My Korean is poor, your English almost non-existent.
Yet you let me into your home for a year;
A stranger became your daughter.
This is what it is to be a daughter:
Struggling to look up words on a dictionary app
Just to talk to you.
Hovering near you in the kitchen as you scurry around
Mixing together ingredients I’ve never seen,
Concocting dishes I’ve never imagined.
Is that a whole squid? Really, omma 1? A squid for dinner?
You appreciate my help; our best way of communicating.
You were lonely; dad only comes home on weekends, onni2, is in Seoul,
Brother lives at the PC room, so I keep you company.
We grow close over Korean dramas and brief conversations.
Our friendship blooms in the shared struggle to communicate.
I call your house home for a year; a stranger becomes my mother.
—
You are at home, hoping I’ll fly back soon.
The girl you raised became a woman
who moved to the other side of the world.
This is what it is to be a daughter:
I am constantly reminded of the burdens
Carried by a mother and her displaced daughter.
It is layered in your voice and present in my loneliness.
You call me almost every night, across oceans and time zones;
Facebook messenger and KakaoTalk are our lifelines.
“When are you coming home?”
“You really want to stay another year?”
“I miss you.”
I feel guilty.
I miss you too.
I try my best to never miss a call.
Your advice and wisdom bring understanding
or contention depending on my mood;
But you are almost always right.
My time at home is short but wonderful;
summers and Christmas bring us together again.
Love wells up to replace the arguments
fueled by distance and miscommunication.
I leave you again,
But your calls tether me to the family I left behind.
I love you mom; I’ll be home soon.
—
You are the mother of my future husband,
With a language and culture vastly different from mine,
But I am grateful to be your new daughter.
This is what it is to be a daughter:
Standing anxious to meet you,
Having prepared my insa3, a thousand times in my head,
I worry: ‘Will you accept me?’
Upon our first meeting you pull me into a sweeping, back-thumping,
Ajumma4, embrace.
Instantly, I am your daughter.
The pressure to impress you is built up only in my head,
But I desperately want to prove that I can be a good wife,
And a good daughter.
You show me how to correctly peel fruit,
You cook alongside me as I try my hand at jjimdalk5,
You teach me how to talk with appa6, ,
whose brusque, thick dialect confuses even your son.
I look at my vibrating phone: “Shi Omma7, ;”
I have a brief panic.
Will we understand each other over the phone?
But your reassuring, measured voice guides me;
You are patient with my stilted, awkward Korean.
You accept me as I am.
We go to the beauty shop together; people stare.
“Who is this foreigner?” they ask you.
“She is my daughter,” you reply.
Emily Lembo is a 2014-2016 ETA at Samgaksan Elementary in Seoul. She previously worked at Chipyong Middle school in Gwangju.