Just Like Yesterday

“Mom, why are you so small now?”

Do you remember saying that one day while stroking my head as I leaned against your chest?
Whenever I hear those words, they sound like:
“Mom, why are you so old now?”
It is not that I am sad about getting old, but I am thankful that you have grown well.

You were born and raised in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. At the hospital, you were 9 pounds 8 ounces — the biggest baby of that week. The nurse handed you to me with worried eyes, and she did not leave my side. Whenever I tried to stand up holding you, she insisted that I sit down because she was afraid I would drop you. Maybe I looked too weak to hold such a big baby since I weighed less than 100 pounds.
On the day we left the hospital, that same nurse gave me meaningful advice:
“You must be the boss of the baby. Don’t let the baby be your boss.”

Because your dad and I were poor artists, we could not always give you enough food, clothes, or toys. At the park, you played with sand. At home, you played with pots and pans. You started drawing with the leftover paints we used. If we painted, you also painted. If we used a brush, you took the brush too. You drew everywhere — on napkins, receipts, shopping bags — even when there were no art supplies.

Your lines slowly turned into shapes like circles and squares. Then you drew dinosaurs, sharks, and tigers. Later, your soft lines turned into rough lines, drawing tanks and airplanes, adding your own explosion sounds. We never taught you how to draw. You simply drew whatever you wanted. I only made sure you always had materials. Sometimes you even drew on the corner of my paintings, making them our collaborations.

As a teenager, you started making comics. From the time you could hold a pencil, you never stopped drawing, and you even passed the entrance exam for LaGuardia High School of the Arts. We thought you would surely major in art. But then you surprised us:
“Drawing is something anyone can do without education. I don’t want to go to an art high school.”
“Won’t you regret it later?” I asked.
“Never. I hate artists. They are just losers pretending to be cool.”
What you said wasn’t completely wrong. You chose another major, far from art. But once you entered college, you took drawing and photography classes. You even minored in film. Many nights, you stayed up drawing and posting your work on your blog.
One day you said:
“Being an artist might be one of the coolest jobs.”
I was happy to hear that, but I still asked:
“So, what are you going to do about it? Change your major now?”
“No, I’m just saying.”

Watching you struggle, I remembered the South African artist Marlene Dumas who once said, “It’s not how or where you start, but how and where you finish.” I wondered if I should give you another chance to find your path.

Your father always told me not to take a job, but to stay close to you, so I could always run to you when you needed me. I tried to be a mother who would never make you sad. I still feel guilty that I often gave you spam and fried eggs because I was too weak to cook properly. But you said you don’t even remember that, and you told me spam and eggs were your favorite food. That makes me both sorry and thankful.

Your dad and I couldn’t get good jobs with our degrees. We wanted to keep painting, so we stayed poor. We lived without TV or radio. Once your dad found an old black-and-white TV on the street. The screen worked but the sound didn’t. Later, he found another small TV — the sound worked but the screen was broken. We put them side by side, covering one with a towel, and enjoyed it anyway. When a friend finally bought one of your dad’s paintings, we got a new Sanyo TV. But within a week, a drug addict from across the street stole it. We were too afraid to fight back, so again we lived without TV.

Every year, when your grandfather in LA sent us plane tickets, you would go there and sit in front of the TV without moving. Seeing that, your grandfather said, “Living without TV is not always good for a child. A child should see the world with his own eyes. I’ll buy you one.” He bought a big Sanyo TV and sent it on the plane with us. But when we arrived home, our house was already broken into. The thief drank our beer, smashed our few pieces of furniture, and left. You were so shocked. Maybe that is why, when you became an adult, you often picked up things from the street, even a large flat-screen TV. Perhaps you carried that memory of growing up without one. That made me sad.

When you were little, you saw people making the sign of the cross in front of the church near our home. So whenever we passed the McDonald’s next to it, you also made the sign of the cross and looked at me with pleading eyes, hoping for a Happy Meal. You never asked out loud, maybe because you knew I didn’t have money. Instead, you made the sign again and again, like a prayer. Now, as an adult, you never eat at McDonald’s, no matter how hungry you are. I know why. Back then, you prayed for Happy Meals, and I also prayed — not as a religious person, but as a desperate mother. Today, I can buy you food at expensive restaurants. That is not just our effort, but also grace. I am grateful for that — and grateful that you grew up well without demanding too much.

We couldn’t afford Korean school, so your dad wrote letters on the wall and made you repeat after him. Sometimes you got upset and refused. I gave you snacks only if you spoke Korean. You twisted your body, complaining. But not long ago, you called and said,
“Mom, I want to practice Korean with you so I won’t forget it. Thank you for teaching me.”
Hearing that, I was so moved I almost cried.

When you hit puberty, you hated your looks. You said you were too short, your face too big, your cheeks too fat, your legs too thick. You blamed us. Then came the acne. I scolded you: “Why does appearance matter so much? Just study.” But I knew I had to help. I used all our savings to buy acne treatments and braces for you. I even sent you abroad for volunteer work every summer starting at 14. You once asked me, “Mom, are we going broke? Are you okay?” I tried hard to give you opportunities, even without music or sports lessons. At least you learned some guitar, and I loved hearing the sound of your playing from your room.

Do you remember the car accident? I forgot your swimsuit on the way to swim class, and in my rush, I ran a stop sign. Another time, driving you to Boy Scouts, you called “Mom!” from the back seat and I stopped suddenly, causing another accident. Your dad came running to the hospital. I always lost my cool when it came to you. I’m sorry, my son. I was never “cool” — because I loved you too much.

“Mom, today is your birthday. Do you want anything?”
“Thank you. I want nothing. My gift is that you grew up healthy and happy. Every day felt like my birthday because of you.”
When you visited yesterday, I was lying down tired. But the moment you called, I suddenly had the energy to get up and cook. You give me courage, strength, and happiness just by being you.

When I was young, your grandfather always came to meet me at the bus stop after school. He held my hand and asked me to tell him everything about my day. His hand was soft and warm, just like yours now when you hold mine as we walk together. I thought he would live forever, but one day, I realized he was small and old. It broke my heart. I asked him, “Please write down your life stories.” And he did, along with all the letters I had sent him after moving to America. He returned them to me before he passed away. They are now my precious memories, as fresh as yesterday.

One day, you will read my writing when I am too old or no longer alive. Even if I am still here, my memory will not be as clear. That is why I record these things — so they will not disappear. I know you may not have time now, but someday, you will want to remember your mother. As we age, memories become more precious. Written words keep them alive.

People say we live with the memories before age twenty. I also live with the love and memories of my own parents. That is why I write. Life becomes richer when we record it.

My dear son, I hope my writing gives you courage, wisdom, and happiness. I was born to love you. Thank you for letting me love you so fully.

With all my love,
Mom