An Ode to Korean Mothers

I was born from my mother, who was born from her mother. We are three generations of women, each with a story to tell. Our story is that of loss, forgiveness and reconciliation—or Han, a deeply rooted Korean sentiment of collective loss and grief.

Most importantly our story is about love, deeply sacrificial and unconditional love, the kind that is infinite and powerful like breaking waves. This love is unsung and remains buried in many hearts, but its melody is so illuminating that it begs to be revealed.

Like any other moms, Korean mothers are unsung heroes. They are keepers of a culture that was once broken and left barren. With their heart, strength and wisdom, they planted seeds of hope and nurtured them to flourish into leaves that fed generations to come. Many of these women have passed yet their legacy remains.

It remains in memories, in visions and in dreams—and it remains in stories told across dinner tables. Some stories are audible and some are silent, but all stories are palpable through colorful dishes and small acts of sacrifice.

About fifty something years ago, my mother was born into a wealthy family in a beautiful province called Gapeyong. She was the third daughter of a prominent businessman, a man who was the only offspring and son. He was a tall and handsome man with full forehead and big brown eyes, an admirable trait to many women. It is said that he had many lovers during his short life, which was a common practice for affluent men at the time.

What is socially acceptable however, is different than what a woman’s heart can tolerate and one day my grandmother left home, leaving her young daughters behind. My mother was only 2 years old at the time and I can only imagine the depth of her sadness. As expected, her life was never the same and this lonely girl remains trapped behind my mother’s brown eyes, now ringed by wrinkles of wisdom that only comes with age.

My grandfather’s second wife eventually fulfilled the family’s wishes by having three boys, but even the presence of sons seemed insufficient to fill the void of broken vows and ties.

Despite the passing of time, my mother still is a woman of exceptional beauty. Her crystal eyes magnify a thousand layers of hidden emotions and her heart remains soft like falling snow. She is beautiful both inside and out, vulnerable like a child but strong like a warrior. She is a fighter, survivor and a gracious child of God fulfilling her maternal duties to her husband and children.

She seeks no reward or pay, as deliverance of love is what completes her passion and lifelong vocation. She does not cook with recipes or measuring cups, but with memories and heart as she recalls the taste of her ancestors and carries on the ritual of creating and giving life.

My mother taught me many things in life, but one of the most memorable lessons came when we were cooking together. As usual I was spending our time like a free therapy session, complaining about my husband’s busy work hours. My complaints usually began with a series of “I don’t understands,” from “I don’t understand why women have to be domesticated” to “I don’t understand why mothers have to multitask in the home while fathers carry out their duties elsewhere.”

All the enlightened theories I learned in feminist and minority courses were no longer relevant, and I felt reduced and trapped in the domestic sphere. The lofty ideals of a ‘new woman’ were dismantled- and I felt lost in endless piles of laundry, dishes and toys.

My mother listened quietly yet her answer remained firm.

“This is the most important vocation of your life,” she’d tell me, “and your time spent with your children is the most valuable gift. This time will never return. You do your best.”

Even though I knew deep down inside that she was right, I was caught between my maternal duties and personal desires. And while motherhood brought so many little joys and moments of gratitude, I felt isolated and idle as I helplessly observed my colleagues advancing in their careers while I was at home changing diapers.