Mother's Day 2010

It is as though my Korean mother, my Omma, died when I was born. And with her passed all my relatives, from my grandparents to my aunts and uncles, to my cousins and my nieces and nephews. They all disappeared for what seemed as though it would be forever.

So, I had to be taken in by another, since no one from my own family or my own country would lay claim to me. For truly, it was as though not only my whole family had died to me and I to them, but a whole nation and its people had died to me and I to them.

Then, both slowly and suddenly, those who had died to one another emerged before one another. More than three decades later, it was as though the deceased had been resurrected.

It is as though, my Omma rose from the dead. It is as though I have risen from the dead.

And now, it would appear that I have two mothers.

But the truth is that I have always had two mothers.

And the truth is that although the years passed as though my Omma was no longer a part of my life, as though she no longer existed, she was always there—lingering in my blood, beneath my skin, deep within my anatomy. She was always there informing and influencing who I was becoming, even beyond my own will, without my full knowledge. Although unknown to me, she was known within me.

No more and no less than my American Mom—but simply in a more silent, covert, DNA-ish kind of way.

I am of both of these women. I am who I am because of two mothers.

And as much as such a thought may dually delight as well as pain all three of us, it is an undeniable truth: I would not be if not for each of these women, if not for both of my mothers.