Mom also wouldn’t talk about her childhood or her past unless we asked. The only details we knew came from her shiny black-lacquered photo album with elegant pearl-encased swans on its cover. Inside were faded black-and-white pictures, some half-torn or cut in half. These photos only made our mother’s story more mysterious. They were glimpses of the past, snapshots capturing my mom by a lake laughing or her having fun with friends. We didn’t know why other photos were cut in half. We didn’t know who were the ones scissored out. We never heard the stories around these pictures. The photos stirred up more questions than answers.
Who does Mom not want to be reminded of anymore? A former lover or partner? A friend?
Did a friend hurt her? Did someone she loved betray her?
We never asked her. We never dug into any potentially juicy stories. We just accepted the mystery. I eventually understood that it’s a cultural thing—not talking about the past—especially if it would dishonor or shame the family. We concluded that all was good because nothing was said. There was no need to ask questions because, first, Mom and Dad didn’t bring it up, so we surmised it must not be important or relevant. And second, the universe as we knew it was black and white. No need to be focused on the gray, the unknown.
This was a time of great social change, when the religious right was being challenged by the morality of the Vietnam War and in its views on women, abortion, creation theories, the credibility of the Bible, politics, science, and sexuality. In times of challenge like this, polar opposites often become more rigid and hardened. Tribes get more reactive and binary. Life is reduced to right and wrong. Capitalism or communism. Republican or Democrat. Christian or pagan. Conservative or liberal.
At the time, those who had the right answers were the ones typically respected. As I grew older, I found the opposite to be true. Those who asked questions were the ones who were enlightened, challenging the status quo not to be rebellious but because they were thinking.
Our biggest questions weren’t about my parents. They were about my sister, Chong. Doug and I knew she was our sister, that she had been born before our parents first met. But none of us knew any details other than that. Chong knew nothing about her birth father, who was never spoken of in our house. Even Chong’s name was different than ours. I didn’t understand why she didn’t have an American name, too. Even Mom had an American name, Debbie. Chong was an unfamiliar name to most Americans, and she frequently became an easy target of jokes.
Growing up, everybody knew who the favorites were in our family. My younger brother, Doug, was Dad’s favorite. He was born right after my dad transferred to Japan. Physically, Doug looked most like my dad. He had bigger eyes than Chong and I did. His hair was wavier, like Dad’s. His legs were like tree trunks, much like my father. He was cute and adored by my dad. I was Mom’s favorite. My siblings and I could tell by the way she looked at me and treated me. Mom would never say it, but we all knew I had a special place in her heart because she couldn’t stay upset with me. I think I was irresistibly too cute to her because of my pudgy rolls and triple chin.
Among the three of us, Chong was the responsible one. While my dad cared for her, we could all see he didn’t have the same normal familial feelings for her as he had for my brother and me. It seemed that neither of my parents doted on her like they did my brother and me. This didn’t change the fact that Mom loved Chong deeply; they shared a special bond that I wasn’t aware of when I was a child. Their relationship was forged in suffering from a hidden past, which I wouldn’t learn about until much later.
Chong was the super sister. She was a loving child who became a second mom for us while she was still in elementary school. She was quick to care for us. Always looking out for us. Her life wasn’t easy. She fed us, babysat us, and made sure we did our homework. And like our mother, Chong quietly performed her responsibilities and remained silent about many things. She always dutifully and meticulously cared for my brother and me. While my mom and dad may have had trouble saying they were proud of us, Chong would frequently give us encouragement, seeing things in us we couldn’t see in ourselves.
We were discouraged from speaking Korean as my parents were focused on artfully transitioning us into mainstream American culture. Intermittent Korean words would come up during the normal flow of English when we were referring to food, or in expletives when Mom was upset with us, or when she was talking ear-piercingly loud on the phone with her Korean friends. My parents were concerned that we wouldn’t adapt as quickly if we focused on the Korean language. Thank God, because later I found out a lot of my Korean American peers were forced by their parents to attend Korean school on the weekends during Saturday morning cartoons. I would have badgered my parents about that. Looking back, I regret we weren’t forced to learn Hangul (the Korean alphabet) because it would have been easier for me to connect to those who are Korean. The lack of Korean language proficiency foments a shame and sorrow in me that are hard to ignore. My lack of Korean language skills could be interpreted by other Koreans as me not caring about my homeland.
These days, when I meet Koreans who are recently from Korea, the first thing they will ask me is “Do you speak Korean?” I normally respond, “No. Sorry. I didn’t learn it as a child. I tried to learn when I was older, but my tutors couldn’t stop laughing when they tried teaching me.” There was always this compulsion to give a reason why I didn’t have mastery over the Korean language. I learned over time not to offer any extended excuse and just say, “No. I wish I did.” If Koreans still pursue whether I know any Korean words, I tell them truthfully that the only Korean words I know are the salty profanities, crude toilet words that kids love to giggle about, and of course, the delicious food. But even then, my American pronunciations of Korean words are admittedly humorous. Most of my Korean American friends in defending their own lack of fluency say, “Hey, I speak better Korean than Dave.” At least my lack of language competence makes them feel better about themselves.
There was one glorious part of our mom’s past that she shared with our family: Korean cuisine. Mom grew up in Jeonju, a city 120 miles south of Seoul. Currently, Jeonju is a popular destination for Korean food lovers and culture seekers. Tourists travel from all over the world to sample its cuisine, especially one of the most notable dishes to come from this region: bibimbap. My wife also loves the other notable Jeonju dish served alongside of bibimbap called Yukoe 육회, the Korean raw beef tartare, a umami-laden, garlicky, cool, nutty, and a little sweet dish.
Mom sometimes made this colorful and healthy dish for us. It begins with cooking rice with beef broth and bean sprouts. Fresh vegetables are artfully positioned around the white fluffy rice in the center: carrots, bean sprouts, radishes, spinach, lettuce, seaweed, pine nuts, and turnips. Then, of course, the ingredients that tastefully combine all the flavors together: gochujang, a hot pepper paste, and a fried egg with a runny yolk.
It was ironic that even though our father served in the Air Force in South Korea, he never developed a taste for Korean food. He loved to mix his white rice with sugar and butter, a habit that’s not common to most Koreans I know. It’s like putting ketchup on a steak in America.
Korean dishes weren’t the most popular meal in our house, however. At that time, TV dinners were the rage. Everything you needed was prepared in prepackaged aluminum-wrapped frozen food trays: beef or fried chicken, potatoes and gravy, corn, and even a cobbler. All you had to do was pop them in the oven. We felt like we were on the leading edge of innovation. This was the late ’60s and early ’70s. People wanted things faster and more convenient, especially with both parents working all day, as mine were. We loved the processed foods. Corn syrup and plenty of salt covered any abnormalities in the food from this new way of preparation. And in the morning, our cereals were basically colored sugar. Koreans traditionally eat jook for breakfast, a rice porridge with some garlic, onions, mushrooms, and chicken. Simple, elegant, and quite healthy!
At the time, I didn’t appreciate how strange it was having bibimbap for dinner one night and then a Swanson Fried Chicken Dinner meal-on-a-tray the next. For the first decade of my life, I didn’t know how unique my parents were. Dad and Mom were pioneers, an interracial couple in the ’60s. Something that was still illegal in many states. It wasn’t until June 12, 1967, that the Supreme Court said it was unconstitutional for states to ban interracial marriages.
I was born at the Yongsan American military base in Seoul, South Korea. While we later lived briefly in Japan after my father got reassigned, my childhood memories are mostly of Greensboro, Maryland, where we settled after my dad left the Air Force. It was a small town, and the social interaction with neighbors was civil, but infrequent. The adults mostly stayed to themselves and out of each other’s business, unless they happened to catch each other’s eyes or nod while mowing the grass or playing catch with the football in the front yard. Otherwise, you could live a secluded life. Dad and Mom were mostly grinding away at work or attending required coursework for their careers. While Mom worked on her beautician certificate, Dad focused on a stenographer’s certification. They didn’t have time to invest in their relational network around the neighborhood. I don’t remember seeing other neighbors engage my parents beyond a customary smile or a friendly wave.
Still, my siblings and I felt accepted by everyone. We didn’t know there were people who looked at us with condescension. I didn’t even realize we were mixed race or that some people saw us as “aliens.” There wasn’t one racial incident that stood out to me before the fourth grade. I was oblivious to the civil rights movement and the underlying and overt racial tensions happening in America when I was a child. Our parents had created their own ecosystem, which kept us from any noticeable racial hostility. The tensions between the Black community and white people weren’t discussed in our house. Interracial relationships were normal. It’s what we lived every day.
It wasn’t until we left Greensboro, Maryland, several years later that we realized how strange we were to others. How many saw us differently than we saw ourselves. Living in the countryside of Maryland, we were captivated by the wonder of the forests, rivers, lakes, streams, plants, and creatures both large and small. Nature doesn’t judge you. You’re not worried about how you look when you’re romping through the forests or the lush green fields of Maryland and Northern Virginia.
Humans can be different. It’s in our primal nature to compare ourselves to others, to judge whether a person is safe or to be feared. To discern whether a person is in or out. A friend or a foe.
The idyllic way I saw life as a child would change. The challenge wouldn’t be my language, a foreign accent, my intellect, my ability to understand idioms, or my sensitivity to adapt to normal cultural interactions. It came down to the shape of my eyes.
CHAPTER TWO Nature Boy
Massive green forests filled with red maples, white oaks, American beeches, and northern red oaks filled my world as I grew up in Maryland. The lush, soaring trees were in abundant supply near our house. They became like friends, silently watching over me, ever present and beaming with life. They felt like they could talk to me. A place of shade from the hot summer sun.
Fresh corn, watermelon, and cherries were frequent treats, mixed, of course, with Korean gimbap, basically a seaweed (gim) rice roll with tasty vegetables and kogi (beef) in the middle. Our town was one of those storybook boyhood places you dreamed about as a child. The best way to describe this place is to call it Narnia from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis. It was Narnia because of the wonder I felt. The creatures were new to me and fantastical. And nature itself seemed welcoming with no sense of judgment of who you are.
I was innocent, filled with energy, finding my legs, discovering my potential, running and jumping, traversing all these unknowns, curious, with little fear, thinking the best of people naturally. It was a place where I felt a wild freedom to roam. It was in my blood to run and investigate. I was curious about anything outdoors. I felt like I could create and explore without the worry of lack or others’ criticism. With the whole world of Greensboro, Maryland, as my backyard, I felt like I could do anything.
My friends and I spent our time investigating fields, jumping in swamps, riding our bikes for miles, exploring developments as they were being built, or scampering wildly throughout the neighborhoods. Our bikes were our spacecrafts to take us wherever our imaginations wanted to go. We rode our bicycles everywhere. It got more sophisticated when we began using walkie-talkies to communicate with one another. My friends and I entered into nearby construction sites where bulldozers were moving tons of the earth. We’d extract the sticks land surveyors had carefully placed in the ground and use them as swords. The wooden stakes on the construction sites represented future homes. It never crossed our young minds that surveyors had painstakingly positioned them into the ground to mark boundaries and excavation sites.
Penny was our adopted family beagle. We named him after the large brown spot on his short, white furry back. Penny would look at me with those dark puppy eyes like he knew everything I was saying and even what I didn’t know how to articulate. Penny and I loved to maneuver our way through nearby fields. Dad would often let him roam unrestrained. When he placed two fingers in his mouth, he blew a loud rising whistle that had an exclamation point, and Penny would race back, knowing his favorite dinner was about to be served.
I loved the forest, the long fields in the rural country and the moist banks of the Choptank River. Birds, dogs, rabbits, deer, frogs, and farms all joyfully interacting in the landscape around us. Lightning bugs, colorful butterflies, and praying mantises were part of the magical world I lived in. The pesky mosquitoes were the enemies. These bloodthirsty insects seemed especially attracted to my Korean blood, an Asian feast they weren’t used to. Mosquitoes feasted on me after I’d been in the forest for just a few minutes.
I made so many new discoveries every time I was outside. The evergreen fragrance of the forests; the scent of spring rain; the morning dew; freshly cut Bermuda grass. I’ll never forget diving into the ponds by our house, barefoot, splashing in little pools of water with hundreds of tadpoles, hearing the creatures scurrying away from us. If you looked into the sky, you could literally see thousands of birds. A variety of geese, ducks, hawks, and sparrows were flying overhead in tight formations. The quacks, the melodious notes, the distinct sounds of these birds were part of the natural harmony of the area we called home.
The animals were not simply my friends; I felt like I was one of them. Sometimes I would even sing to them. I loved to look out from the patio of our house, where the geese, ducks, and sparrows rested on their migration routes down south. I’d pick up my dad’s old guitar, which stood against the wall near the fireplace, then slowly and gingerly open the creaky metal screen door and try not to startle my fowl audience. I’d plop myself on the outdoor lawn chair, position the guitar on my lap, and belt out a nonsensical song to the birds.
Penny would wander onto the deck, and when he’d see the gathering of birds, he’d bolt into the grass after them. Wings would flap and feathers waft as the creatures all tried to escape, some flying and others dashing away. Penny would run around in circles, chasing after them.
I spent so much time outside, my dad started calling me “Nature Boy.” Though it probably wasn’t just my love of the outdoors that led to this nickname.
Sometimes I’d run in my underwear like some wild animal, my straight black hair protruding from my scalp, sweat running down my face. Dad would burst out laughing watching me, his six-foot athletic frame scrunching up in amusement from my antics. “It’s a bird. It’s a plane. No! It’s Nature Boy!”
I didn’t like to wear clothes. Garments inhibited my movement. I wanted to be ready to jump into the nearby natural water holes without hindrance. I followed in my mom’s footsteps in this way. While she was going to school to earn her beautician certificate so she could get a license in Maryland, Mom also worked at a factory on an assembly line. When she came home from work, she always took off her beautician outfit, hopped into the shower, and came out with wet hair, wearing no makeup and loose-fitting clothes that often didn’t match. If you watch Korean dramas, it’s the typical look and vibe of a 할머니 halmoni, a Korean grandma who acts like she owns the town and has the confidence to back it up. A Korean grandma doesn’t have to speak; she can just look at you and you know what she is saying. The popularity of Korean dramas is in part because of how authentically expressive the Korean people are beyond words. I can’t count how many times I’ve been quietly pushed aside by a five-foot-tall elderly Korean grandma. Facial expressions and sounds perfectly convey emotions in a shortened code. Like a K-grandma, Mom never cared what others thought, or at least it seemed that way. Other times Mom would come home, shower, and then come out in a casual silk nightie that made her feel comfortable and us uncomfortable. This spirit of freedom was part of my DNA.
“Put a shirt on!” my dad encouraged me, to no avail.
My sister, on the other hand, just groaned. “Ooooh… it’s gross seeing your nipples.”
I answered the way Mom might have. “I wanna be free.”
It would take me a while to be able to articulate that I didn’t like feeling confined and restrained by any type of rules. It was ironic, considering how much of my life I spent living by rules. But that was later, after we moved away from Maryland, after everything changed.
