Kimchi Mamas

Umma

Later this month, I am taking a trip with my Mom, my Umma. We are going to a tropical island for five days. I am doing this voluntarily and it's not something that I thought I would ever do, especially in the last 20 years.

When I was five or six, my Mom left our family. I think she just packed up and left without telling anyone. I have no memories of the actual day when she left... just lots of memories of her absence. She had had enough of living with my alcoholic and abusive father and decided that she had to leave in order to survive. Even if that meant that she was going to live without her two daughters. She told me later that she cried for three days straight after she left.

So, for many years, my Mom was someone who visited. She would come secretly and tell one of our friends that she was here. The friend would somehow come find us and she would buy us fried chicken. Sometimes we stayed over at her apartment for a few days but she would be gone for work most of the time so me and my sister would have to find ways to entertain ourselves. I remember cleaning her house so that she would be proud of us. And drinking hot water mixed with the powdered creamer and sugar she kept by the telephone with the instant coffee.

When we immigrated to the States, she didn't come to the airport to say good-bye to us. I learned later that no one had told her we were leaving. My uncle apparently called her from the airport when he knew it would already be too late for her to come. If she was allowed to talk to us, I have no memory of it. I was ten years old so it would have stuck in my memory if we did. It would have been in one of those private telephone booths that are now extinct. I just remember being so excited to finally move to America. My Mom wasn't a big presence in my life by then so I don't even remember worrying about her or our relationship... or that I didn't get to say good-bye to her.

I don't know how many days she cried after that.

We kept in touch through letters. Hand written letters. Phone calls were expensive during the 90's. She kept every single letter we ever sent her and one day when I was on maternity leave and she was living with me, I sat down and read them all.

After graduating from high school, I went back to Korea for the first time to visit my Mom. The scene at the airport was one for the movies. As I exited the famous sliding doors from the international terminal at Kimpo International Airport, I scanned the row of eagerly waiting faces for a familiar one.

"So Yeon ah!" my Mom cried out.

"Umma! Umma!" I left my baggage cart and rushed to hug her.

It felt monumental and big. Seeing Umma for the first time in 8 years. I just kept saying Umma and crying. We made a huge scene but we didn't care.

When I had my first child, my Mom moved to the States to live with me for a while. The idea was that she would provide childcare so that we wouldn't have to send him to daycare.

Let me spare you the suspense. It was a disaster.

She didn't speak a word of English and didn't have a driver's license so she depended on me for everything. I was working full time and resented her for being so needy. We got into a huge epic fight and she ended up moving out and then we didn't really talk for a few years. We both needed space. Away from each other.

We started talking again slowly. A text here and there. A phone call here and there.

"I heard there was a fire in California. Are you okay?"

"Yes, we're fine. They're pretty far away but the smoke is really bad."

A phone call to let me know her new address. A text with pictures of the kids.

Slowly we made our back to each other to the point that I felt a little bad about letting her know of yet another vacation that my family had taken to Hawaii. She had never been to Hawaii before and partly because I wanted to go back soon, I suggested that we take a vacation there together. I don't think she could believe her ears.

She was like, "Thank you for even suggesting it. I am so moved."

"Umma, I'm being serious! Tell me when you can go and I'll make the reservations." I said.

"Oh, I am busy. I have English class and so many doctor's appointments. I have to have dental work done and it's going to take two months!"

"Okay. Just tell me when you'll be free. I can work around your schedule."

"Okay. Maybe in the fall."

"Okay. Fall is good."

Her partner called me a few days later and asked me to take her to Hawaii ASAP because she has nothing to do and she is available starting immediately.

LOL

So, my Umma and I are going to Hawaii in a few weeks. I picked the Big Island for her because there's so much variety there and I think she will really enjoy it.

Hopefully there won't be any epic fights. Just a lot of good food, good scenery, and good memory making.

Wish us luck!

Best,

Mary

Musings on Death

I recently watched Dear My Friends on Netflix. It’s a Korean Drama series about a group of elderly friends, mostly women, and their daily struggles with friendship, love, health, and family. All the important things. I found myself alternating between laughter and tears in a matter of seconds. Laughing and crying and laughing and crying. The writing is exquisite but the translation is shit so #sorrynotsorry.

Anyway, I was reminded how much Koreans talk about death. Especially the older folks. My mom has started, in the last few years, to say things like:

• It’d be better if I die soon.
• Old people just need to die.
• I need to die soon.
• People should just die when they get to a certain age.

If we weren’t Korean, I’d think that she needed to be on suicide watch. But this is very normal and common for older Korean folks to say. (All the while taking every vitamin or supplement under the sun to be as healthy as possible.)

Death and comedy seems an odd pair but the show does it so well. In one plotline, a woman gets cancer and is talking to her friend about it, who has already had her battle with cancer. The conversation is so so sad and serious, with them discussing who should be the one to tell the daughter. But there are some hilariously funny moments too with the friend suggesting that all their virtuous chastity and faithfulness to their husbands has been for shit and that they should “give it away generously to anyone who wants it” from now on. Then, they lament that no one would stand in that line even if they were giving it away for free. There is an abundance of Korean cussing which adds to the hilarity.

I used to think it was morbid when I heard older Korean folks talk about death but now I think it’s somewhat healthy. By talking about it casually, there is more opportunity for everyone to think about their own mortality. And to prepare, in ever subtle ways, for the inevitable.

- Mary

For your consideration

 

 

A dear friend of mine picked up my book on parenting recently and said, “you know this is going to help a lot of people, you really should get it out there and let people know it exists.”

 

 

My book, “Teach Them How To Fish”, is an academic coaching guide for parents.  It is a look at what really helps a child be successful in the most organic and natural way possible.  It addresses the question, “how  can we parents provide the right soil for our children to grow and be nurtured in so that they can rise to the occasion of their own lives in a way that is fulfilling for them?”

It is about doing everything that we can to provide a solid foundation for our children, looking at our own selves to teach by example how to be successful.

I wrote this book after my son successfully entered UC Berkeley School of Law at age 19, which was his goal; I recalled the coaching methods that I utilized to guide him.  I also used the same method to help improve the academic standings of other students and clients of mine.

My book is available at my website Teachthemhowtofish.com.

 - Nancy

Teaching me to live

My mum and me before my parents' divorce.

Today’s post is about mothers.   Well…my mother to be exact.  We’ve had a rocky relationship.  You see, she didn’t raise me and when I say she didn’t raise me I mean that I can count on my hand (just one hand, not both) how many times I saw her as a child after my parents divorced.  When I was 13, I boarded a plane to visit her in New York City.  I remember the excitement and fear that I felt; excitement at seeing her again and in a new big city that I had never visited before but also fear.  Would she know me?  Would I know her?  Would we get along?  Would she like me? 

That last one was so important to me.  Already I was the butt of many jokes at school.  I was bullied by the other children to the point that every night I’d cry myself to sleep and wish that I was somebody, anybody but me.  I was convinced that I was unlikeable.  I mean what else could possibly cause the other children to torment me relentlessly.  It mattered to me that my own mother might see something in me that she liked.  As I stepped off the plane, it was with a big sigh of relief that I instantly spotted her, recognized her despite the 6 years that had passed since I last saw her.  I approached her with trepidation but hope and then she said it.  The first words out of her mouth after not seeing her daughter for 6 years.  “You’re fat.” 

You’re fat.  Fat.  Fat.  Fat.  I couldn’t tell you much about my trip, because I don’t really remember that much.  But her first words I remember vividly because they cut me to my core.  The idea that the first thing my mother would see about me was the fat on my body was the confirmation I needed that I was indeed unlikeable.  Nothing else mattered because I was fat. 

Over the years, I’ve pushed those feelings deep down inside me.  They are still there but I’ve learned that it’s not socially acceptable to express true self-hatred; that nobody really wants to hear about how broken you really are.   In this society we seem to encourage self-degradation, fat talk is pretty prevalent, but nobody really wants to listen to the pain, the gut-wrenching sadness that comes from not loving ourselves. 

There were more trips and visits with mom and before each one I would steel myself for her insults and the criticism, the incessant criticisms.  It didn’t seem that I could do anything right.  It didn’t matter how hard I worked in school; it didn’t matter that I was compassionate and kind; it didn’t matter that I tried hard to be a good person and mother.  Nothing was good enough.

Between visits, I found myself avoiding her phone calls, waiting months to call her back.  It wasn’t that I was trying to punish her for her cruelty; it was just that I didn’t have the energy to pursue a relationship with someone who clearly didn’t seem to think there was anything redeemable about me.

The last time she came for a visit was in 2010, when my daughter was 2.

Last month she visited.  My sister had just delivered her baby and mom flew out to stay with her for three weeks.  Three weeks is a long time to visit.  If things had gone smoothly, mother would have stayed at my sister’s the entire time.  But things didn’t go smoothly and she ended up at my apartment.  And there we were again.  Mother and daughter.  We sat around and watched my daughter play.  At first, I thought I could escape her critical eye; she was so focused on other matters.  I was deluding myself.  Within two days, the criticisms started. 

I didn’t pick after myself or my family quickly enough.  I had too much garbage and junk in my home.  I didn’t wipe down counters or bathtubs after use.  I didn’t use a liner in the bathroom trashcan.  I let my daughter leave out her dinosaur toys for one too many nights in a row.  I wasn’t thin enough.   None of these were unforgiveable or huge crimes but the constant nit-picking was exhausting.  I nodded my head not even attempting to defend myself.  Yes, Momma.  Yes, Momma.   I know, Momma.  I’ll try harder, Momma. 

Every once in a while she would stop and just look at me.  I have no idea what she was thinking.  Perhaps she was annoyed that I was so agreeable.  Perhaps she thought I was ignoring her.  Perhaps she was in a fighting mood and wanted me to argue with her.  Perhaps she was wondering how her own daughter could be so unlike her.  It is pointless though to try to delve into somebody else’s mind; it’s hard enough to get in our own heads. 

And then one day she said something that shifted something for me.  She was in the middle of criticizing me for some infraction.  I can’t remember what it was.  I was nodding my head; I was tired.   I almost missed that her tone had changed. 

“Robin, I didn’t go to school; I don’t know about school, books, learning.  I know how to live, that is all I know.  I know how to live.  I didn’t raise you.  This is all I can do.  I can teach you how to live.  Teach you how to make life easier.”

I won’t pretend that our relationship dramatically changed over these few words, but I will say that suddenly I understood something that I had never understood before.  As much as her criticisms hurt, they have never been about me.  They are words from a mother who never raised her daughters, who doesn’t know how to relate to them beyond “helping” them.  In her mind, she is not criticizing as much as she is trying to impart wisdom.   It’s the only way she knows how to be a mother.

From her most recent visit, my daughter misses her already and wants her to come back.  This means so much to me.  I want them to have the relationship my mother and I never had.

I tried to remember her words for the rest of the visit.  I held onto them when she would nit-pick about my weight, my parenting, and my housekeeping skills.  I listened intently.  I asked her to come back to teach me to make Kimchi.  She smiled and agreed that the next time she visited we would get a jar and she would show me.  And then she left.  My house was quiet again or as quiet as it can be with a 5 year old child living in it.  The next day when she called, I felt the familiar urge to ignore her phone call, but I made an effort to pick up the phone.  And when she called again the next day, I picked up the phone again.  My mom is never going to change.  I cannot undue the past or the fact that her criticisms still sting.  All I can do is remember her words.  She wants to teach me to live so my life is easier.  I may not like the way the message is delivered but the message is still one of love, the only love my mother knows how to give.  She just wants my life to be easier.  I can live with that.  

Robin

Not getting sucked into my parents negativity

I recently started talking to my mom on the phone again. She currently lives in Georgia, by herself. I live in California. After a terrible experience of living together, we didn't speak for about 4-5 years. Anyway, I started calling her on my commute to work and our relationship is getting much better, thank God.

I was thinking about a conversation we had the other day. I was struggling to explain to her what I did for work as a consultant. I immigrated to the USA when I was 11 (5th grade) so even if I had remembered every single word of Korean that I knew in fifth grade, it would have been difficult to explain what I do for a living. Anyway, I was struggling to explain my job and she commented, "Speaking Korean is so hard for you." In my head, I heard it as, "Your Korean sucks." I reminded her that I came to the USA when I was in fifth grade and that I hadn't been practicing Korean with anyone lately.

You Know You Grew Up Korean/Korean American/Korean Candadian If . . .

The local Sunday paper had a fun article today that got me thinking about growing up Korean in the US. So I've come up with a list of "You know you grew up *Korean/Korean American/Korean Canadian if..." of my own. 

Please add your "you know . . . " in the comments.  =)

--Your mother ever gave you guilt about . . . well anything... (Bonus if she pounded her chest with a fist while doing so!)

--You had 2 fridges: one for food and another for kimchi (or else ALL your food tasted like kimchi).

--You ever had to translate a school note, explain a holiday project and/or had a hard time completing the 3rd grade family tree project because there were some family secrets/shame involved and/or there were a lot of branches on that tree with "eemo and samchun".

--Your friends NEVER spent the night.

--Roasting ghim over the flame on the stove.

--You roasted that ghim for ghimbap - which you ate on day-long, car trips, got out, took a look around, ate the ghimbap and got back in the car. You always returned the same night.

--You were a hobo, a clown or a ghost for Halloween more than once.

--You got hit on the back of the head (a lot).

--Your aunt or uncle would pass you a $5 bill and tell your parents "te-sah, te-sah." He or she was your favorite aunt or uncle.

--Your mom made you sweep the carpet, told you you would DIE if you slept with the fan on pointed in your direction and/or were told that women should never sit directly on the floor.

--Threw up from having "han yak". It was usually dark brown, liquidy and has been boiling for hours...Or your mom smeared honey on a piece of boiled ginseng - like it would make it taste better.

--"Fought" for the dinner bill or insisted on paying while out with your non-Korean friends and then was SHOCKED when they were like "ok!"

--Your dad would get drunk, sing sad Korean folksongs and reminsce about the "good times."

--Thanksgiving dinner included the turkey and mashed potatoes, but also yakimandu, kimchi and japchae.

--Your parents scheduled long distance calls to relatives in Seoul and Busan/Pusan/Busan/Pusan.

--Hotdogs have always been a part of jampong.

--You would rather go to school than be sick at home where your mom would make you clean the house.

--Dad smoked Marlboros or Camels and drank Coors light or Budweiser. Mom never smoked or drank, to your knowledge.

--You had a used station wagon or Buick.

--Going to college was NOT an option.

--There's a random collection of blue produce rubberbands in the house.

--Beef jerky was your parents' favorite American snack food.

--You couldn't have a dog (or a cat).

--Hated eating kimchi with almost every meal as a child, but craved it when you went to college.

--You've heard your mom say "why would I ___ for that? I can ___ that!"

--Two words: Korean School. After church lunch in the Fellowship Hall on Sundays.

So what's YOUR "you know if..."

Laughing about childhood because crying isn't as much fun!

--Angie in Texas

*The side note I'd like to add is that this will mostly apply to those of us who grew up Stateside in the 70's, 80's and 90's.

 

Best of the Worst

What's the worst thing your mom or dad has ever said to you?

My dad told me yesterday that he shows his love to me by yelling at me. Um... no thank you please?

Do your parents show you how much they love you by criticizing you too?

Here are some of the best of the worst things I've heard over the years:

• If you're not going to teach your children Korean, don't even bother bringing them to see me.
• Your sister does ____ , why don't YOU do ____?
• You are less than an animal.
• &^%#$% you &@^%#$^!!!

So, let me hear them girls (and boys). What's the worst thing your mom or dad has ever said to you? I know the Koreans can dish out some mean words.

- Mary

Teaching Kids Korean - how to resolve different opinions?

I have not and am not planning to teach my kids a lot of Korean. I am not ruling it out. If they have interest, I am happy to teach them in the future or enroll them in Korean school. You know, the dreaded Saturday classes?

BUT, I am having some internal struggles on how to reply when my parents or my MIL ask about this subject. They want my children to know Korean. Especially my dad and mom since they don't speak a lick of English. My MIL, even though she lives in Korea, actually has learned English a bit and can converse decently, so she has not yet been insistant on requesting that her grandsons know Korean but I feel the question coming in the near future.

I don't see my parents or talk to them often, so that kind of helps... but it seems like almost every time I do see my dad, one of the things he says is, "You should teach your kids Korean." My response so far has been either 1. no response or 2. the docile "neh" meaning something like "yes" or "sure."

Milestone Birthdays

There seems to be a lot of milestone birthdays in Korean culture.

There's baek il or 100 days.

There's dol, the 1st birthday.

If I recall correctly, there's something when you turn 20 or somewhere around there, where you are officially an "adult."

There's hwan gap or 60.

There's chil soon or 70.

There's pal soon or 80.

So, traditionally, hwan gap or the 60th birthday used to be celebrated elaborately. My grandmother had a huge 60th birthday party in Korea. It's kind of like a "Yay, you made it to old age!" kind of thing... but since people are living longer and longer, I hear that pal soon is the new hwan gap. You heard it here first ladies and gents. My grandmother had another huge 80th birthday party in the USA. Good thing she had it for her 80th... she's now 92 and has major dementia.

What's the "right" way to ask about your children's ethnicity or race?

I really enjoyed reading everyone's comments on my last post about ethnicity/race here... but now I am curious...

What is the "right" way to ask questions about a bi-racial/multi-racial (or not-so-obvious ethnicity/race) child's ethnicity/race? Especially if the child is only with one parent and it's not obvious, or if the child is adopted from a ethnicity/race not the same as both or either parent. Or is it even Kosher or PC, to ask about ethnicity/race anymore?

Some of the wrong ways might be:

Is your child adopted?

Is your wife/husband Oriental?

Is that your friend's son/daughter?

Are you the nanny?

Is he/she from China?

Where is your family from?

If you are the parent of a multi-racial or biracial child, how would you prefered to be asked about your child(ren)'s race, if at all?

 

- Mary