Rest in Peace Loni Ding

I just heard that Asian American filmmaker Loni Ding passed away. Loni Ding* was an multiple Emmy award winning filmmaker, producer, activist, artist and teacher. She joins the list of distinguished Asian American sheroes and heroes who have passed on in the past year. My condolences to her family and those who love her.

My junior year at Cal, I had the honor of taking Loni Ding's Ethnic Studies class called Documentary Film in Communities of Color. We spent a quarter of the semester in a traditional film studies class and spent the rest of the semester working on our own documentary.

That was a crazy semester with a lot of long nights and weekends filming and editing. It took us forever to figure out how to smuggle our mini dv camera into the Media Resources Center in Moffit Library so we could copy clips from films/ docs to use as b-roll.

Anyway, the first time I met Loni Ding (and pretty much every time I saw her after then), I thought, "Loni Ding is genius and crazy!" Crazy in the best way of course! She embodied life. Loni Ding had so much vibrant spunkiness to her. She knew what she wanted and got it. She knew what she wanted from us as well and had no problem letting us know. Her outlook, her art, and her way of being complexified for me what it could mean to be Asian American.

At the time I took Loni Ding's class, I think was in her early 70s, but you would never know it. We only had 3 clues to her age 1) She always yelled at us to "Stop muttering! I can't hear you! Why do you all mutter?!" But it was really her hearing. I used to wonder, how has she not figured it out yet? 2) She always yelled somewhat because of her hearing and 3) Once my group went to her house for a meeting. It was totally something you would see in the movies. Long shot from the street: Three Asian American college students approach an old house. Trees and plants are growing everywhere. Birds eye angle of the students and house: Students gaze up, look around and wonder, Where is the entrance? Extreme close up: Hand knocking on a door. Medium shot: students look at each other nervously. We hear creaking, squeaky door hinges and a voice off to the right that yells, "What are you doing over there! Come here!" Pan far right to the other side of the house, up some stairs: enter Loni Ding shaking her head at the silly college students.

Thank you Loni Ding for these memories. RIP

Loni Ding on developing her identity as Chinese American and as artist:


"Before I went to Mexico, my whole sense of myself and my esthetic sense of what I liked in shapes and colors in clothing, furniture, sculpture, buildings, anything, was really into WASP culture. I liked gray colors, linear, Gothic shapes and hollow-cheeked people. I wanted to be a hollow-cheeked person, a wispy, tubercular type. Instead I was sturdy, chunky, mesomorphic.

Then I hit Mexico. I just went for the work camp but ended up seeing the murals of Diego Rivera, Orozco, and a lot of countryside of Mexico—the colors of the earth and people. I started to see that all the good people in the Rivera murals were the round, brown people: I saw the orange and the reds, the deep greens and the purples of the culture, and the round bodies painted by Rivera. When they sat down on the little chairs, part of their buttocks would hang over the edge! Very real and tender. The lean, gaunt faces were of Henry Ford, Rockefeller, the Conquistadors—the evil people.

When I came back my tastes had completely turned around. I looked in the mirror and I rather liked this round person that I saw! Everything turned into reds, oranges and brilliant colors. I also looked differently at someone like Eric Sevareid, the news commentator who was a classic WASP type. I used to think that he was the absolute last word. And when Sir Kenneth Clark, in a PBS series, would talk about "Civilization," by which he meant only western European culture—I used to think that this was wonderful.

Well, when I got back I suddenly looked at both of these men with a totally distant eye. I had a skeptical attitude, and they no longer had any power over me. I thought they were quite ordinary."



On why she does her work
"For the problem of absence, the main work is to create presence. My preferred approach is to displace stereotypes by creating vital images of Asian Americans as real human beings, with individual faces, voices, and personal histories that we come to know and care about.

They would not be the Americans whose differences are dissolved in the "melting pot," but people speaking with the distinctive accents and rhythms of their real individual and family histories; neither looking nor sounding like the "typical American."

Authentic images of minorities do not abound. For ourselves too, we have a need for the objectifying record. We think we know what we look and sound like, until we’re surprised or shocked by hearing our actual voices on a tape recorder, or seeing our physical selves in moving images".


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*For some reason, I never feel comfortable calling her "Loni", she is always Loni Ding to me!

I hate train tracks

Last night I made plans for a long (for me) bike ride this weekend. I'm a little rusty in my biking skills and nervous about biking so far so I decided to ready myself by pedaling to work this morning. This helps me get used to riding in traffic and gets my bum used to the saddle again. I also was worried about falling on the long weekend ride and being to scared to finish the ride. I figured if I fell on a short ride, I could get my nerves together better and just generally be used to falling. Yes, I am that uncoordinated that I anticipate falling all the time.

I pumped up my tires at midnight, fixed my fenders and filled up my water bottle, ready to go. This morning I hoped on and pedaled over the bridge, under the highway, and on the Embarcadero. Vroom vroom vroom or whatever the noise is that bikes make. Three-quarters of the way there I fell. Hard.

My bike flipped over as I was crossing a set of train tracks. I fell off and bruised my legs up really bad. Thank goodness I was wearing jeans and gloves as that saved my knees and hands. A cop stopped and started to ask me questions about how I fell, even though he obviously saw the whole thing/ I was too disoriented to answer, super flustered, embarrassed, scared (that for some reason I was going to get a ticket for falling off my bike) and in a lot of pain. I jumped up off the ground, put my shit back in my basket (which was really bent from the fall) and said incoherently, "the tracks... train.. crossing...". The cop just shook his head and sped off. I as relieved that I didn't get a ticket (why would I worry about that tho?) and then was sad b/c I realized I was too scared to get back on my bike and could have hitched a ride w/ the cop.

I made it to work but was wobbly all day long. My bike basket was crushed; my legs ached; my pinky was bleeding; and my wrists were really sore. To top it off, a piece of my pedal even broke off! So scary.

At the end of the day, I had to gather up all of my energy and courage to bike home and cross those same tracks. My bike commute requires me to cross train tracks 8 times one way; 16 times round trip. Very, very scary. On the way back, I rode over tracks 1,2, and 3 just fine. When I got to 4 though-- the set I originally fell on-- I couldn't do it. I had to fully dismount my bike and walk it across the tracks. Yes, I was that shaken up. Yes, I am happy I fell today so that if I fall again on the weekend bike ride, I will already be an expert.

I am also happy cuz my bike was so messed up I had to take my bike to Alameda Bike to get it adjusted. There I learned some new tips on how to avoid falling on those damn tracks. yay bikes! boo train tracks!

Mehn-su,1992

Mehn-su,1992

I looked down and saw a small stain on my cartoon-printed underwear. Panic rushed over my body. What is this? Am I dying? I yanked up my pajama bottoms and sprinted towards my Unie’s room for help. I stopped at her door, waited for her to look up, and said in a small, scared voice, “Unie? Something’s wrong.”

At ten years old, I didn’t know what it meant to have a period. All I knew was that my mom would buy gigantic Kotex pads would wrap them neatly in tissue before depositing them into the wastebasket. The year before I started my period, in fourth grade, the girls had a day of “Sexual Health Education.” My parents checked the “NO, I do not consent” box on my form. My um-ma and ap-pah grew up after the Korean War, when there was certainly no such thing as Sex Ed. The letter from my elementary school explained the purpose of Sex Ed, but my parents spoke limited English and they only needed to understand one word: SEX. So, while all the girls learned about periods, pads, and puberty, I sat with the boys and watched “Big Ben”, a movie about a brown bear.

The morning that my period first started, my sister handed me one of my mom’s bulgy pads and showed me how to use it. I secretly wondered why there was no “belt” as my only exposure to periods and pads was from an outdated version of “Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret” in which Margaret and her friends yearn for their periods and practice fastening belts to a pad. I also wondered, How often should I change my pad? How should I take a shower? How long my period would last? Why did I have it? And most importantly, How could I keep everyone from seeing the outline of this bulgy, extra-long, overnight Kotex from the back of my Bongo shorts? This was my introduction to my period: many questions and no answers.

My um-ma didn’t find out that I had started my period until three days later. I didn’t know how to say “period” in Korean. In true tradition, she simply asked me if I had started my mehn-su. I had no idea what mehn-su meant but from my um-ma’s tone, I could guess that she was talking about my period. I slowly nodded my head and she yelled in exasperation, “You’re so young! Why are you starting so soon?!” I clearly did not have the answer, so I silently added it to my growing list of questions about my period.

It wasn’t until sixth grade, when I slyly moved the checkmark from the NO box to the YES box, that I finally got some answers.

in My Little Red Book

Thank you Ron Takaki

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/31/education/31takaki.html

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/06/01/BA7B17T6TQ.DTL

Like many students at Berkeley, I first heard of Ron Takaki in my Asian Am 20A. Strangers From a Different Shore was one of the many books we were assigned to read but it was the book that had the biggest impact on my life. Two years later in my junior year of college, I had the honor of taking a small research seminar led by Professor Takaki. We met in a dark classroom in Wheeler Hall once a week. Creaky chairs, too small tables, dusty blackboards. The 15 or so of us, including Professor Takaki, sat in a small circle every class period sharing our research. Professor Takaki opened up the semester asking us his famous question, “How do you know you know what you know?” and we spent the first three weeks of the class sharing our epistemologies. Riveting to learn from him. Riveting to learn from each other.

Professor Takaki’s discussion of his epistemology deeply resonated with me and still does. I was moved to hear him share his experience entering academia, publishing his first book, and going home to Hawaii to his family. His uncle said to him, “Hey Ronnie, it’s good that you did all that but when are you going to write something for us? Something that we can read?” And that shaped the rest of his career as a historian, writer, researcher, and teacher. He told us this story at a time when I was struggling to reconcile my own identies as a student in Asian American Studies and as a daughter of Korean immigrants. Every time I went home to San Diego, I left something behind in Berkeley. Every time I left to Berkeley, I left something behind in San Diego. At that point it was something I had never talked about and instead struggled alone in this constricting binary paradigm.

But I digress.

Professor Takaki invited our class to his house for lunch. He took us on a tour of his study which was really a basement room with a bunch of filing cabinets. On top of the file cabinets you could see plaques and awards collecting dust. An after thought. He proudly showed us the paintings that he and his wife Carol made (I don’t remember what the style is called, one was a mallard duck though!). In the living room there sat a piano that was cluttered 40 photos or so of their children and grand children. The only thing that could make you think this man was a big deal was a picture of Professor Takaki and President Clinton taped to the wall. No frame. Just tape.

In that seminar, Professor Takaki was so supportive of me and my writing. Even though we were just undergrads, you could tell he really cared about our writing and storytelling. Out of his class came my paper Yuhl-Sheem, which is captured in this blog as a series (See Tag: Yuhl-Sheem).

In the past year I have thought a lot about Ron Takaki. He has been on my mind as I identified my dissertation topic and did some preliminary work in the spring semester. Even more so, in the past few months, I have come to a strong realization that Ron Takaki has influenced me beyond academia and into my work as an educational practitioner. The work I did in Richmond and the way in which I did my work was deeply rooted in working with my students to shape, name, and tell their stories as young folks who live on the margins and to find ways to develop fluency in multiple Discourses so that we may retell our powerful stories.

I was so saddened when I read about Ron Takaki’s passing. Short of breath when I read how he passed. I send my deepest condolences to his family and the thousands of other people who have been profoundly touched by his work and life.

Yuhl-Sheem 12

That night I called Christen who was in her last year of undergraduate school at Yale. I told her what happened. I asked her to translate the events that lead up to my firing and write a letter so I could take it to an attorney. It wasn’t fair. I’m suing because I think of the other women that I worked with. It makes me sad to think of those women working there. They work the hardest because they couldn’t go to college and get the least in return. The people who came out of college and work there do nothing and make the most money. I don’t want the Marriot to do the same thing to these women. They have such hard lives. Big corporations shouldn’t make it harder for them.

In America you have to have everything documented. That’s the only thing that counts if you want justice. Since I got injured at work my whole body hurts. If I sit for more than a few minutes I feel like my bones are going to crumble. When I sleep on my back at night and I try to roll over I can't because of the pain. If I sit in the car for more than half and hour, I get shooting pains into my lower back when I try to stand up. I hurt so much and I still went to work. They still ripped me off. None of this matters unless it is on paper. I told this all to my daughter crying from anger and sadness.

My husband had been very supportive of me during this whole time. He knows everything that has happened to me and he knows where my pride and where my shame is. He saves Korean newspaper clippings that give websites and advice for immigrants. They're posted up all over our refrigerator with pictures and postcards from our daughters. On one of these clippings is a website for the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) and one is for Workers Compensation. He went to the EEOC and filled out paperwork for me. It took him days to fill out the paperwork because he would have to go back every day with questions. He would stand in line for a long time to help me. After three months the EEOC did an investigation and said they found nothing. The letter they sent us did say that we could file for a hearing if we were not satisfied with their findings.

We decided to file for a hearing. Before the hearing I had to have a deposition. The hotel's lawyers kept asking me the same questions over and over again. They were harassing me, trying to catch me in a lie. We didn't have a lawyer then so we didn't know that they couldn't harass me. I was questioned for hours and hours. They let my husband stay in the room as long as he didn't make any sort of looks or signal to me or say anything. They kicked him out though after a little bit. The translator made a wrong translation and my husband spoke up and corrected her. They were so mad. They told him to leave the room and he said, “Who is supposed to correct the translator? You don’t know if the translator makes a mistake! My wife doesn't know if the translator makes a mistake! This is ridiculous!” That was the last straw. The attorneys made him wait outside.

When we finally went to the hearing it was me and my husband standing up against the lawyers of the hotel's insurance company. They told the judge that I had been injured somewhere else and was trying to scam the hotel. The insurance company lawyers said they did an investigation and couldn’t find anything. The judge asked us if there was any doubt that I had been injured on the job. I said that there was no doubt and that I hurt myself on the job. She asked if we had proof. My husband said yes and he pulled out the letter my daughter had written to Ron. The insurance lawyers were so surprised! They were all scrambling through their papers and whispering frantically to each other, not knowing what had happened. Robert and the hotel lied to them and kept the letter from them. The judge said that the letter was proof that I was injured and that I should receive treatment. She told us that we should sue but that we need a lawyer. She was so surprised that we made it to a hearing without a lawyer! She said only people with lawyers file for a hearing. She asked us how we made it this far and my husband said, “I just asked a lot of questions and filled out the paperwork.” We told her that we couldn't hire a lawyer because we didn't have enough money. The judge let us know that workers compensation lawyers are only paid if you win, no up front money. That’s why we now have a lawyer. Even though we have a lawyer, the hotel is still doing illegal things by keeping documents from us.

My younger daughter asked me how I got up the nerve to sue such a huge corporation. I think that in America it is a lot easier to get justice. America still has a lot of problems but it is better than other countries. It has laws to help protect the powerless. I know this sounds corny but I love America. To me, America really is like the song America, the Beautiful.

i love my students

my students are encouraging and inspiring.

on monday, i did a thesis-statement writing workshop w/ my students. we identified different components of a thesis statement, looked at 3 examples of UC-personal statement thesis statements, dissected them, etc etc. my plan was for them to work individually and write a thesis statement for their personal statement draft. after 5 minutes of working, i could tell they were stuck so i asked them if they wanted to verbalize their thesis components (concession, assertion, reason, significance) to the group and work through them together.

it was amazing. yes, in the end they were able to accomplish the task, but in addition to that they were uplifting and validating each other.

example: rudolfo's writing about the accelerated math program he's taking advantage of. junior year, students cram through alg 2 in a semester and cram through Calc AB the spring semester. Senior year, students take calc BC as a year-long pace. the class of 2007 is the first class who is doing this. anyway, rudolfo has been really hesitant to write about this b/c he struggled through the class. he thought writing about the struggle would make him look "dumb". even after multiple conversations and drafts, i knew he still felt like it might not be the right topic. on monday, when he shared w/ the other kids his topic and working thesis he had the following:
concession: Math is my most difficult subject
assertion: I enrolled in an accelerated math program at my high school
Reason: I know that higher level math will prepare me from college.
Significance: BLANK.

my students always struggle at the significance. the so what? they hate that i always ask them, so what? why are you telling me this? what am i supposed to learn?

anyway, rudy started questioning the topic again and the significance. "did i really get anything out of it?" the other students started jumping writing it. "you totally need to write about that. out of everyone in the class you worked the hardest! remember how we all had mr. spear the year before and you were in mr. hunn's class? and mr. hunn didn't teach you anything? you were really behind. you stayed every evening working w/ mr spear to catch up. you missed all the club meetings b/c you were getting tutoring during lunch. remember when we visited so cal? you were the one that made us take our calc books so we could study in the hotel! you could have dropped the class but you didn't. you didn't give up. you ended up w/ an A-!" etc etc etc. Rudy's face totally lit up. these kids were repeating everything i had already pulled from up and reinforced, but it was different b/c it was coming from his friends, who according to him are the "smart" ones. and then he saw the significance of this-- not just that he went from a quarter grade of a D to an A, but that he didn't give up, he knew he had to ASK and SEEK support from his teacher and his classmates.

example two: Edgardo's worksheet had something like

concession: Richmond has a lot of social problems. There's a lot of poverty and hopelessness.
assertion: I started Y-ME? a club that helps our community
reason: b/c nobody is going to help us, we have to help ourselves. it's not fair that we live like this. most of us won't leave the city to go to college so people are suck here. anyway, people shouldn't have to leave their homes for a better life or a safer place to live.
significance: BLANK

Edgardo started talking about his passion for social justice and activism (he didn't use those words). he had a lot of reasons written and verbalized even more. he's a very silly and fun young man at times but also sometimes quiet, observant and introspective. as he kept talking about what why he started Y-ME? and he started talking about the community he got pretty emotional and started getting tears in his eyes. i think at first all the other kids didn't know how to react. i think maybe they were in a bit of disbelief. edgardo kept talking about how it's important for people inside and outside richmond to really think about what's going on and try to make a difference. then the other students started talking about the huge change the club has made on the campus and in the lives of the students in the club. "people care now b/c of you. people think they can actually do something and then they do it. you didn't even like talking in front of people but you started this club and you have to make the presentations and do the workshops and nobody can even tell that you're nervous. well we know, cuz we know you, but it doesn't seem like you're nervous. people are starting to change here and its because of you." edgardo didn't quite finish his thesis statement. we're working through a lot different topics. i'm trying to help him create a new outline that is more focused. right now it clearly demonstrates his passion through his words, but not through his actions. it's more "this is important because" not "b/c this is important, i did...." but no worries... it's a process. he'll finish.


although these examples may seem a bit small, to me they are HUGE. one of the biggest barriers of helping students write their uc personal statement is that they are asked to write about themselves-- their greatness and their contributions. they must showcase themselves. the students that i work with, who are primarily students of color, children of immigrants, and from working class families often come from a cultural background where you don't talk about all the great things you're doing, all the awards you've won. you refuse your compliments. you're brought up to think you shouldn't be proud of something you did, you're just doing what you needed to be doing. the college essay caters and thrives on a white middle class culture of entitlement, ownership, and perservation and adoration of self. it's so hard to get my students to "fake it" to write the statement. i know it feels so awkward, embarrassing, prideful, shameful to write about yourself in the way that basically declares, "HEY ADMISSIONS, I'M THE SHIT!!!!!" helping my students navigate that culture is very, very difficult. the beauty of monday was that the students affirmed each other. they have infinite confidence in each other. when they share their thoughts w/ each other and hear what other ppl think of them, they start to build the confidence that needs to come through in the essay. all of a sudden, it's not just me telling them that they are smart, resourceful, caring, leaders, etc etc but they're hearing from their friends. it is very beautiful.


p.s. sorry for the occassion posting. i've been very busy. i want to blog more often b/c its a way for me to preserve the happy things about work and life.... i still need to blog about the T4SJ conference.....

Denial

Tonight, I called in an order for chickan biryani-spicy to my favorite Indian restuarant called House of Curries (formerly Naan n Curry) on College Ave. Since I'm picking up the order and still recovering from a late Friday night and a long day at the Teachers 4 Social Justice conference (will blog about taht later), I'm dressed like a total scrub. Anyway I walk in to pick up my order and this is what happened:

Me: Hi, I'm here to pick up my order
House of Curries Guy 1: Are you Amy?
Me: Yup
Guy 1: It's going to be a minute.
Guy 2: You're not Amy are you?
Me: Yes
:Guy 1: Are you Amy Amy?
Me: ?
Guy 2 proceeds to pull out a piece of paper from under the counter and hands it to me.
Guy 2: Is this you?
I take the paper and read it over. It's a review from Yelp! that reads : "chicken briyani, extra spicy... pure goodness. i've never had anything bad at this location. i love the mildness (perhaps watered down?) of the FREE chai, the blaring music, the spiciness, and of course the hot guys who work at the counter." written by Amy L.
Me: Um, I'm Amy but that's not me
Guy 1: Well, we thought it was you because you're Amy and you ordered chicken biryani spicy.
Me: oh... nope, not me.
Guy 1 to Guy 2: Well, what about that other girl?
Guy 2: No, I know her. Her name's not Amy.
Guy 3 (super hot dude) comes out and hands me my spicy chicken biryani. I pay, say thanks, and leave


DOH!!!!!! OF COURSE that is my review! when i realized what they handed me I was super embarrassed because of the hot guy remark. i couldn't confess b/c i looked like a scrub! damn. I should have gotten the biryani last night when i was REALLY craving it and looking smokin' hot!

next time? i'm calling in and requesting chicken biryani, extra spicy. and when they ask for my name, i'm going to say, Amy L. and of course, i'll make sure i look good when i go in!

Yuhl-Sheem (11)

I only worked at the hotel for a few months. I was fired because I wouldn’t work on Sundays. On my application I wrote that I could not work Sundays because of church. Also, at my interview I said I couldn’t work Sundays. After they hired me they would post my schedule every week and schedule me to work Sundays. All the other ladies at least had one Sunday off. I was scheduled for every single Sunday. I went to Robert, one of the managers, and asked him for Sunday off. He said, “The hotel business is 24 hours a day 7 days a week; I can’t do anything to help you.” Sometimes when I couldn't find Robert, I would tell my supervisors, Carlos and Rudolph, that I couldn't come to work on Sunday. They would tell me that it was fine.

My shoulders and my back kept hurting so I finally went to the doctor. I got shots but I still had a lot of pain. I had to schedule an MRI. The Thursday before my appointment I told Robert that I had a doctor’s appointment for the next day. He said, “What? What? Speak up!” So I got closer and said it louder. I also asked him again to switch my Sunday schedule. He was upset and made me follow him to the Human Resources department. He was looking for Michael, the head of the HR department. The secretary told Robert that Michael wasn’t in and she asked what the problem was. He yelled and said, “This woman doesn’t want to work on Sundays!” The secretary looked at me and said the same thing that Ron had told me about the hotel business being 7 days a week.

I said, “I know. I know, but when I interviewed with Robert I said, ‘ No work Sunday.’” I said to her, “Please, please, I go to church on Sundays.” The secretary’s eyes got really big and she said in a nasty voice, “Go to church Sunday morning and come to work in the afternoon! Or tell your pastor that you can’t come to church because you work!” Her eyes were so big and angry. I thought she was going to grab me and tear me up. If I could speak English well I would have said, “Hey! Who are you to talk to me like this?” That’s what I wanted to say but I couldn’t say it in English. I felt so bad inside that I wanted to cry. But I kept it held inside of me. I did not cry. They told me to wait and they went inside the HR office. They talked for 20 minutes or so and came out and just told me to go home.

On Friday I didn’t go to work because of my doctor’s appointment. The following Saturday when I went to work in the morning Robert called me into his office and asked me again, “Why didn’t you come to work yesterday?” I said, “I told you that I had a doctor’s appointment. I told you yesterday.” He said, “Well if your arm hurts so much why don’t you go find another job? You don’t even want to work on Sundays. Why don’t you find another job?” He was trying to get me to quit. I told him, “No. I like it here.”

Then the woman who writes out our schedule asked Robert how many rooms she should put me down for. Robert whispered something in her ear. She looked at me like she was sorry and put me down for only six rooms. He was cutting my work time short. He stood there for a while. He finally said, “Look, I like you. The other women like you and you work hard but I have to take the side of the hotel. You have to work on Sundays.” We went back and forth for a little bit more and he finally told me to go start my rooms. After I finished my six rooms I had nothing to do. I was hired fulltime though so I went downstairs to the laundry room and helped them for the rest of my day.

On Monday I went into work and looked at my schedule. I had no rooms assigned to me. My supervisor Carlos said to me softly, “Song, come wait here (meaning in front of Robert’s office).” Carlos looked sad. Robert called Carlos in and they talked for a while. Carlos came back out and told me that Robert wanted me to wait longer. I waited for 20 minutes. I was so mad. I came to work that day and Robert had no reason to be so mean to me. He thinks because he’s the manager he can do whatever he wants, treat people however he wants. I finally just walked into his office and said, “Should I work in the laundry today?” Robert told me, “No. No more work for you. You don’t want to work on Sundays. You say you're sick. You can’t work here anymore.” I said to him, “I don’t speak that much English. Please talk to my husband about Sundays.” Robert told me he had talked to my husband several times but they had not agreed. Robert told me that he and Michael in Human Resources had already decided not to give me any more work. He said to bring my husband to the hotel on Friday if he had any questions. I told him, “No, I still want to work. I don’t want to go.” He said, “No. You’re done.” I stood there for a bit and finally said, “Are you sure?” He was quiet. I said it again, “Are you sure?” After a few seconds he said, “Go home.”

Before I went home I looked at my name on the schedule. Robert had written that I had not called in to say I wouldn’t be in on Sunday. I told him twice that week that I wouldn’t come in on Sunday. My husband also called him and left him a message on his cell phone. He wrote a lie on my schedule. He was covering up for himself. It was done.

Before I left, Carlos looked at me and shook his head in dismay and said, “I'm so sorry. It wasn’t right what Robert did.” The other women were upset too and hugged me before I left.

School Day Cupcakes

The LA Times has this story on the banning of cupcakes and other unhealthy foods from classrooms in an attempt to curb obesity. Apparently this is creating mini-cupcake rebellions by parents who are pissed that their child can't be the center of a sugary celebration on their special day. Texas even passed a Safe Cupcake amendment to ensure a parent's rights to bring cupcakes into the classroom.

I actually don't care about this story at all, but it does remind me of a story from my childhood (surprise, surprise)...

I am a summer baby and was always a bit sad that my birthday was never celebrated at school. Thank goodness for year-round school!!! By the time third-grade rolled around I was on a track that had me in school in my birthday month! sweet, i thought. I FINALLY get to be the center of attention... The envied one... muhahahahhaha...

As my birthday approached, I told my parents about the coveted cupcake tradition. I guess they thought it was pretty cool, so the night before my birthday we went to our local grocery store to buy these mini-confections. Did I leave with a class set of sprinkled cupcakes? Nope. What did I leave with?

BLUEBERRY MINI-MUFFINS

My parents decided the cupcakes were too expensive to buy for the whole class, so instead they bought me blueberry mini-muffins*. I was seriously devastated. I'm sure my parents didn't think it was a big deal. Not only were they both in the bakery section, but to the untrained eye, cupcakes and muffins may look similar so mini-muffins should be fine right? Despite my sadness, I accepted the mini-muffins w/out protest. I didn't want to hurt my parents feelings, but my little third-grade throat definitely tightened... sigh...

so the story ends with me bitterly walking to school w/ my Albertson's plastic bag of mini-muffins, contemplating throwing them out before I arrived at school. I was also definitely sad that I had to bring them myself, rather than have my parents bring them to class w/ ice cream or something. I ended up reluctantly sharing them with my classmates, who loved them, but I was still a bit bummed in the end.

this story isn't sad or anything but whenever my sister and i see mini-muffins we always crack up at the , "Remember when...?"



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*so cupcakes aren't that expensive, but for us they were. not only were we pretty poor, but we rarely bought snacks and goodies so this was definitely going to be unusual. on top of that my parents dont think birthdays are important. i think i may have "celebrated" 5-7 birthdays with my parents; they don't even call to say happy birthday now. it wasn't a big deal to them, so why should be a big deal to a third-grader right? b/c EVERYTHING is a big deal to third-graders!

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I was the only Asian kid in my class, i'm pretty sure everyone else was white. now when i think about my mini muffin fiasco, i'm convinced that i was hyper aware of being different and thought that it would reinforce how different i was. as if the mini muffins were the apple in the Garden of Eden and eating them would open up the kids eyes to the fact that I'm Korean!!!!

Yuhl-Sheem (10)

I have a lot of pity and sadness for women who do housekeeping. Even though we didn't really share a language, I felt close to the Mexican women workers. The housekeepers have the hardest work to do in the hotels but they get the least amount of money. When I worked there I lost a lot of pride. Sometimes I couldn’t keep my head straight. I would come home and not want to eat anything. It was a hard time. I would work 9-5. When I came home my husband would be sleeping so he would be ready for his night shift. I'd make dinner for us and we would spend some time together but then he would have to leave for work at night. When he would come home in the morning, I would be leaving for work. When I would sleep he would work. When I would work he would sleep.


At lunchtime I would eat with the other ladies and they would talk about their problems with their kids. So then I would think, well I’m not the worst off. I would think about my daughters at the best universities and my mah-uhm would feel better. I know that they will never have to do the type of work I have to do.


The work I did at the hotel was very physical. I would have to bend over a lot to scrub the toilets and the bathtub. I had to push around heavy carts and lift up the mattresses to fix the sheets. After awhile I started to have pain in my shoulder and lower back. I went and told Rob, the department manager, that I had hurt myself. He dismissed my complaint and told me to go back to work. The pains didn't stop. I had Christen write a letter to Rob telling him that I had been injured and asking that I be given less physical work. After Rob got the letter he told me if I needed help to ask him and he would help me. Of course, he was never around when I needed help.

Yuhl-Sheem (9)

Two or three years later both of my daughters were in college. Christen was in her last year of undergraduate school at and Amy was in her second year. Again, I wanted to send them just a little bit of money, enough for books. My mah-uhm hurts when I think of my daughters trying to study and work at the same time. I would think of Amy who was at work more than she was in class and I was willing to do anything to help my children.

I started working at a newly built hotel. I was hired as a housekeeper. I was the only non-Spanish speaking housekeeper. Even though my co-workers and I couldn’t really communicate because most of them spoke Spanish, we got along. Also my supervisors were nice to me because I worked hard. It was my first time doing housekeeping in a hotel, but I was good at it. The other ladies would ask me how long I had been doing it and I’d say, “First time.” They would be so surprised.


At lunchtime we would sit together. If you looked at the cafeteria everyone sat according to their department. The other housekeepers and I would sit together and try to chat. I would bring apples for lunch and cut them up so we could all eat them together. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t verbally communicate. We were all housekeepers. None of us went to college; we’re all alike.


Housekeeping is hard and humiliating work. I would knock on the room doors and say “Housekeeping” to see if anyone was in there. After a little bit, if nobody answered I would take my key and open the door. Sometimes there were men in there! I would tell them that I’d come back but they would tell me to go ahead and clean. I was scared. If somebody else was in the room I’d always keep the door open. One time I had to clean a room and it smelled heavily of cigarettes. I couldn’t breathe because it smelled so disgusting. I propped the door open to air out the room but the guest told me to close the door because he had a cold. I told him that I couldn’t breathe because of the smell; I was coughing and everything. He still made me close the door. So I tried to clean it in a hurry but he would say, “You missed a spot. Clean over there.” That bastard didn’t even give me a tip. Most of the customers don’t tip. The families on vacation would tip, but not the business people. The business people always leave the biggest messes too and they still don’t tip!


When I first started working we had to set up the rooms before the grand opening. We had to get all the sheets on the bed, wipe down all the furniture down, hang up the shower curtains and put the new furniture in place. It was too much hard work. When I worked at the hotel I cried so much. It was back-breaking work. I would be working all day and I would get thirsty. I would want water but I would have to take the elevator to another floor and that would waste time so I wouldn’t even drink water. In 8 hours I had to clean 15 rooms. The manager gave me all the smoking rooms. I was the only one who was assigned to clean these rooms. Everything smelled like smoke, even the floors. One time I got so mad that I took a drinking glass in the bathroom and threw it at the wall. It shattered into pieces and I felt good.

Yuhl-Sheem (8)

When Amy started high school, James started working at a hotel. Even though he was working, there still wasn't enough money. For extra money he delivered newspapers early in the morning. Later he found a better job at a luxury hotel but he had to work the graveyard shift. It was the only shift he could take that didn't require him to work Sundays; it also paid a little bit more money. He would leave for work around 10 p.m. and come back around 8 a.m. He would only be home for a little bit because he would leave to put in a few more hours at a school cafeteria. My husband works so many hard hours that it fills me with sorrow.

I couldn't sleep when my husband worked nights. It was too strange to sleep by myself. My daughters would take turns sleeping in my bed with me. I would lie in bed and think, “If only he had gone to school here his life wouldn't be so hard.” He is such a good, kind, and humble man. Even though we don't have money, God has blessed our family with love and happiness.

As Christen was about to go to college I decided that I needed to start working. I didn't want her to work while she was in school. She was going to Yale; I thought she should spend her time studying, not working. I also wanted money to pay back some money I had borrowed.

I was tired of not having money and not working. I didn’t know what kind of work I could do. I had little skills and didn’t like the idea of somebody ordering me around. Finally, I decided to do garment work for a while. The garment factory was in LA so the manager said I could take a sewing machine home and do my work at home. He said I could make $2,000 a month. So every weekend we would drive from San Diego to L.A. to pick up pieces and patterns. We would also drop off all the shirts that I had made. But I didn't even make $2,000 a month. I only made $800. I would get up at 5 in the morning and stop at midnight. Everyday. I only made $800 a month- about $30 a day. My back started to hurt and so did my shoulder. It ached so much. Even though it was hard work, I would have still done it for $2,000 a month. I went back and talked to the manager about my pay and how he had lied to me. He didn't care. He simply said, "Bring back your sewing machine." I did just that. People in the garment industry are crooks. They exploit people. Around that time I saw on the news that a group of Mexican women sued a factory owner. They won. I was so proud. It made my mah-uhm feel cleansed and refreshed.

Yuhl-Sheem (7)

Our family stopped going to church then too. There was a scandal with our minister at that time. He had convinced our family to donate money to buy a church van. We thought it was a good idea; the church could use the van for the youth group and to pick up the elderly church members. We gave a lot of money. In the end, the minister kept the money for himself. The other congregants didn't seem to know or care. They got mad at us and thought we were lying. One of the men yelled at me and said, "You're a woman! You need to keep quiet and listen to the men! How dare you talk so much?" I yelled right back at him and said, "Yes I am a woman, so what? Women have minds and eyes and also know what is going on." We left that church. It was around the same time that we lost our business. I didn't go to church or go to work for a long time.


All that time I didn't go to church it didn't feel right. It was very uncomfortable. Something was missing. I wanted to hear hymnals being sung; I wanted to sing; I wanted to hear sermons; I wanted to worship. My life felt so different then; I didn't know that it was because I wasn't going to church until much later. As Christians we should go to church. We need to go to worship. That's why we went back to church.


The first few years after the bankruptcy were very hard for me. I didn't feel like I could talk to anybody about it. I had my husband but I didn't want to make him feel bad. I didn't want to bother my family either. My parents and brothers and sister are very close to me but I didn't want to burden them so I kept a lot of my feelings inside of me.


Then, and now, I didn’t really have any friends to talk to either. Korean people make friends at church. They think a lot about money and are always competitive about their kids. I don't really care for that. I admit though, sometimes there are women at church that I want to talk to but almost all of them went to college in Korea. So even if I want to talk to them, I have a complex. I feel like I can't talk to them because I didn't go to college. Because I think about that a lot, I can't make friends. Even my husband knows that. But then I try to think that even though they went to college there are other things that I know that they don't. A lot of the times I look at their kids who run around all the time or do bad things. In the end I try to remind myself that they're not better than me because they went to college. I think so what? I didn't go to college, but there are still lots of things that I know. So what? And I just move on.

Because I couldn’t go to school, this is my biggest dream for my daughters. After we moved back into an apartment I felt so sorry for them. Our apartment was so little and crowded. James and I worried about the well being of our daughters. The room they shared was so little and dark; I didn't want them to be like my plants: cramped and suffocated. My husband and I decided to give our daughters the master bedroom in the apartment so they could have enough room to think and do their homework. So from that day to the day Christen went off to college, the two of them shared the bigger room.

Yuhl-Sheem (6)

After the first Gulf War, the economy went bad. A lot of our customers ended up getting laid off and had to move to other states. We also had contracts with big companies and hotels and a lot of these businesses had gone under. So after a couple of years fifty percent of our customers had moved away. It was hard-- we had payments to make.

That year was very difficult for our whole family. Christen had started high school and we had enrolled her in a school that was out of our district. We had read in the newspaper that many students from a particular high school graduated and went to an Ivy League or another top school. It was the best public school in San Diego County. Because it was so far away James would have to drive Christen to school before he came to the cleaners and pick her up after our store closed. She would spend an hour in the library before school started and three hours after school ended. We wanted to give our girls everything we never had but it was getting harder and harder to do so.

As our business got smaller I had more stress. We had so many payments to make: $2,400 in house payments, $2,500 in payments to the elder from our church whose business we had bought, and $3,000 in rent payments for our cleaners. It was too much. For almost a year, after all our payments were made we still had $5,000 a month. In the end, after five years of business, we couldn’t even make our payments. We were in debt. Even when our business was good we hadn't been extravagant with our money. We had bought a house, but had never owned a new car or bought anything with a designer label. Even our furniture was old. All the money we had saved had gone to make back payments.

In the end we decided not to sell the business. We just left it. We didn’t want to sell it to anybody because it was failing. A broker had a person who wanted to buy our business but we didn’t want anyone else to suffer like we did so we just closed our doors. We also helped Lola and Margarita find new jobs; we didn't want them to suffer either. We couldn’t meet the mortgages on our house so we had to file for bankruptcy. I cried so much then. Since I was born, that’s the time when I cried the most. My mah-uhm was broken. I cried every night, all night long. We had back payments on the mortgage and the property taxes. We couldn’t sell our house either because of the economy. So the bank repossessed our home.

After we went bankrupt we moved out of our house and back into an apartment. It was so little and cramped compared to our house. It was hard to live at first. Nobody in our house worked for about a year or two. We had property in Korea that we had inherited and sold so we used that money and also borrowed some money to live. I didn't work for many years. I had so much stress from the dry cleaners and the bankruptcy that I couldn't work. I had no heart to work. I just wanted to stay home. I was so sad then.

Even though I didn't want to work or leave the apartment I hated being in the apartment. I felt trapped. It was so cramped compared to our house. We had given away a lot of our material things that we didn't have room for like our barbeque, our daughters' bikes, and some of our furniture but we still had a lot of things. It was all crammed into a two -bedroom apartment. The tiny balcony in our apartment that replaced our backyard was overflowing with plants and flowers. There wasn't enough sunlight coming in. My plants were overcrowded so some of them started to die. In the end I had to give many of them away.

dental torture

normally i'm very good at the dentist. like many children of immigrant entreprueners we did not have health/ dental insurance for a very long time. in fact, the first time i really remember going to the dentist was in 10th grade! so many years of never visiting the dentist resulted in a root canal on my first visit. :( depsite this, i enjoy going to get my teeth cleaned. it's kind of refreshing. today's appointment was totally different.

let me start off by saying i really don't like my dentist. you can tell that he thinks he's very good looking and that his work is extremely important, like life changing. he lectures me constantly about the importance of flossing, tells me everything about anything related to teeth, and thinks he's so pro that he knows my dental history w/out looking at my chart. "i see you had braces." "no i didn't." "of course you did." "no, really i didn't." "are you sure? lemme check your file." wtf? OF COURSE i would know if i had braces. goodness.

what is most irritating is that when he cleans my teeth he loves to say soothing things like, "you're doing GREAT!" or "see that wasn't so scary?" as if i was a little kid wimpering in my chair! i am totally chill at the dentist. i breathe normally and certainly don't tense up. the only problem i have is i hate the grittyness after the cleaning and they only give me a tiny bit of water to rinse. that is seriously the most dramatic thing about my dentist visits.

today, different story. i don't know what happened but i freaked out in the chair as soon as the first high-pitched tool turned on. i scrunched up my eyes, curled my lips, and gripped the arm rests. the noise was horrible! i was really scared. i did everything i could to calm myself down but nothing worked. 5 minutes into my cleaning, my neck and shoulders were aching because i was so tense. 7 minutes into my cleaning i almost started crying because the noise was so irritating. plus it hurt!

in the end i made it. i endured and my teeth are nice, smooth, and plaque free! silly how i'm so proud of myself!

Yuhl-Sheem (5)

I worked at Horton Plaza for about a year and I didn’t work again until James and I decided to start our own business. This was in 1988. We didn't have very much money saved up so we borrowed money from my father-in-law and some other people. We wanted to open up a restaurant inside of a food court at first but we couldn’t because restaurants are open on Sundays. My father-in-law told us that we shouldn’t do that because the Bible says to rest on Sundays. So we thought about that and realized that most dry cleaners are closed on Sundays so we decided to do that.
There was an elder at our church who owned two dry cleaners. He was about to retire so he sold the cleaners to us. It was a mistake to buy it.

At first we made a lot of money. After just a few years we had enough money to put a down payment on a house. It was a big house in a new area. It was safe and spacious. We did the landscaping ourselves. I planted trees, plants, and flowers all over our front yard and backyard. I had always wanted a large backyard to grow my plants. There, they had a lot of space to grow. It was nice to own something and not have to pay rent.

We each worked about 90 hours a week and never took a vacation; our only breaks were on Sundays. We worked so hard that we never got to see our daughters. We would leave early in the morning around 5 or 6 a.m. before they were up and come home after they went to bed, around 10 or 11 p.m.

The girls would ride the bus home from school and take care of themselves until bedtime. It’s so sad. They would make their lunch to take to school. They didn’t have time to make sandwiches in the morning so they would just take a bag of chips and a juice box. When they would come home they would make ramen or sandwiches. I eventually taught the girls how to make soo jeh bee, a simple Korean soup that I made for my brothers and sisters when I was a girl in Korea. Christen and Amy would sit in front of the TV and knead the flour for the soup at the same time. I didn’t want my girls to cook too much because I grew up taking care of my brothers and sister at such a young age. I didn’t want them to cook or clean like I did when I was a little girl. Amy was in fourth grade then and still very little. She had to pull herself on top of the counter so she could reach the stove and the microwave. One time she tried to cook and her hair caught on fire!
The long hours we put in at work got to be too much for our family. My husband said that we needed to spend more time with our daughters, even if it was only eating dinner together. So after our store closed at night, James would drive home, pick up our daughters and bring them back to the cleaners. The four of us would eat out as a family. Sometimes we would eat at this fancy Chinese restaurant called Chin’s but mainly we ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken or got Mexican food. After dinner our family would come back to the cleaners. My daughters would work on their homework or read and they'd help us with our work. We spread out sleeping bags on the counters and floors so they could sleep if we stayed there late.

When Christen and Amy were younger, on the weekends or their school vacation they'd come to work with us, or we would drop them off at a library near our work and they would stay there and read books for the entire day. They never complained. After Christen was in sixth grade she would run the small agent store for us. Amy would play in the back and keep her sister company. It was just those two little girls at a store all by themselves. These are sad memories for me but my daughters say they talk of those times with happiness.

At that time I had a lot of stress. My English wasn’t perfect so it was challenging for me to talk to the customers. Sometimes they would complain and I couldn’t explain everything in English. It was hard. I would think, “We started this business for nothing. It was a mistake.” Also some customers would accuse us of ruining their clothes and they would sue us. We would clean something according to the label but the clothes would get ruined. It wasn’t our fault; it was the manufacturer’s fault. Still sometimes we had to pay $300 for one piece of clothing. They would yell at me and tell me to go back to my own country. I always thought that having another business wouldn’t be so stressful.

Even though it was hard to run the cleaners, there were good times too. Some of our customers were so good to me. The elderly customers would tell me how sweet I was. They liked how I smiled a lot. They would say, “Song, you're such a nice girl.” Some of the customers would give us gifts on Christmas and always speak very kindly to us. Sometimes the men would ask me to go golfing with them or go on a date! I would have to tell them I was married and had two daughters. The men would be shocked and embarrassed.

Aside from the nice customers we had two employees, Lola and Margarita who helped make our time at the cleaners less stressful. They didn't speak very much English so they would teach us Spanish words and we'd speak to each other broken English. All of us would laugh at the way we sounded. They were good employees. My husband and I believe you have to treat your employees well so they feel that it is their business too. They worked so hard. All day long, sweat would drip from their foreheads and I would think, they are such good people—they work that hard only for their children. I had a lot of respect for them.

Yuhl-Sheem (4)

One day I turned on the TV and what I saw gave me hope. There was that show with the puppets-- Sesame Street. When I saw that show, I felt like education in America was so accessible. It's like it was being given away for free. By that time I had two young daughters-- Amy was born in 1982. I knew that both of my daughters would be able to be successful in a country that let everybody learn. That is one of the only things that I had hoped for that came true since I lived in America. My daughters are successful. It makes me so happy to think of them because they have what I couldn't have.

When I was a little girl in Korea, our family was so poor. My sister and I had to quit school to find jobs and make money to get ready for our immigration to America. We had to make money for airplane tickets, documents, and things like that. After we came to Guam I wanted to start high school but the school officials told me I was too old. So when I think of my daughters, it's like a dream.

I started working after a couple of years of living on the mainland. Amy, was only about three years old and Christen was five years old when I started to work. James would come back from work and we would have dinner and put our daughters to bed. We would go to downtown San Diego to the Horton Plaza mall and clean up the movie theaters there. We would leave at 9 or 10 p.m. and come back sometimes 2:30 a.m.-- on the weekends we finished around 4 a.m. We would come home and Amy would be sleeping but Christen would just be sitting up in bed, with her eyes wide open, not crying or anything but just waiting for us. It's illegal to leave your kids home alone! If they had cried and the neighbors called the police they would take our kids way. We would have had to get a lawyer. But we didn’t know that. We couldn’t help it. If we had known it was illegal we wouldn’t have done it. That was my first job in the mainland. Together, James and I made about $1,500 a month. We didn’t get paid by the hour. It was contract work. We worked there for about two years. Now, when my family and I go to Horton Plaza to shop or eat at Claudia's Famous Cinnamon Rolls, I can't believe how far I've come. Even though we worked there until the very early morning, I never regretted coming to America. I could ask myself that 10 times or 100 times and I always think that it was a good choice to come here.

At that time James also had a job doing maintenance work at the Holiday Inn. After we had been in San Diego for about three months he looked in the American papers for jobs. It makes me laugh to think about him going to a job interview and not knowing very much English. When he told me he got the job I didn’t believe him. But he did get the job! When I think of my husband finding jobs with just a little bit of English I think it must be God’s blessing. The man who hired my husband must have a kind heart. Even in Guam when James first came to America he found work at the Hilton Hotel. He says he could survive anywhere, even in Africa. I ask him, “How could you survive in Africa?” And he says it is because God protects and takes care of our family. He is right.

It was around the time that my second daughter was born that my faith in God had started to grow. When I was little girl in Korea I would go to Sunday school every week. Sometimes my brothers or sister would come along, but my parents never came to church. I would go every Sunday because I loved hearing Bible stories, drawing pictures, and singing songs like Jesus Loves Me. Even though I went almost every week, I didn’t know God. It was just a place for me to go and be a child. There, I didn’t have to worry about taking care of my brothers and sister, finding food, or carrying heavy loads of dirty clothes to the river. I could go to Sunday school and have fun and have no responsibilities. Even when I was a young woman in Guam, I went to church every week to listen to the choir. I still didn’t have faith in God, but I loved listening to the beautiful voices of the choir. It wasn’t until after I married James that I became a true Christian.

For me, when I first came to San Diego I thought, “I have to find a Korean church.” In America, Korean churches have a lot of members who weren’t Christians when they first started coming to church. They’re new immigrants who need to be with other Koreans. They have to go to a Korean church because that’s the only place where they can see other Koreans, make friends, and hear about the news. After they start going to church I think a lot of them start to have faith in God.
For my husband and me it was different. When we started to go to church in San Diego, for us it wasn’t about making friends. We just wanted to go to a Korean church so we could worship God. We went to a Korean church because we wouldn’t be able to understand anything at an American church.

Yuhl-Sheem (3)

Since I was a young girl I dreamed of going to America. As I grew older I was surrounded with tantalizing tokens of America. Sometimes our family would get food supplies from the United States. I loved the food—things like Spam and that powdered drink mix—Tang—it was like nothing I had ever eaten. Such ingenuity! I would watch movies and see the convertibles and beautiful scenery and I thought that all of America was that lucky. America seemed so beautiful.

When I was almost 20 years old, my family finally got the chance to leave Korea. We first went to Guam and lived there for about three years. Soon after I arrived in Guam my uncle showed me a picture of James. James was a young man who was looking to come to the U.S. on a work visa. Our families had a mutual friend who was trying to set us up. I looked at his picture and thought that he looked like a nice man but I was not attracted to him. I had no want to get married. Eventually, James came to Guam. He was a very kind man. I could tell from the way he spoke to others and the way he spoke to me. Despite this, I still didn’t want to get married. I wanted to go to school or find a job and become a career woman. I had big dreams; I came to America to make those big dreams come true. Even though I didn’t love him my parents had arranged my marriage so I had no choice. We were married in December of 1978, only after five months of knowing each other. At that time a part of me resented him. I wanted to be free. It wasn’t until five years after we were married that I grew to love my husband. It wasn’t until much later that I became grateful and glad to have him as my husband.

In December 1979 my first daughter, Christen, was born. Two years later we were able to go to the mainland. When we were flying to the mainland I felt like I was truly going to America. To me, Guam wasn’t a real part of America. I wanted to go the mainland. I was so excited.

One of my brothers picked James, Christen, and me up at the LA airport. As we drove home to San Diego I kept staring at the open roads. They were so spacious; it felt so free. We stopped at a rest stop to use the bathroom and I was amazed at how clean and nice the bathrooms were. America truly was like the movies! Riding on those huge roads made me happy. I had no fear at all. Even though I couldn’t speak any English, I didn’t care. My mother and father were already in San Diego; my entire family was already here. I wasn’t scared at all. I just kept thinking about how I was going to see my family. I never wondered what would happen to me because I couldn’t speak English.

Yuhl Sheem (2)

This is part of an oral history project I did when I was an undergrad. It is written in my mother's voice.

The day that I was born will never be known. My American documents say I was born on October 16, 1956. My mother told me I was born in 1955. I think I was born in 1953 or 1954. All I know is that I came out of my mother’s body soon after the end of the Korean War. We were a poor family. I remember a lot of the time there wasn't enough food so my mother wouldn't eat. I would try to give her food from my rice bowl but she would say she wasn't hungry. My family wasn’t concerned with recording or remembering dates. They had no big hopes or dreams for me; they were concerned with finding food for our next meal.
Even though we were a poor family, all six of the children still celebrated their baek-il, the Korean celebration of a baby's 100th day. It is an extravagant celebration with lots of good food and family. At the baek-il, three items are put in front of the baby: paper money for wealth, a pencil for intelligence, and a piece of string for long life. Whichever the baby grabs is a sign of its future. I am told I grabbed all three.

Yuhl-Sheem (1)

Lately my life has been swamped with some very personal responsibilities, resulting in my blog remaining loveless. Sorry blog.

In an attempt to maintain my blog, share some of myself with my readers, and try and become re-inspired to write some shit that has been stewing in my mind for the past few years, I’ve decided to post an oral history I wrote in college. This was a very personal project for me because it was on my mother and because one of my mentors worked very closely with me on it.


Yuhl Sheem- Introduction
The post-1965 wave of Korean immigrants are generally characterized as a college-educated and middle-class group. The American media's representation of the Korean population in this country consistently ignores the complex socioeconomic makeup of that population by defining the whole after looking at a select, economically prosperous portion of that population. New York magazine called Koreans New York City’s “super immigrants” and “most productive community”. The article cites that seven hundred Korean-owned businesses opened in 1994, but failed to mention that another nine hundred closed down. Ironically, the aftermath of the 1992 Los Angeles Uprising rendered these “super immigrants” as deserving of the punishment they suffered. When Koreans in America are a “model minority,” they are entrepreneurial and educated; when they are “foreigners”, they are clannish and selfish.
This paper is based on an oral history of my mother. My mother never finished high school and is a working class woman who immigrated to the United States in the late 1970s. She is neither a model minority nor is she a cliquish woman. She lives on the outskirts of an English-speaking society and sits apart from her middle class Korean immigrant counterparts. This paper explores how she lives her life in America as a woman who lives in a peripheral space of a marginalized group.