m lucky to have family members that would never keep their noses out of my business, regardless of how far I push our limits.

For the record, I still haven’t “made it.” And I still feel the need to prove to myself, my family, and my peers that I can. But hopefully, I’m on my way, and in the meantime, I’ll try to be patient and empathetic.