Under Mom's Skirt

“Hi, I remember you.”

“Sorry, I don’t know who you are.”

“I heard you once say, ‘I am from my mother’s belly.’ It was so unique that I remembered you.”

“Oh! I did say that. I wondered if you remembered me—the one of the few Asians on the cruise. Thanks for remembering.”

This was a conversation I had with a stranger inside a cruise ship elevator. When foreigners talk to me, their first question is always:

“Where are you from?”

I usually reply,

“I am from my mother’s belly.”

After living in the U.S. for many years, I got tired of answering the same question, so I started saying that just for fun. Some people laugh and walk away, but others get even more curious and keep asking questions.

“What is your nationality? Japanese?”

I shake my head.

“Chinese? Korean?”

“I am from Korea.”

But persistent people don’t stop.

“North Korea? South Korea?”

And I say,

“I’m from East Korea. Haha. West Korea.”

Most foreigners have at least heard of North and South Korea. Still, they tilt their heads, not quite sure what Korea really is. So I laugh and add,

“Actually, I’m from Best Korea. Hahaha.”

Thanks to K-dramas and BTS, Korea has become well-known around the world. My kids even say,

“Mom, thank you. Thank you for being Korean and letting us be born as Korean boys in the world’s biggest city, New York, so we can live freely around the world.”

And I reply,

“No—I’m the one who’s thankful. Thank you for being proud to be Korean.”

Years ago, my eldest son traveled to Mongolia. One dark night, lost under the stars, he spotted a Mongolian house—called a ger—in the distance and approached it.

“I’m lost. Can you help me find the way?”

“Please wait a little. I’m watching a Korean drama. I’ll help you after it ends.”

“But I’m Korean!”

“Really? Oh! How nice! Then come watch it with me, and I’ll guide you afterward.”

The Korea I was born in once cried out, “Let’s live well!” And that Korea has grown into a wealthy, strong country. Thanks to dramas, BTS, and many hardworking people, Korea is known all over the world. My children are proud to be Korean. But me? Somehow, I feel like I’m neither Korean nor American. More like a small rock floating in space.

A small, tired stone—bruised and worn out from being tossed around while trying to settle in America. I feel like a little rock that’s been kicked, scratched, chipped—and eventually turned to dust.

“Get a grip. You used to be so spicy, like kimchi soaked in salt. What happened to that fiery temper? Before you went to America, you’d roll on the floor if things didn’t go your way. But after going to the U.S., you’ve mellowed out and become a person. New York must’ve really tamed you. Going to the U.S. was the best thing for you. You got a good education, lost that nasty temper, and saved a fortune by not having a big wedding. If you got married in Korea, it would’ve cost way more than your whole education.”

That’s what my father said with joy when I visited Korea long ago.

But my life in America started off wrong. My cousin brought a giant box of Korean food to the airport and asked me to deliver it to her sister-in-law in Chicago.

“Unni, where’s Chicago?”

“It’s near New York. Don’t worry—she’ll come pick it up.”

When I arrived at JFK, a Malaysian girl from my school was holding a sign with my name. The smell of Korean food leaking from the box was overwhelming, and I couldn’t focus on her English at all. After settling in, I called the woman in Chicago.

“You don’t realize how far Chicago is from New York! I can’t come pick it up. Please mail it.”

I didn’t have a car, didn’t know where the post office was, or how to ship a box. Before I could even finish explaining, she hung up, sounding annoyed.

Before leaving for the U.S., one of my professors gave me a number of a friend who lived in America. I looked at that note for months, debating whether to call. I finally gathered the courage.

“Hello, I’m Sooim from Seoul…”

“I don’t meet with Koreans.”

His cold voice cut me off instantly. It felt like getting hit on the head with an iron bar. I stood frozen in a phone booth, holding the receiver in disbelief.

Later, I met another Korean woman by chance and was so happy.

“I don’t talk to Seoul girls. They’re too sly and clever.”

It felt like I was drowning deeper into a swamp.

Out of loneliness, I even ended up having tea with a Korean man. I tried hard to be polite—listening intently, smiling brightly. But he said,

“If I used this time to make money, I’d have earned quite a bit by now. Time is money in America, you know.”

It felt like I was shoved off a cliff. I couldn’t move or breathe. When I went back to Seoul, my father looked at me and said,

“Why have you become so petty?”

Hard marriages and immigrant life turned me into a smaller person. When things got hard, I’d go to my parents’ house—eat well, rest, and leave with a thick envelope of money. But over time, I became more sensitive about money, while they spent freely. The contrast hurt, and I stopped going. After my mom passed away, my childhood home became someone else’s stage—my sister-in-law and my dad’s new girlfriend were now the main characters, slowly spending everything my mom had saved. I was no longer welcome—a stranger in what was once my home.

Years passed. Immigration wore me down. I fell off cliffs again and again, climbed back up, and became like wilted kimchi—then like a dried raisin—then a hardened stone—then dust. Sometimes I feel like that dust, crushed under someone’s foot, with no strength to stand.

I ask myself, “Why am I crouching here like this?” I’ve lived in America more than twice as long as I lived in Korea. But the longer I stay, the more distant this vast country feels. And after losing my parents, Korea feels like a land of sorrow. Not the place I once knew.

They say home isn’t a place, but where your heart is. For me, home is my mother’s embrace.

When I was a child, my mom was often sick and would send me to the countryside. She’d promise to come soon, but once I got off the bus and walked the winding path for miles, I’d realize she wasn’t coming. My aunt would scoop me up and bathe me in the stream, then feed me rice in cold water with pickled cucumbers, seasoned chili greens, and tiny salted clams. That food tasted so good, I could almost forget about my mom. I’d play with the local kids until evening. When they all went home, I’d stand by the graves on the hill, looking down—hoping maybe my mom would be among the people walking toward the house. But she never came. In my dreams, she’d say her legs hurt, her head hurt—she couldn’t come for me. I’d cry for days, begging to go to her. Sometimes I imagined she had fallen into the river and died trying to find me. That made me cry even harder. After crying for days, I’d finally be brought back home.

When I curled up in her lap again, I was the happiest child in the world. I’d wipe my tears with her skirt, hiding them so she wouldn’t see. As long as she was near, I didn’t cry anymore. I ran and played all day. Now, she’s gone to a place I can’t follow. And I, now a mother of two, live the way she once did—becoming more like her each day.