Kimchi Mamas

Guest Post: Raising Your Asian American Teen

By Suzan Song

Suzan Song MD MPH is a Harvard-trained adult psychiatrist and Stanford-trained child/adolescent psychiatrist, currently working at the Asian Americans for Community Involvement mental health clinic in the Bay Area.  She is a former White House Asian Pacific Islander American Initiative fellow, and was a George Soros fellow, working with domestically abused Asian immigrant women in New York City.

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May is both Asian Pacific American Heritage Month and Mental Health Month. Combining these themes into one month, let us look closer at mental health issues specific to Asian American youth and their parents.  May (and the special month festivities) are coming to an end, so now is a good time to focus on what individuals can do – specifically parents – to promote the mental health of their Asian American children.

Asian Americans are not only Asian and American.  We are a sub-culture with unique needs and experiences.  Because of this, we have some mental health needs that are different from other majority or ethnic minority groups.

My first Christmas memory

Guest post from the lovely Jomama.

Picture a little girl, about 5 or 6 years old, supposedly.  It's hard to believe that can be accurate, since she is so small stepping off the plane that has just brought her from Korea to New York's bustling airport (Kennedy or LaGuardia?  I'm not sure)

Two people are waiting for her--both Caucasian.  One is a plump middle-aged woman, with curly brown hair in a styled hairdo--freshened up at the salon she visits every week.  The other is a tall thin man, and the little girl has to crane her neck to see his face.  They both embrace her, taking her from the greeter who relieved the chaperone that flew across the Pacific Ocean with her to bring her to her new family.  This will be the last time for a while that she will be able to speak to anyone, as she does not yet understand any English words.  The small bag that was packed for her by the orphanage was lost somewhere along the flight.  All she has is the clothing she is wearing, which include rubber shoes (kudus) that are too big, and held on her feet by rubber bands.  She is clutching the papers she drew on to occupy her during the flight.  The lines make no sense to her new parents, since they are the beginnings of hangul, Korean writing.  No loops or curves are visible as you would see in Roman letters.

Korean School

A guest post by Christine Yum Lenz from Small Town Girl Grows Up.

"A, ya. Uh, yuh. Oh, yoh." I heard my daughter practicing her Korean vowels in the dining room.  Three weeks ago, she started Korean school near our home in Silicon Valley.  I've always wanted to be fluent in my mother tongue but never got past restaurant-level Korean.  My parents chose not to make me speak it at home perhaps to not confuse me.  I developed my own blend of Konglish featuring a colorful array of slang and swear words (thanks Dad!) through home osmosis and Korean classes.  On my first visit to Korea at age 12, I nodded silently at my grandparents while they uttered simple sentences about not eating too much or how I looked like my father, limited by my language comprehension to address any deeper topic.  I felt foolish sounding like a 5 year old so I generally didn't speak that much.  During my second visit to Korea several years later, I endured verbal abuse from taxi drivers who chastised me for not knowing my "own" language and teasing from my cousins.  Remembering these experiences, I became determined to give my daughter the opportunity to learn Korean. 

On our first day of school, I marvelled at the sheer quantity of Korean kids - 700 in all - little black-haired heads bobbing around the large high school campus.  I felt at home and self-conscious at the same time.  Most of the other parents were recent immigrants and spoke only Korean.  I definitely felt out of place but as I gripped my daughter's hand and looked for her classroom, I became more determined to "take" our place in this community.  I saw only one or two Caucasian parents so my 6'3" tall husband stuck out a bit but it really didn't bother me.  I was focused on my daughter and how she was handling herself.  I wondered if she knew that she looked different.  She seemed nervous and shy but also curious about these rambunctious kids who were speaking a language that she heard her mom and halmoni speak.  The class was comprised mostly of Korean kids including one little fellow who promptly told me that he was 4 years old. I watched him take out his little pencil case and start lining up his erasers.  I noticed a few hapa kids with their parents and felt small sense of relief knowing that there were others who felt a little out of their element.  The teacher was very kind and addressed everyone in English while explaining the curriculum.  I said goodbye to Sophie and left with a hopeful feeling.

Sophie going to Korean school has brought back a lot of memories of my own Korean classes which were taught in our church basement in the late '70s.  My parents were recruited to teach the classes - to my great embarrassment - along with several parent volunteers.  My dad was an old-school, you-will-obey-me-now-not-later, 1950s style teacher.  He pounded tables with rulers and even flagpoles (watch out front row!) to get everyone's attention and make his point.  My friends, Grace and Becky, reminded me that he broke several rulers throughout the course of our class.  Despite all the theatrics in the classroom, I learned how to "read" Korean (mainly by sounding out words) and could understand my parents' conversations pretty well but not a KBS news show.

Now when I do homework with my daughter, I find that I need to speak Korean albeit poorly to support her lessons.  At 40, I am trying to get over old fears and insecurities.  I also realize that I want my daughter to learn Korean to not turn out like me.  Though I was born in the U.S., I was considered and treated as a "foreigner" because of my looks but I was also treated as an outsider in Korea because of the way I spoke or did not speak.  I hope that by giving my daughter exposure to Korean language and culture that she will gain a sense of ease that I struggle with in my own community.  I also hope that she will gain insight into the Korean people - one half of her heritage - and a fresh way of looking at the world.

Christine grew up in Sunnyvale, California and has been blogging about motherhood since 2006.

Kimchi Mama guest post by Michelle from Wife and Mommy

Please welcome guest poster Michelle from Wife and Mommy! I met Michelle at Blogher '09 and knew immediately after having lunch with her that she needed to tell us her story. She shares an aspect of her Korean-American life here and I am sure many of us can relate. —Stefania Pomponi Butler

Of all the areas in which I feel insecure about raising my children, exposing them to their Korean culture is the most worrisome for me.  I am uncertain how to teach them the traditions and nuances of the beautiful, rich culture that my own parents taught me.

I’m a first generation Korean-American—I was born in the U.S.A., effectively beating out my entire family to citizenship.  Growing up, I felt split between two cultures.  At home, I was a dutiful Korean daughter.  I served my father Korean meals that my mom prepared.  I did as my parents expected, studying hard and bringing home good grades (for the most part).  I played the piano and violin.  I followed my father’s rule, even though I internally rebelled against my father’s attempt to have us speak only Korean in the house.  

My American persona emerged when I was at school and with friends.  I eschewed Korean culture and did everything I could to forget my Korean-ness.  I was embarrassed by my parents’ odd Korean manners.  I didn’t want to bring my friends over lest they smell our kimchi kitchen.  I was timid in asking my friends to remove their shoes upon entering our home.  I ignored Korean peers at school and went out of my way to not be associated with them.

My exposure to the Korean culture was simply what I absorbed in my day-to-day living.  I managed to avoid the dreaded Saturday Korean School that my sister was made to attend, but now I can’t read and write Hangul.  I made no effort to learn Korean customs nor have Korean friends despite my parents’ desire for me to do both.  

I married a white-bread American guy and we now have three beautiful multicultural children.  My desire to know more about Korean culture has increased in an effort to teach it to my kids.  Since they aren’t immersed in Korean culture in their home as I was, how will they ever learn about it?  I am not Korean enough to adequately educate them.  I lean on my parents to show their grandchildren, but they live overseas now and we only see them once a year or so.  

So I try.  We go to the Asian grocery store as often as we go to the regular supermarket.  I attempt to make my favorite Korean dishes so their young tongues can develop an appreciation for the delicious flavors of my childhood.  We have dolls dressed in traditional hanbok.  We read Korean folk tales and eat a lot of rice.

For now, I hope it’s enough.  Maybe I’ll see if I can find a Korean school for them to attend once they are older.  

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Michelle is a Wife, Mommy, former school teacher, writer, and procrastinator (among other things). 

Michelle's parents immigrated to the U.S. a year before she was born, thus giving her the distinction of being the first American citizen in the entire extended family!  She grew up in the DC Metro Area, where she still lives with her white-bread midwestern boy, The Husband, and their three children:  Bito, Cupcake and BabyMuffin.

She writes about her life at Wife and Mommy.

Two Houses, Both Alike in Dignity...

A guest post by Julie Kang from Geisha School Dropout.

I was complaining to my mom the other day about how hard it is to find family friends in this day and age.  "Ai goh, who would want to be your friend?  Your house and kids are so dirty, and you are so crazy!"  As you can tell, my mom has always been my biggest fan.  But she does -- and show me a Korean mom who doesn't -- have a point!

We are a happy family, but I'll admit it: we are messy.  My kids, Isaac (5) and Emily (2), constantly have dirt smeared on their faces, unwashable paint stains on their clothing, and you can usually tell what they just had for dinner from the crumbs in their hair.  This frathouse level of personal hygiene is coupled with family activities that border on pinko hippie commune: organic gardening (planting with poop), vermicomposting (a bin full of worms we keep next to our dinner table), letting the yellow mellow, and bathing every other day.  Our two dogs are given access to all parts of the house, including our beds, so every room reeks of Eau de Canine.  Needless to say, my spic-and-span parents don't come over that often, and when they do, we have to tie them down in order to stop them from trying to disinfect the place.  They don't understand how it is even legal to live like we do.

So when I first walked into Susie's house, I was immediately struck by the hospital-level cleanliness and order.  (We were there to harvest some lemons from a tree in her backyard to donate to our local food bank.)  Just beyond the entryway, there stood a glistening grand piano.  Next to it was the living room, with white couches and actual ceramic trinkets atop a glass coffee table.  I could already hear my mom moaning in pleasure at the sight of the dustless floors, her hand caressing the spotless white tile in the kitchen.  Oh yeah, if my mom were to have a sexual fetish, it would be with hard-to-clean surfaces that were clean.  She has unhealthy feelings for Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser and her Swiffer.

We got to work, and Susie and I found we had a lot in common: her kids were the same ages as mine, she was also Korean, her husband was also Japanese.  Our oldest kids will even attend the same school in the fall.  I looked over at them, Susie's daughter a proper little lady compared to my ape of a son, who was pretending to trip over a rake again and again while she tittered politely.  When we were done harvesting, I had to walk through that living room again and finally saw a sign of life: one toy fire truck on the floor.  Susie tut-tutted and immediately put it away into a perfect fire truck-shaped hole in the toy bin.  I tried to imagine the dicomfort Susie and her children would feel if they ever came over to our place, our cluttered little zoo I found so cozy.  So when I asked her for her contact info, it was mostly out of politeness.

But a few weekends later, we asked them over for hamburgers and hot dogs anyway.  It was a leap of faith, hope, and frankly, loneliness.  That day, we cleaned the bathroom, the kitchen, the junk in the backyard.  But I could still see one glaring sign of our dirty hippie lifestyle: the worm bin.  I moved the bin outdoors, apologizing to the 5000 littlest members of our family all along the way.  "Sorry, but they're KOREAN, okay?  You can digest your rotten vegetables outside for one night!"

When Susie's family came over, I ushered them directly to the backyard, hoping they didn't inhale along the way.  I showed the kids our little pile of toys and told them to have at it.  But the little boy, Emily's age, headed straight for the worm bin, asking "What is this stuff?" when he opened the lid.  My husband and I rushed over in horror, apologizing to Susie, saying oh dear, don't touch, it's so dirty.  But Susie's kids were fascinated by them.  So we gave them some limp broccoli and asked them if they wanted to break up the florets to feed to the worms.  And Susie, bless her heart, allowed them to do it, and allowed them to turn over the compost afterwards.  This was family friend-making trial by fire.

The rest of the evening flew by like a breeze.  The kids jumped into dishes of sidewalk paint and decorated our patio with their footprints.  They dug holes in the backyard and planted seeds.  They climbed trees.  They ran all around the house, playing tag and chase and monkey in the middle.  By the time dinner was ready, they were all filthy.  But we hosed them down, and everyone enjoyed their dinners.  All throughout, the parents enjoyed some uninterrupted conversation and marveled at how well everyone was getting along.  It was awesome.  This super-clean family proved to be resilient and flexible.

When it was time for them to leave, Susie's kids whined that they wanted to come back.  "You are always welcome here!" we said, and we meant it.  For the first time in my life I realized that our grungy little family, in our disheveled way, can actually contribute something beautiful to a friendship.  We can give Susie's kids an outlet to run ragged without fear of breaking anything, teach them how to live closer to the earth, and show them other ways families can live together and love each other.  When I later relayed this enchanted evening to my mom, she sniffed, "Watch, they're going to run to the nearest Korean and soon everyone will know you as the Worm Family!"

But they actually thanked us the next day and suggested ways we can hang out again.  And now our two houses, in spite of our aesthetic differences, are finding a way to make it work, hopefully forever.

Julie lives in Long Beach, CA, and has been blogging about the glorious indignities of motherhood since 2005.

Now or Later - a guest post by Shinyung Oh

Although we, the contributors, are mamas, the readers of Kimchi Mamas are not all mamas.  Some of you are papas.  And some aren't mamas... yet.

A few weeks ago, someone stumbled upon this blog while looking for other Kimchi Mama types and, in turn, I knocked on hers.  She is a Kimchi Mama-To-Be.  It turns out, she had made a stir or two in her former life as an attorney... her name may be familiar to those in the legal field.  I think many of you will agree that this mama-to-be has that spicy kimchi spirit.

She has graciously agreed to do a guest post for us.  Without further ado, here is Shinyung Oh:

BIO:  Born in Korea, moved to the U.S. at the age of 8.  Grew up in New York and Houston.  Currently resides in San Francisco.  Her blog is called Because You Never Know...