“Dabid—the only reason I’m alive is for you kids.”
I knew I would never forget watching her cry and waiting for her to stop, then guiding her to her bedroom without saying a word.
Whether my premonition about her dying was real or not, I thought it a good thing to forgo the normal time with friends and instead spend extra time with Mom that summer. I was determined to spend this next summer with her as if it was her last summer on earth. I was going to try and cherish each moment with her. When I got home from school, I let her know my intentions:
“Hey, Mom, I want to hang out with you more this summer.”
“왜 Why?”
Mom found it peculiar that I would want to be with her since I loved going out and hanging with my friends.
“Because I like you, Mom.”
“아이구 Aigoo,” she replied.
Aigoo was a lighthearted way of saying, “Oh geez,” or OMG. Her face wore a forced frown, but underneath it was a clear smile.
That summer I frequently caught myself staring at her.
It took me a while to get accustomed to her new wrinkles, the proliferation of gray hairs, and a slight extra little chin. In the past I’d usually tease her about such things, but not anymore. Mom felt more fragile. Besides, these small changes never detracted from her beauty; each sign of aging made her more uniquely endearing. Each wrinkle was a beautiful reminder of how she’d persevered and endured so much. I grew up accustomed to seeing this strong, petite Korean woman filling a room with her energy. Yet I could tell that spark was slowly fading. I would gaze at her eyes when she wasn’t looking and notice that they had dimmed. Mom’s eyes once danced with life but now seemed lost without hope. It felt like Mom was drowning in her sorrows, barely surviving.
I tried to place myself in her situation as a middle-aged woman, Korean, and divorced. In the patriarchial world of our church community, she didn’t have relationships beyond my father’s network. The church was a man’s domain. The faithful wife was expected to support, respect, and submit to her partner. With my dad now gone, so were all the relationships she was accustomed to when it came to our family. She still had some friends at work, but her home was her place of joy. Seeing her family together, laughing with all these Americans was for her a dream achieved. Now it was gone.
I didn’t understand the pain she must have endured until recently. I realized that as we were becoming adults, the idea of being alone in her older age must have haunted her. As loved ones died, life moved on. Friends disappeared or passed away. The fear of being alone must have been overwhelming. Is there a greater suffering than being abandoned and alone?
Even though Mom was still young, in her forties, she looked older. The Chevy incident was four years ago, but the impact of everything to follow had taken its toll. Her eyes told a story if you looked closely. From a distance they always appeared slightly swollen because of her constant flow of tears. Up close, they appeared hollow and numb. They carried this deep sadness. It was the han thing. Her gaze reflected her reality, a look of sad resignation to this damning plight she was enduring.
It wasn’t just her eyes. Mom’s voice sounded increasingly raspy, a consequence of starting to smoke again to calm her nervousness and anxieties. Her laughter was not as hearty, long, or deep. She used to laugh so hard, she’d fall and curl up in a ball, trying to contain her laughter. But now it seemed she was covering the pain that couldn’t be lightened by humor. Her soul was overwhelmed in suffering. The controlled and suppressed outward behavior was her trying to show us she was okay. It became increasingly difficult for her to contain her sorrow. Her smiles became forced.
Eventually, Mom’s routines became normalized after the divorce, but she was never the same. You could see she was just trying to survive each day. Her whole life in this country had been so intertwined with Dad’s that she lost more than a husband when he left our family. She lost herself in his dreams and aspirations. She enjoyed seeing Dad get recognized or us kids achieving honors at school. She gladly faded into the backdrop of any scene. The man who brought her to America and provided access to her dreams was sleeping with someone else at night. Mom’s nights were reminders of her loneliness when she crawled into her cold bed. Her evenings were spent trying to forget the pain from her broken relationship with my dad.
Her physical body mirrored her emotional state. She started to lose weight. She couldn’t process many foods because of the ulcers in her stomach. The stress was taking a toll on her physically. I often heard Mom retching in her bedroom bathroom. With her health declining, she focused on working to sustain our family’s needs. She started coming home for a little bit and would go out again to be with others at bars. It made me wonder if this was how she met men when she was younger in Korea.
I regret not being able to talk to her about her pain. I didn’t know how to. And perhaps, I didn’t want to. When the separation first occurred, I normally would just lose myself in music in my room or go out with my friends. I was nineteen years old. It became overwhelming, because the future was so certain and unstable. I let the ignominious pain find a dark hole in my soul and take residence there. I numbed my pain, trying to make myself feel more significant through sports, leadership, or academics. When I started to follow Christ, I found that significance in serving others. Church was a second home.
The voices Mom endured through the night were formidable, heavy, and constant. When she woke up, I could see the pain’s effects on her face. She still looked tired, like she hadn’t slept. As she aged self-doubt and the voices of her dark past grew louder. For Mom, that voice of joy and peace was silent. Her outer and inner worlds were ransacked by unforeseen circumstances and “irreconcilable differences.” Slowly, Mom’s love for life left her.
I wish I could have magically brought back Mom’s natural optimism. But when Dad left, you could tell she lost hope, too. Processing painful relationships like this wasn’t really part of Mom’s past. When things got bad, she would run. It was primal. She had to flee since no one was protecting her. Where was Mom going now? She thought about her own death. It probably would not have been the first time. She stayed alive for us kids. Knowing that made it worse for me. I felt guilty that I was never doing enough. As for the group of Christians we knew, they were well intentioned and good people but they weren’t helpful in figuring out how to care for a middle-aged, divorced Korean immigrant woman. As children, we still had a support network in place, but Mom didn’t.
This summer I would have opportunities to lead things at church and work with the children, but my main focus was Mom. I wanted to help her recover that spark again. If for no other reason, I wanted to be with her. She was home.
“I’ll be waiting in the car,” I told Mom as I went outside to start her old Mustang.
The sun was still hiding behind the horizon as I slipped into the blue vehicle and revved it to life. I enjoyed driving her to work even though it was 6:00 a.m. Mom wasn’t a careful driver—she’d already gotten in a minor fender bender. She didn’t learn to drive until late in life. She became that driver oblivious to other drivers, swerving across multiple lanes as people are honking their horns and shouting out spicy words. Middle fingers being thrust into the air. Quick stops. Frightening lane changes. No need to go to an amusement park. If you wanted a good scare, let my mom drive the car.
As she slipped into the seat next to mine, I was reminded of how much I loved being with her. It was comfortable to just sit with her and not say anything. I loved being near her because I could pick up her scent. She had that mom smell. It was a sweet, strong fragrance. She didn’t douse herself with expensive perfumes. Her natural aroma emanating from her body transcended any applied fragrance coming from the cosmetics she wore for the day. Her scent reminded me of warm chestnuts and cocoa. Unless she ate kimchee with rice. Then you could smell the fresh garlic cloves. Still, it was comforting and peaceful.
It was a fifteen-minute drive to her workplace called A Hair Affair. In the car, I’d reach across the gear shift and hold Mom’s hand as the stereo played her songs. She liked the old Korean folk-style songs that sounded like somebody was in pain. The kind of songs that didn’t sound festive, but more like someone was lamenting. The vibrato was long and agonizing. I wish I could have belted out some of the Korean songs she enjoyed. The sorrowful Korean voices communicated the type of suffering that comes from the depths of your soul. While I didn’t know any of those Korean songs, I knew she loved the hymns from church. Those old spiritual hymns brought her comfort.
Seeing the town come to life on our morning drive brought back a childhood memory.
“Remember when I used to get up at five in the morning to go deliver the newspapers?” I asked Mom.
She gave me a knowing smile as she nodded.
Mom and I would wake up at the same time during my middle school years. Occasionally, Mom would help me to pack my newspapers in the bins on my bike to deliver to our neighbors. A bundle of Arizona Republic newspapers would be dropped off at my house to prepare for delivery to all my customers in the neighborhood. I’d cut the binding, fold the papers, encircle them with a rubber band, and carefully tuck them into the side bins on my bicycle. On Sundays, I would make two trips back to my house because the papers were so thick, they couldn’t all fit in one trip. My ability to loft the papers behind walls and angle them into the door from the street was what helped me later to become a softball pitcher with pinpoint accuracy. Pitching softballs was easy compared to throwing newspapers behind jutting walls and fences while dogs were chasing you. Occasionally, if I lost focus, I would hit a window or two, but nothing ever broke.
“Whenever I got up too late, you would be outside folding the papers for me,” I reminded Mom.
“I liked to see you collecting money from customers,” she told me.
That was just like her.
The paper route was followed by my first jobs as a teenager working at McDonald’s, and then at State Farm Insurance as a filing clerk. I inherited my hustle from my mom. It’s the I’ll outwork you mind-set. The type of attitude that thinks, I might not be the fastest or the brightest but I’ll outlast you.
I could still picture those occasional mornings as a middle schooler in the cool crisp desert air before sunrise. I loved how it was just the two of us getting a head start before the rest of the world. We wouldn’t say much to each other as we were folding the newspapers and carefully positioning them in the basket, but the connection between us always flowed. “Mom, thanks for giving me a hand.” She’d slowly get up from her crouched 아줌마 halmoni/grandma position folding papers and smile. I know she loved that I was working so hard.
During this morning drive, like all of them, we didn’t talk much. I didn’t say the things in my heart. Like Mom, I didn’t always articulate how I felt. Hopefully my actions translated into what Mom could understand.
That summer, whether we were eating, watching TV together, or going to the mall, I would just walk with her side by side, trying to soak her in. She’d still let me hold her hand even though I was now a college student. I’d worry, thinking how I was going to be able to care for her as she aged. What would her life be like down the road? When she passed away, would I forget the details of her face? Would I remember the fragrance of her perfume and makeup mixed with the scent that was uniquely hers?
People talk about others lighting up a room. Mom was the sun and the moon when she walked in. Day or night, Mom could shine. When Mom showed up, you knew she was present, ever watchful, breaking down what was happening. She was adept at surveying and assessing as a young adolescent in postwar Seoul. These skills helped her to navigate her unfamiliar surroundings. She had successfully adapted with the harsh conditions and rapid changes in Korea. She had a winsome, natural beauty and an ease about her that people felt drawn to. She styled hair for elite influencers and entertainers as well as her everyday customers. People knew Mom as a generous person. Mom gave to those around her constantly. While she had opinions of people, I rarely heard her say a disparaging thing about anyone.
