Open Letter to my Daughter

There will be many times your integrity will be tested.  You will face a situation where you know in your gut you are right, but other forces upon you will make you question your sanity.  It is in these times you will have to make a decision and pause for thoughtful reflection.  It won’t be in some large, grand moment.  Those are the easy times to take up arms and voice your soul for all to hear.  It’s obvious in the face of major injustice which side of the truth you want to be on.  America is a free nation. People have a right to live. Fascism is bad.  

But what about the smaller moments? What about the moments others may not see?  These moments can be swept under the rug never to be seen again. It will be easy to ignore them and move on with the rest of your life. When you stop in these moments, you need to remind yourself, this IS the rest of your life.  It is in these small moments that help define who you are as a person and who you want to be.  Who you want to represent yourself as.  And, no one else can write that story for you, no matter what others say, it is your story and you are in charge.

I’ve always told you to trust your gut.  But what is your gut?  Your gut is a combination of your intellect, your intuition, your emotion and your morals.  They all come together to produce that feeling in your gut that tells you what to feel, to recognize right from wrong even before you can verbalize what you’re feeling. It allows you to make decisions w/o having to articulate the reasons, especially in quick moments where the luxury of analysis and sources are not available. Your gut is what keeps you from trusting those that do not have your best interest.  Your gut is what draws you to good people who want to help and uplift you.  Your gut is your instinct that will keep you from harm’s way and surround you with people who are looking out for your best interest. We’ve worked hard to create this village and I am so thankful for all of the amazing people who have crossed our path. God has put amazing people in our lives for a reason and we are lucky and better people for knowing them.

So do not fear. You are my daughter.  You champion for the good and you seek the positive in life.  You work on yourself so you can be there for others.  You help those in need and you remember to put your oxygen mask on first so you can be there for those who cannot.  You will not stand for injustice. You will not be mansplained.  You will approach life with curiosity and humility.  Never forget your worth and let others convince you otherwise. Rest in the knowledge that you will not be gaslighted and you will stay true to your morals and your conscious and no one can take that away from you.  Fall back on your village when needed.  We have created a wonderful network of amazing men and women who know right from wrong, bad from good, and they will be there for you when you need them. We are lucky and we will not lose sight of what is important in life and all the good we can do.

Cousins

I didn’t have older siblings. No one to haze me or torture me.  But also no one to look up to or trust with my secrets. However, I did have older cousins. My father had two older sisters that both lived around the corner and had children of their own. It was his sister Irene who was blessed with four girls. The youngest daughter, Jill, was five years older than me so I followed her around the most hoping she’d want to be my friend or at least let me tag along. The second oldest, Carmen, was our main babysitter.  Since my younger brother was severely autistic, we couldn’t just have anyone watch us. It’s a task best left to family and Carmen was amazing at it. My younger brother, Crispin, and I spent many nights at the my cousin’s house, like when mom had choir practice. If I was lucky, Jill would be home and we would play kick ball, or pickle in the middle. I remember we’d ride bikes in the driveway and Jill would ride hers out into the street. Then I’d follow her and my aunt would yell, “Heather Su, are you supposed to ride in the road?”  No, of course not.  So I’d sheepishly ride back to the driveway.

My cousin Carmen spent an enormous amount of time with us. She’d bring her homework with her when she babysat and I’d look at how her paper bag covered books were decorated.  Her folders were bands like Air Supply and Journey. Her bedroom wall had a half naked Prince hanging from it.  Pretty racy for a small town girl to fan girl over a half naked Puerto Rican. She loved the University of Michigan and taught me it was clearly the superior school. I may not have had older sisters, but I had older cousins and they filled a huge void in my life.

They took us in when my parents had to drop us off and rush to the hospital. Mom had given birth prematurely in the bathroom on Easter. My dad had to talk on a corded phone with the hospital on the other end and learn how to clean up his still born daughter in the bathroom as his wife cried beside him on the toilet. I rode in the van on the way to Aunt Irene’s house staring at that paper bag knowing what was in it. I was dropped off at my cousins.  They were there for me.

It was Junior Prom and we needed a place to party.  Carmen had just bought a house in the suburbs and Jill was going to be house sitting that weekend.  I asked her if she’d buy me alcohol, and let me have some friends over after Prom. Being the awesome older cousin she was, she said yes and YES!  So my Junior Prom night became unforgettable watching my friend Julie get thrown off the top of someone’s car and me throwing up my Blue Maui and Mountain Dew. Again, my cousins were there for me.

I grew up. I moved away. I know they had kids but we were at different stages of life as they were a generation ahead of me. Social media became the only thin thread of connection I had.  But then my parents died. The unthinkable happened and my brother ten years my junior and I were left with a hoarder house and a mountain of uncertainty. As we tackled the overly packed house of memories, my high school friends came through and were there to work. My teacher friends from my past teacher life came through and not only lifted piles of garbage, but lifted me up when I couldn’t lift myself.  And then came Jill and Carmen. My cousins that watched me grow up, made me dinner, dressed me into pjs, my cousins were there hours on end sifting, sorting and comforting. We laughed, we cried, never judging the house or my parents. They were family and time and time again, they were there.

I went to the Toto - Journey concert last night. I debated on paying that much, concert tickets are ridiculous. But I knew it’d be a night of classics, bangers as the kids say now.  And, I had to go see Journey because my cousin Carmen loved them. Every song reminded me of being young, of riding my tricycle down the hall, of asking Carmen to leave the hall light on when I went to bed. She loved Journey and I loved her. I’ve never realized how much my cousins meant to me until now. But listening to those songs brought me back and reminded me how lucky I was to have older cousins who where always there and always will be. 

Another School Shooting

I remember I was walking down the hall and Jodi the janitor was sweeping the floor. Jodi was my favorite type of woman. Quick, to the point, a woman who doesn’t mince words. She’d bark at the students in the hall, but saved all the pencils swept up at the end of the day for those who didn’t have any. There were only about 375 students in that whole high school. Everyone knew everyone, whether they wanted to or not. 

I was walking to my class when she removed her headphones and grabbed my arm.
“Hey!” she grunted, “there’s been a shooting.”
“A what?” I replied.
“A shooting, some kid shot up his high school in Colorado!”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this news. I’m sure we bantered for a bit and then went on to my class since Lord of the Flies wasn’t going to teach itself.  What I didn’t realize was how this moment, in that hallway, would become a pivotal moment in my life, one that would happen over, and over and over again.

Fast forward to two days ago, the day before Valentine’s day. I looked down at my phone and read there was an active shooter at Michigan State University, the school I received my Master’s degree from, where I joined the Red Cedar Writing Project. The school where many of my friend’s children call home. At 9:00pm students were running and ducking around campus, hiding in corners, shutting off lights, texting loved ones. An entire campus was frozen in fear as an active shooter went from building to building shooting indiscriminately creating “wrong place at the wrong time” moments. By the end of the horror, three young students lost their lives and a shooter died from a self-inflicted gunshot. A community came together, again, held a vigil, again and every Spartan alumni felt collective grief and despair. Parents hugged their children a little tighter that night while teachers reviewed their active shooter response plans. This is our America now.

What started in 1999 has run rampant across the country with no school too large or small, no child too young or too old, exempt from this new existence. Since Columbine there has been a total of 304 fatal school shootings and counting. We’ve grown accustomed to the routine, the aftermath and the realization that nothing will change. We are a country that loves its guns and freedom more than the lives lost. We would rather debate issues, then solve issues - pray for comfort, then fight for action. 

I texted my own daughter the next day and reminded her when she goes to class, don’t sit by the door. Make sure you know where the exits are. Find places you would run and duck if needed.  By this time, it’s a numbers game and all she can do is try to decrease her odds of being in danger. For the rest of the week the media will debate the shooter, how he got a gun, and his mental stability. Schools will revisit their action plans and teachers will be told they should arm themselves or become human shields. Some students at MSU that night had already survived the Oxford High School shooting of November 2021 and had to relive the nightmare again. My hope is that now that we’ve created a generation of traumatized students, they will grow up to become policy makers and changers. Maybe they can do what we could not. Until then, we will rely on the teachers, the counselors, and the Jodi the janitors of the world to hold us together, push us forward and remind us how beautiful life can be. As Mr Rogers told us, look for the helpers in moments of crisis. And if they aren’t there, we must step up and become them. 

Character Writing

She sat in the back of the car and watched the rain drops slide down the window. There was no way she was going back in that tent. Besides the fact that duh, it was raining, the guys had come to visit and decided to spend the night as well.  No thanks, she thought.

The hiss of the cassette signaled the end of side one. She didn’t hesitate to push eject, flip it over, and click play to keep the melodic beat going. She was in love with this band called Nine Inch Nails. Every industrial beat and angered lyric spoke to her soul. She was obsessed with this new sound. It seemed to reflect how she felt inside, give voice to the anger and confusion brought on by adolescence. Every generation finds its voice in music. Who knew Trent Reznor would become the perfect anthem for Generation X. 

She was trying to write down her feelings. She had spent the weekend avoiding flippant experiences and vapid people. The shallow conversations and teenage fraternizing with the locals left her empty and frustrated. For some time she kept waiting for the fun. She thought there was something wrong with her, that she was missing something. But this weekend she realized she was fine, it was the world that was fucked up. She was stuck in a series of existences that offered mediocrity at best. This weekend she discovered people out there who didn’t eat meat and read Ayn Rand and Hunter S Thompson. There were boys who wanted to sit by a fire and play gin rummy, not tool around on jet skis and drink Bud Light. There was a dark, creative side growing in her and she was going to do everything she could to nurture this discovery.

In the beginning...

In the beginning it was calm. That first day was all rainbows and sunshine. But that second day, that second night, that was when it started.

The Soju bottle clanked on the small shot glass as my sister poured me another drink.

“Drink! Drink!” she directed me. She was already mad I only drank two of the four bottles of flavored Soju she bought me. No one else likes it flavored but me. Her words started to slur together flowing in and out of English and Korean and her arms began gesticulating wildly. She was pissed. Her daughter got a tattoo and hid it from her for eight months. She said the Bible clearly states we are not to get tattoos. I sat there silent as I looked down at my three tattoos thinking, well, we just ate pork belly and what does the Bible say about pork? But I didn’t say anything. I froze. Don’t make waves, I thought. It’s our last night together. Just let it go.

My sister grew up in extreme poverty. She talked about how the older sisters would go to the market and pick up food on the ground and bring it home for our mother to try to make a dinner. Our father had jobs here and there but nothing that could support six children. The one time they did save money they put it in the floorboards of the house - they didn’t trust banks.  But that came back and bit them in the ass as one of their tenants stole the money.  These are the stories of my sister. These are the stories of my family. This was their beginning, that could’ve been my beginning.  But instead here we are on a back porch in Seattle relatives by blood but literally worlds apart.

Soju is the lifeblood of Korean drinking culture. I call it the saki of Koreans but I don’t even know if that’s remotely accurate.  My sister continued to pour Soju into any glass that was around. My husband wasn't even finished with his beer and she poured Soju into it telling him he needed to drink. He politely picked up his glass to pretend to drink but she was already on to the next thought. She yelled at her husband to go inside and clean up then gestured to my husband. It was clear the husbands were to go inside so she could trap me alone. She leaned in and and grabbed my arm. In her broken English she told me a deep, dark secret. This foreign woman I met for the first time told me something I would not share with my closest, current friend. That was why she ran away. That was why she didn’t finish high school. I was shocked. I froze again. I didn’t know what to say. What does one say in a language that looses meaning on the way to her ears. 

She yelled at me, “Don’t stare at me like that! That’s how my mother-in-law stares at me. That American stare!” 

What the hell do I do with that? All weekend she’d forgotten I AM AMERICAN! I didn’t choose it! Our mother left me on someone else’s doorstep so my Korean side was thrown away. Instead of Kimchi I got sauerkraut. Instead of chopsticks I got forks. Instead of Bibimbap I got casserole. I can’t change this no matter how much you say we are sisters, or I’m Korean. This is why I think my necklace with my new Korean name you’ve given me is cute and you think it’s silly. This is why I have three tattoos you disapprove of and will probably get a fourth. 

I knew it was time to go.  The night had gone downhill sliding fast in a stream of Soju. I picked up my phone to see when my daughter and hers would be back from getting Boba when she slapped the phone out of my hand and yelled, “Are you fucking listening to me?”

“Yes, I’ve listened. I’ve listened all weekend. I’ve smiled, said thank you, tried to get to know you. I’ve listened to you rip on me for my silly American beliefs. I’ve listened to everything I’ve done wrong.”

And then in that moment, I was no longer yelling at my newly found sister, but my mother.  In that moment I realized my sister has replaced my adopted mother - to admonish me, to be critical of me, and to remind me I will never be good enough. It was fight or flight and I chose flight. I was gone.

Write the beginning of your story

Did you grow up knowing you were wanted?

I was told I was chosen, that my adopted mother and father chose me. But did they?  I mean, they wanted a baby and I happened to be there at the right time, at the right place. Had another baby crossed their path they would have been the chosen one. “You were chosen,” is really just a Hallmark phrase used to make my parents feel good about not being able to produce their own offspring, and for me to feel good despite being someone else’s discarded family member.

Every story has a beginning and an end. Wait, every story actually has many beginnings and many ends. I had a Korean life that began and ended. I had an American childhood that began and ended, along with adolescence, young adulthood, & adulthood. I’ve had multiple roles that have began and ended like, student, teacher, & friend. And some roles, like mother and wife, will never end - until I end. 

The thing about beginnings is you get a chance to start over, you can wipe the slate clean. You can work to right past wrongs or reinvent yourself. It’s exciting when you’re in charge of your beginning, when you make the choice to start anew. However, forced beginnings, ones where we didn’t choose to start over like in a break-up or a tragedy, those hit differently. You still have the same opportunity to start over, but it’s not what you wanted or what you planned. You feel like you’ll never get to that emerging moment because you have to trudge through so much sadness and self-doubt. You can’t plan the next hour, the next day, let alone a new beginning. The illusion of control is removed from forced beginnings and the despair you feel grows into a mountain leaving you in its cold, dark shadow.

I’ve had a lot of beginnings. As a Korean adoptee I have the familiar beginning of being told I was found, abandoned on a doorstep. Like so many other of my KAD (Korean ADoptee) brothers and sisters, we were told a tale of how we were saved by some good citizen and then thrown into our Adopted parents’ loving arms. But, for some this story was a lie, shattering the only beginning they’ve ever known leaving them with no beginning or a new one they have to reconcile. What if you don’t have a beginning. What if you have to choose your own beginning, like a Choose your Own Adventure book. Where do you start? What do you chose? When you have the possibility to define yourself and your beginning, what mark do you draw the line at and slam the slate board to signal the action begins?

I'm OLD - Lesson 2

 There is not ONE perfect person you are fated to be with.

Disney fairytales are so toxic. And yes, I love them. I went to the theater to see The Little Mermaid! It was brand new. I even have the VHS version with the phallic cover. I loved it and sang all the songs. But the message, OYE! I mean, first of all she falls in love with a prince and will do anything to have him, even though they’ve never talked. And so she gives up her voice, her one talent, to have a chance to meet him on land. She goes through body mutilation to get legs. And then, she can’t talk to get him to like her so all she has is her body. So she is reduced physical attraction to garner a mate. In the end, she gets what she wants and leaves her family and friends to be with the man she loves. I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. This is not the lesson young girls should walk away with. And as mentioned already, there is not one perfect person you are compatible with. 

Don’t believe the hype.

When Sophie was little she watched the movie Hotel Transylvania and there was a line about how the couple was meant to be together since they were one another’s “zing”. I remember stopping the movie and yelling at Sophie, “There is not just one ZING out there for you. There are literally thousands of people you could end up with. What matters is the commitment you make to each other!”

Love is amazing. The commitment involved breeds its own challenges and rewards. Being with someone is a choice you make day after day long after the Zing may be gone. The Zing may hook you, but the fizzle is real. You both put in the work to create a long, lasting relationship. And even then, sometimes it doesn’t work out.  That is life.

But, if one door closes, open another one. You never know who may be standing there waiting for you.