When I was a boy, I remember the amazing bedtime stories my mom would tell me about ancient times in Korea, about monks and wisemen and sorcerers and astronomers. She was a remarkable storyteller, and half the time, I wasn’t sure if she was just making stuff up. I tried testing her by asking her to retell stories (to identify inconsistencies) but I don’t think I actually cared about keeping score. The stories were that good. She was also an amazing teacher. She taught me how to grow vegetables, how to use an abacus, how to roller skate, how to write cursive letters, how to draw a face, how to invent games from string, … the list goes on. She did this without the internet.

My mother was born in 1951, in the shadows of artillery bombardments, blackmarket gang wars, and typhoid outbreaks. She grew up in Pusan, South Korea and nearly starved to death in the first few years of her life because of food scarcity brought on by the war. She survived, but was unable to walk until the age of three. Growing up, she took care of her father and her younger brothers. I’m not sure if her family knew it, but my grandfather was dying of peptic ulcers and colon cancer. She was his favorite. When he finally passed, my mom gave up going to school, and fully committed herself to helping my grandmother maintain a house, and raise three boys. In those days, most houses didn’t have plumbing – her’s certainly didn’t. For a kitchen, they had the equivalent of a pot belly stove which required kindling and wood. She chopped the wood. She fetched the water.

Living life during and immediately after a war is hard business. You have to become hard. Between the ages of 5 and 14, my mom acquired the kinds of skills you’d be more likely to associate with a smuggler or a pirate, and she is very familiar with what people will resort to eating when conditions become unbearable. Thinking about this today, on mother’s day, makes me a little extra sad. I never acknowledged my mom’s trauma. I don’t think it was in the range of possibility for me, only because my world was one of abundance and pretend-struggles, a zillion miles away from where she came from. There is just no way for someone like me to imagine the scale of loss she experienced. She never once played a game of catch, or swung on a swing, or had a favorite toy. She never even saw a toy growing up.

Although my mom didn’t get to experience a childhood, I’d like to think that when she became a mother, something transformed all of the unhappiness she endured into a new purpose: raising me and my sister. She rewrote her narrative. And she did this with nobody cheering her on, or showing the way, or even suggesting it was possible. She is an incredible mom. A heroic mom. She projected a world of humor and resiliency and hope; a world for me to feel safe in. I believe many immigrants have a mom like mine.

By the way

I’m working on a personal project to help middle school kids. It’s very specific to New York City, but anyone is welcome to check it out. I’m sending out the first email blast tonight – on Mother’s day. I didn’t plan that by the way.