Childhood lost

The funny thing about love is that it knows no boundaries. It escapes the confines of societal norms and cultural divides.

That is the story of my parents. The unlikely meeting between a Filipino farmer turned sailor and a Korean art student

Filipinos are a product of their indigenous heritage and colonization by Spain and then the US. They have always been resilient, relying on the land and the sea to provide their sustenance. They are simple people who have never overcome the subservience that colonialism inflicted upon them.

Koreans have always known war, from neighboring countries as well as civil war which permanently divided Korea along the 38th parallel.

These conflicts have given Koreans a steely resolve to rise up from the rubble and become a prosperous nation. But in doing so, the other trappings of westernization have followed including their sense of elitism and entitlement.

Ill never know how my parents met. Maybe a passing glance on the streets of Seoul….unable to take their eyes of each other. Who knows?

But love is love….Irrational and beautiful all at the same time

My father was born on February 20th, 1941 in the Zambales Province of the Philippines. Like my mother, my father grew up during a period of war. In my father’s case, it was World War II and it’s aftermath. The Philippines and other Pacific Islands were strategic for both the Axis (Japan) and Allied powers (United States) to control. And the Philippines suffered the consequences, including the death of over 50,000 Filipinos.

Zambales, like much of the Philippines, was a largely agricultural region that depended on the land for its sustenance. My father was the 2nd oldest of 8 siblings. Even though he had an older brother, the responsibility of the farm and his family fell on my father’s shoulders.

My father was revered not only by his family but also by the community, where he was known to be kind and friendly. Per other family stories, my father was also very handsome and almost accepted an offer to become an actor, but he was too shy.

However, life in the Philippines was not easy and there were very limited opportunities to advance from poverty. I assumed he knew this and wanted more for himself. This opportunity came via the US Navy.

The United States colonized the Philippines upon their victory in the 1898 Spanish American War. Shortly after, the US Navy started allowing a small number of Filipinos to enter the Navy as lowly stewards. H.G. Reza (LA Times 2/27/92) reported that the US reached a formal agreement in the late 1940’s with the Philippines to recruit Filipinos without them first emigrating to the US. In short, the US Navy allowed these young Filipino men to become naturalized US citizens.

Reza noted that the competition for these limited spots was “fierce” and the US Navy received up to 100,000 applications for 400 spots.

The opportunity was too great for my father to pass up—to not only see the world and leave behind the hard life on a farm but to become a US citizen.

The irony of this coveted spot does not escape me—the best and brightest Filipino men were being recruited to become stewards in the US Navy. I don’t think they saw this limitation and likely only saw the priceless opportunity to become a citizen of the United States of America.

I was spoiled and soft as a young child. And let me be clear that being spoiled does not always equate with wealth. My sister and I lived in US Navy housing up until I was around 6 years of age…. essentially subsidized housing for lower income enlisted Navy families.

Anyhow, I had a birthday party and my mom organized some games with silver dollars as prizes. I do not recall the games but I clearly recall that I did not win any silver dollars. My angst must have built to a point of no return as a temper tantrum ensued until I got my silver dollar… of course without merit.

Shortly after, my father had saved enough money to purchase a house, a small ranch in a neighborhood filled with kids. Your position amongst these kids was based on your toughness and your athletic ability. And I was always near the bottom.

I used to play catch with my dad, trying both to gain his approval and move up this pecking order in the neighborhood. One time, I missed a catch. The ball skimmed off the top of my glove and hit me in the lip. I felt like a failure. Both in the eyes of my father and the neighborhood kids. Sadly, I still have that scar on my upper lip that is a constant reminder of that failure.

Our house was within walking distance to a Woolworth’s and we would go there any chance we could. Sort of a place where a few dollars would go a long way. One time, I lost 5 dollars there. In our family, all money was accounted for and I knew what I was in for with my empty pockets. It happened when I was lying on our couch watching television. My mother stormed in hysterically and knocked a bowl of soup on my face.

In each of these instances, I could have done better. I could have been better behaved…..I could have caught that ball…… I could have been a little more careful with my money. And maybe…. just maybe if I had done a little more of the right things my parents would still be alive.

You may think it is absurd that a young child would harbor such irrational thoughts. But you tell that to anyone who has experienced a similar loss. There is no “RATIONAL” to such loss as there is no “RATIONAL” to how one feels that loss.

I have carried this guilt for my whole life and not a day passes where I don’t wish that I could have been a better child.

Sara Zielinksi wrote “Animal Magnetism: How Salmon Find Their Way Back Home” for NPR in 2013. She described the mystery of the Red Sockeye Salmon and their herculean task of traveling thousands of miles back to their “native river” (birthplace) to spawn and die. Somehow, the location of their “native river” is imprinted when they are hatched. And this imprinting allows them eventually to navigate the treacherous journey home.

The story reminded me of a family we know who adopted their daughter from an Ethiopian orphanage. I shared with them the circumstances of my own adoption. What I didn’t share was that their daughter would one day need to find her own “native river”.

The search for my “native river” started sometime in college. In the midst of my new found freedom, I had this existential crisis where I finally needed to find out who I was. Part of this included facing the death of my parents. Such an exhilarating yet painful process. Exhilarating because I finally allowed myself to know them but painful because I realized that they would never be able to share my journey with me.

For the first time in my life I was able to explore my past and what it meant to me. This search gave me meaning for my existence in the world.

I had no choice as my “native river” was calling me home.

Tom Jackman wrote a great piece in the Washington Post on August 2, 2020, Daughter of RFK seeks family heirloom from “Hickory Hill,’ but current owner won’t give it up. Ethel Kennedy, after deciding to sell the estate, told each of her children that they could pick one item from the estate and take it with them.

Kerry Kennedy decided that she wanted a rather large urn planter that adorned the front yard. She eventually planned to move the planter to their famed Hyannis Port compound in Mass.

The new owner refused to let her have it when he took ownership. They both eventually signed an agreement that she could remove the heirloom in 10 years.

Kennedy returned 10 years later and the owner refused to abide by their agreement. He argued that the urn planter had been there prior to the Kennedys and “As a steward of the property’s long and rich history it is my belief the urn should stay with the property.”

Kerry Kennedy, obviously upset by the owner’s decision, decided to sue the owner for breach of contract.

I immediately made a connection between this story and an event that occurred when I was in my mid twenties. I was in my third year of medical school and did a psychiatry rotation in a community hospital. I purposely chose this site because one of my mother’s close friends worked there as a psychologist.

I had connected with him after I happened to see his wife at a dry cleaning store that they owned. Despite the 20 years that had gone by, we recognized each other immediately. This led to an emotional dinner where they filled in a lot of details about my parents and their lives before they died.

My mother was buried at a cemetery very close to their house. They hosted the reception afterward and I can recall running around their house as a child would, not really able to comprehend why I was there.

At our dinner the husband told me he worked at this psychiatric hospital which led me to seek him out when I got there. We eventually had lunch together and it somehow came up that he had one of my mother’s paintings in his house.

At the time, the only possessions that I had of my mother’s consisted of photo albums and some slides of her paintings. So I asked him for the painting and he said NO.

I was devastated. I just started bawling, uncontrollably. I had to leave the restaurant and couldn’t even return to my hospital rotation for a few days. I couldn’t comprehend why he would deny something that would have so much meaning to me.

The rest of my psychiatric rotation was a mess. It was just this deep dark hole I couldn’t escape from.

On the last day of my rotation, he brought me into his office and handed me the painting.

The painting now sits in my living room, a constant reminder of my mother and the short time I had with her. Not all the memories are happy but they are all uniquely mine and that is priceless.

I hope the urn planter finds its way to Hyannis Port where it belongs.

My mother, Poong Ja Kim was born and raised in Seoul, Korea. Her birth date was July 20th, 1940. She grew up in the midst of the Korean War. My aunt would tell us stories of running through the streets with the sounds of bombs and gunfire behind them. I can only imagine what a difficult time that must have been, fearing for your life on a daily basis.

My grandfather was a doctor of acupuncture. I recall a picture of him, sitting behind his desk, books lined up behind him. A recurrent theme of formality and elitism appeared in this and other pictures. He was always wore a suit further reinforcing this coldness. I was told that my grandfather was a well respected and admired intellectual in Korea. He also “kept” more than one woman, a fact that my mother resented.

My mother had many siblings and half siblings but seemed to have been afforded every opportunity to pursue her studies. She was apparently very gifted and went to the Cheung- Yee School, a very prestigious school limited to the top 3% of students. She then went to the National University of Seoul for 2 years and then transferred to University Heung Ik, an art school in Seoul.

My mother had many art showings and likely soaked up the art and intellectual scene of Seoul. Her paintings tended to be abstract with oil being her primary medium.

I often wonder what her life would have been like if she had stayed in Seoul…….having her own gallery…..basking in the praise of critics…………… free to pursue her dreams……………..

When I was between 7-8, circa 1977-1978, I had this fascination with the rock band KISS. I used to walk to the Sears from my house and would head straight for the music section to peruse any KISS albums they had. The selection varied day to day and the sheer excitement of not knowing what you would find was worth the long walk there. It didn’t matter whether I had the money to buy the albums or not. Just to be be able to hold it in your hand, feel the cellophane covering and feel the contours of the raised letters of the KISS logo was enough.

I spent hours looking at the art work and sometimes I would hit the jackpot and find an album in which the cellophane had been removed. Then you could take out the record sleeve, read all the liner notes and feel the record in your hands.

The album cover artwork was mesmerizing from the mirror like cover of Double Platinum to the back cover of Alive 1 showing fans holding up handmade poster of Kiss in a crowded stadium. You lived on every word…. every picture. I knew that the band used Gibson guitars and Pearl drums from the fine print and that Eddie Kramer was the producer.

By mid 1978 I had amassed quite an album collection. In addition, I collected KISS trading cards both bought and stolen from the nearby Tinee Giant. The packs had pictures of the band as well as a stick of gum.

Once, I was convinced that a KISS radio advertised on TV played only KISS songs and begged my mother to buy it for me. She said it was an AM radio and did not play only KISS songs. I didn’t believe her.

They were magical for me. Gene, Paul, Peter and ACE in their spectacular costumes and make up.

It was late fall 1978, still warm enough to hang out outside. Surreal time as I look at myself from afar. I was in a neighbor’s yard but something was different this time. There were a lot of people going in and out of my house taking our belongings.

I knew somehow in my 8 year old mind that my life had forever changed.

I didn’t care. I had my KISS records. I had laid them laid out on my neighbor’s lawn……reading all the liner notes, the album covers, hearing the KISS songs in my head, imaging seeing them on stage or in space.

So now I just found out that both No Time to Mourn and Childhood Lost are also book titles. Can’t win here. So now my domain site is Childhood Gone. Hope this will be the final one. Obviously I am a novice at this but better to make mistakes early than late.

The idea of No Time to Mourn and Childhood Lost must not be that original. For me at least, what these titles mean is that through my parents death that occurred when I was 8, I had no time to mourn and I lost my childhood. At least a conventional one.

For months I realized that Diary of A Pig is actually the same title for a selection of children’s books. And immediately I felt stressed about possible copyright infringement issues and it has taken me 5 months to fix it and change the site to No Time to Mourn. It took me 5 months because I was quite nervous with my first post and not really sure why I was doing it. It was easy to blame my computer ignorance instead. Why I named it Diary of a Pig is because I have an old newspaper clipping from the 1970’s from Korea with a picture of my mother who must have been in her late teens. She was posing in front of an abstract canvas that she had drawn for an art exhibit and the title was Diary of A Pig. The canvas I cannot remember but it was an abstract painting as most of her other paintings were. But what I do remember is how beautiful she was. Jet black hair…porcelain skin… sharp piercing eyes. She radiated confidence and hope. Youthful determination is how I would describe the picture of a young woman ready to conquer the world without an ounce of fear.

This is my first blog and I have no idea if anyone will ever read my posts or not. A little scary to put yourself out there. But here I go.

Many years ago, I was with a real estate agent and she started probing about my past. She was puzzled how I was Asian with a very American last name. For some reason I felt compelled to tell her more than I would most people.

When most people would ask I would say that I was part American and part Asian (actually all true since I am both American and Asian). And such a simple answer usually appeased most people. But this real estate agent kept pushing. Since she pretty much knew everything else about me from my social security number, credit rating, salary and employment history I felt compelled to give her a little more.

So I told her that my parents died when I was 8 years old and I was adopted by an American family. The immediate expression on her face was one of disbelief and utter shock. It was as if I punched her in the gut and it stopped her in her tracks.

It was the first time I realized that what seemed normal to me was really anything but normal.

I could feel that my revelation had a profound effect on her. I am sure she went home that night and gave her children extra hugs that night unable to imagine them growing up without their mom and dad.

I realized that maybe my past, as difficult as it was, could be used in some meaningful way to help others process some of the pain of their own past as well as the present to make their tomorrow better.