Just Like Yesterday

"Mom, why did you get so small?"

Do you remember saying that while stroking my hair as I leaned against your chest? You were right in the middle of a growth spurt back then. Every time I hear those words, they sound to me like, "Mom, why have you grown so old?" and it leaves me with a strange, bittersweet feeling. It’s not that I’m sad about aging; rather, I am simply overwhelmed with gratitude that you have grown up so well.

You were born in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, weighing a proud 9 pounds and 8 ounces. You were the biggest baby born in the hospital that week. I still remember the worried look on the nurse's face when she placed you in my arms. Since I weighed less than 100 pounds and looked so fragile, she insisted I sit on the bed whenever I held you, terrified I might drop you. On the day we were discharged, she left me with words I’ve never forgotten: “You must be the boss of the child. Never let the child become your boss.”

As parents who were artists, we didn't have much. We couldn't provide you with fancy clothes or gourmet food, and I often had to pretend not to hear when you asked for toys. You played with sand in the park and used pots and pans as toys at home. Then, one day, you started picking up the paints your father and I used and began to draw. Whenever we painted, you painted too. If we held a brush, you’d insist on taking it to create your own world. You drew everywhere—on napkins, receipts, and plastic bags when there was no paper.

Those simple lines turned into circles and squares, then dinosaurs, sharks, and tigers. The soft strokes eventually became bold and intense, depicting battlefields with tanks and planes, as you made bombing and gunfire sounds, completely immersed in your world. We never formally taught you or interfered; we simply left various materials nearby so you could create freely. I dearly miss those days when you would add a small drawing to a corner of my canvas, creating a wonderful collaboration.

When you hit puberty and fell in love with comics, you were accepted into LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts. I assumed you would major in art, but you surprised me by saying, “Art is something you can do without a formal education. I don't want to go to an arts high school. I don't like painters; they seem like losers who act cool without any substance.” While it stung a little, there was truth in your words, so I respected your wish. Later, after choosing a major unrelated to art, I watched you take drawing and photography classes in college, minor in film, and stay up until dawn posting your work online. When you finally said, “I think being a painter is the coolest job,” my heart was full of mixed emotions. I teased you, asking if you wanted to change your major again, but inside, I thought of Marlene Dumas’s words: “It’s not where you start, but where you finish that matters.” I wondered if I should give you another chance to find your path.

Your father always insisted that raising you was the priority, even when we struggled financially. So, I tried to be a mother who was always within reach whenever you called. My only regret was that, because I was physically weak and often tired of cooking, I frequently served you just fried eggs and Spam. When you told me recently that those were your favorite meals, I felt both sorry and incredibly grateful.

We were so poor back then. With our degrees, it was hard to find stable jobs, and we wanted to keep painting just like you do now. I remember when your father brought home a discarded black-and-white TV from the street. It had a picture but no sound, yet we enjoyed imagining the dialogue. Then, he found another old TV—this one had sound, but the screen was nothing but static. We placed them side by side, covered the "snowy" screen with a towel, and watched TV that way. It’s a heartbreaking yet fond memory now.

When we finally saved enough for a small Sony TV, it was stolen within a week. We knew who took it, but we were too afraid of retaliation to say anything. We couldn't afford a new one, and we knew it would just get stolen again, so we lived without a TV for a long time. When we visited your grandfather in LA for the holidays, he saw how you couldn't leave the TV screen and eventually sent one to us by plane. But when we returned from the trip, the house was a mess. Having found nothing worth stealing, the burglars had drunk the beer in the fridge and trashed the furniture out of spite. Perhaps that’s why my heart ached when you, now an adult, brought home a perfectly good TV you found while walking your dog, Nike.

I can still see you as a little boy, crossing yourself every time we passed the McDonald’s next to the church. You wanted a Happy Meal so badly, but you never begged; you just made the sign of the cross with your small back turned to me. I stood beside you with the heart of someone offering a prayer. I am so thankful that we are now in a position where I can treat you to nice restaurants. I am so proud of you for sensing our situation back then and growing up without complaints.

When we couldn't afford Korean school, your father put a chalkboard on the wall to teach you himself. You used to complain and say you didn't want to learn. But recently, when I asked why you’ve been calling so often, you said, “I want to practice so I don’t forget my Korean. Mom, thank you for teaching me.” I hid my tears and felt so much joy in that moment.

During your teenage years, when you were frustrated with your appearance, I used my secret savings to help. I bought you acne medication, got you braces, and sent you on overseas volunteer trips every summer so you wouldn't spend all your time gaming in a cramped room. It makes me laugh to remember you looking at me worriedly, asking, “Is the family going broke?” because I was actually spending money. I couldn't afford music or sports lessons, but I did my best to take you to NYC public pools, tennis courts, and school band practice. The clear sound of your guitar coming from your room these days is a comfort that washes away all those past hardships.

Do you remember the time I ran a stop sign and got into an accident because I realized we forgot your swimsuit on the way to the pool? Or the time I stopped so abruptly because you called "Mom!" from the backseat that the car behind us hit us? Your father came running to the hospital in a panic. I’m sorry I wasn't always a "cool" mom—that I was always fluttering like a fish on a cutting board whenever it came to you. I loved you so much that I couldn't help but be overprotective.

"Mom, it's your birthday. Is there anything you need?" receiving your call yesterday made me feel reborn. I was lying down, exhausted, but that one call gave me the energy to jump up and cook dinner. You are the courage that lifts me up and happiness itself. I won't ask you to visit often; I know you are busy. If you come, I am happy; if you don't, I understand. Just live your life fully and be happy.

My father—your grandfather—used to meet me at the bus stop after school. He would hold my hand and ask me to tell him stories about my day. My hand felt so soft and safe inside his cushiony palm. When we walk together now, the way you hold my hand feels just as soft and warm as his did.

My father told me many stories over drinks in the evening. He was so healthy that I believed he would never age or leave me. But one day, I realized he had grown small and old, and I said to him in sadness: "Father, please write down the stories you haven't finished telling me." I wanted to have his "notebook" to look through even after he was gone. Even after I moved to America, I wrote him one or two letters every week for years. He kept them all and sent them back to me before he passed. Those records are so precious—they make our memories feel like they happened yesterday and keep our conversation alive.

By the time you want to read my writing, I may be very old or no longer in this world. Even if I am here, my memories might be too faded to tell you everything accurately. That is why I have been recording our daily lives and translating them into English for a long time—so that you can always remember us.

They say people live off the memories they formed before age 20. I, too, have lived relying on the love and memories of my parents. Records are not just letters on a page; they are an extension of life. As my memories grow dimmer, my desire to hold onto them becomes more desperate. I hope you, too, will record your life. To leave a record, one must live life to the fullest, don't you think?

I hope these records of my daily life give you courage, wisdom, and happiness. My dear son, I feel as though I was born into this world just to love you. Thank you for giving me the chance to love you with all my heart.