Piecing the Puzzle: Tracing Lineage Through Names
Names are often a person’s first identifying detail. Appearing on lists, agendas, directories, and other records, they can evoke certain stereotypes or hint at one’s background or culture, shaping an impression that precedes one’s physical presence.
Growing up, I had contradictory feelings about my Korean name. On one hand, I didn’t like how “common” my last name was, as I was always one of several “Kims” at school. My dissatisfaction was somewhat assuaged when my father revealed that there were several different Kim clans, and that our family belonged to one called the Kwangsan 광산 (also spelled Gwangsan) Kim clan.[1] I began to feel a sense of pride when I learned that our clan name was derived from the auspicious Chinese characters 光山, meaning “shining mountain.” I felt even more pride in my clan affiliation when, upon visiting the Wikipedia page for the Kwang-san Kim clan, I discovered that I was related to some famous celebrities, including BTS’s V, Jin, and Hyun-bin, the actor who plays the swoonworthy male protagonist Ri Jeong-hyeok in the record-breaking Korean drama Crash Landing on You (2020).
At the same time, I disliked my given Korean name for being too “uncommon.” My Korean name is 김혜중 (Kim Hye-joong), and if you are familiar with Korean names, you might note two (interrelated) things about my name: 1) 혜중 (Hye-joong) is not a very common name, and 2) 혜중 (Hye-joong), particularly the syllable Joong 중 (“Chung”), is traditionally a very masculine name. If my last name was “too common,” I simultaneously hated how my given Korean name stood out because it was so masculine-sounding. Growing up, I was surrounded by girls with pretty, “feminine,” common names that didn’t prompt a “can you repeat that?” or a “that’s a very unique name.” Names like 은혜 (Eun-hye), 지혜 (Ji-hye), 지영 (Ji-young), 지의 (Ji-eui), or 선화 (Sun-hwa). Despite yearning for a “softer-sounding” Korean given name that was more readily recognizable as one belonging to a girl, I also could not dismiss the story behind my Korean given name, one that was far more interesting than the one behind my American name, which my parents had simply picked out of a book of baby names.
My paternal grandfather insisted on adhering to the Kwangsan Kim clan’s generational naming tradition, where a specific syllable or character is used to identify clan members of the same generation, a practice dating back to ancient Korean times. He had followed this tradition when naming my father and his sisters — 용진 (Yong-jin), 용경 (Yong-kyung), 용희 (Yong-hŭi) — and wanted his son to continue observing the tradition.
Korean names generally follow the following conventions: a one-character (or, in some very rare cases, two-character) surname, followed by a two-character given name. In the Korean tradition of generational names, each generation shares either the first or second character of their given name, and the placement of the shared character alternates from generation to generation. My father’s generation was marked by the shared first character 용/容 (Yong), and my generation is marked by the shared second character 중/中 ( Ch’ung (we spell it Joong in our family)). Funnily enough, despite the masculine Joong 중 being the next generational name, my parents ended up having three daughters and no sons. When brainstorming names for me (their first-born daughter), my paternal grandfather suggested names like Kim Duk-joong 김덕중 and Kim Suk-joong 김석중 . Very, very masculine-sounding names. My parents, wanting a slightly less masculine-sounding name for their baby girl, ended up naming me Kim Hye-joong 김혜중 ), a compromise I am very grateful they insisted on. My second sister was named Kim Eun-joong 김은중, and my youngest sister was named Kim Ye-joong 김예중 .
Although I was born to a Korean-American family, I actually grew up in China. I was third-culture kid living between multiple cultures and languages. Maybe this was why my parents felt the need to meticulously explain the intentionality that went into our names. They explained how our Korean names followed an ancient tradition that our paternal grandfather had insisted on despite the fact that women were normally excluded from this practice, though they themselves admitted not knowing too much about this tradition. When I asked my father what the next generational name would be, he told me he was not sure, and that there was some document in Korea that I might be able to refer to if I was interested.
This gap in my knowledge about my lineage lingered with me: I simultaneously knew so much yet so little about my origins — I felt that though my name and those of my family members’ gave me a few puzzle pieces, but I lacked some critical bits of knowledge that would help me piece it all together. I wanted to connect to a larger lineage beyond simply sharing fun anecdotes about my name. When I took a class on Korean history at UCLA (Korea 180B: History of Korea, 1260 through 1876), I realized that it might finally guide me toward finding the missing puzzle pieces. I visited my professor during office hours and he introduced me to the Kwangsan Kim Clan Association’s website: “광산김씨대종회/光山金氏大宗會,” an online database through which I gained access to a wealth of information (See Fig. 1).
I navigated over to the tab 인터넷족보 (Internet genealogy), which took me to this landing page, through which I learned that the Kwangsan Kim clan’s genealogy is divided into five major p’a 파 (branches): Munjŏnggong 문정공 , Munsukkong 문숙공 , Yanggan’gong 양간공 , Nangjanggong 낭장공, and Saonchikchanggong 사온직장공 (See Fig 2).
I then shifted over to the table of contents on the left side of the page, and clicked on the first heading: Sijogong 시조공 (1-11世) (Founder (1st-11th generations) (See Fig. 3).
I learned that the founder of the clan was Kim Hŭnggwang 김흥광, who, according to the Wikipedia page on the Kwangsan Kim, was the third son of King Sinmu, the 45th monarch of the Silla kingdom. According to historian Nuri Kim, the founding figure of the Kwangsan Kim clan is historically elusive. During the mid-1950s, soon after the Korean War, the clan reconstituted its genealogy, and decided to identify the founding father as Kim Hŭnggwang” However, there was still debate around how he fit into the Silla royal family, and “it was resolved to simply refer to him with the general title ‘Silla Prince,’ maintaining a deliberate sense of vagueness” (Kim N.) (See Fig 4.)
I navigated to 항렬표 (generational name list), where I was able to piece together the puzzle through the naming traditions of my and my father’s generations. 광산김씨대종회. http://www.kwangsankim.or.kr/main.html. (See Fig 5.)
I located the Ch’ung 중/中 (Joong)character shared by my sisters and me, as well as the Yong “용/容” shared by my father and his sisters. I even recognized the Su 수/洗” (Soo) character from my paternal grandfather’s name. I was fascinated to learn that my grandfather was the 38th generation of Kwangsan Kims, that my father was the 39th, and that my sisters and I were the 40th. I was also excited to discover that the next generation, if following this tradition, would share the Sŏn 선/善” (I would spell it “Sun) character in the first syllable, and was slightly disappointed that I wasn’t the 41st generation because Sun 선 sounds so pretty and I could think of several beautiful girl names starting with this syllable. Sigh. (See Fig 6, 7)
I scrolled further down the page, and, with my knowledge of my name, my father’s name, and my grandfather’s name, I was able to locate the specific p’a 파 (branch) we were from: either the Mungjŏnggong branch 문정공파 or the Yanggan’gong branch 양간공파. (See Fig 8).
From a historian’s perspective, it is important to acknowledge that the early records of the founding figures of yangban family clans, such as the Kwangsan Kim clan, may not be historically accurate. As historian Sun Joo Kim notes in “Inventing Ancestors and Limited Empiricism in Choson Korea: A case of the Kigye Yu Lineage,” many Choson yangban (elites) fabricated or embellished their ancestral origins in order to legitimize and elevate their social status. Choson society was marked by rigid social stratification and very limited opportunities for social mobility. Although the civil service exam, the primary path to official positions and political prominence in Choson society (Kim J. 61), was theoretically open to non-yangban individuals, in reality, their lack of resources largely barred them from accessing these official government positions (Kim & Kim 62). Because of this, lineage became a crucial form of social capital. Sun Joo Kim explains that genealogical records were not only used to verify ancestry for civil service exams or official appointments, but also operated as markers of privilege as Choson elite culture increasingly prioritized family background over individual talent or ability (589).
Yet the significance of generational names does not end in the Chosŏn period. While historians rightly interrogate the accuracy of these early clan records, these generational names and markers play a different yet significant role for Koreans today. For example, in “Between Family, Nation, and Scholarship: Negotiating Ancestral Origins in Post-1945 South Korea,” Nuri Kim shows how clan associations took on new roles after the Korean War. As families confronted displacement, social upheaval, and competing historical narratives, many kinship groups produced their own scholarship to assert agency over how their past was understood.
For kyop’o 교포 (members of the Korean diaspora) who have access to fragments of their historical identities, such as myself, these naming practices can be one of the few remaining threads connecting us to a broader lineage, offering tangible points of connection amid the ruptures of migration, displacement, and loss. For those of us navigating identities shaped by distance and displacement, these traditions can serve as meaningful anchors to a past and a cultural identity that may otherwise be difficult to access.
[1] There are many ways to spell Korean names. Here, I provide some common spellings, even though they don’t always follow official transliteration conventions such as McCune Reischauer used by the Library of Congress in the US or Revised Romanization used by the government of South Korea.
