Remembering My Mother...On Mother's Day
It was barely three years after my birth that my father passed away. Then, as I turned four, my grandfather’s death also followed. My mother was suddenly left on her own, and I became almost like an orphan under the care of this young widow mom. Prior to his death, my father suffered a prolonged illness. It must have been tuberculosis, in my mind, but nobody dared to say it. Everybody actually attributed his death to other illness such as pleurisy. A dangerously infectious disease at the time, tuberculosis carried lots of stigma. My father had been sent to isolated places far away from home. The purpose of that was ‘recuperation’ in surface, but it was in fact for quarantine. After all, there was a little chance for him to overcome his illness. Naturally, I hardly remember moments spent together with him. Yet I still retain some memories of my grandfather. Could the capability to build up memory so different between a three year old and four?
It was at the age of fifteen that my mother was married to my father, a boy two years younger than her. My father came from an affluent family. But she was from a poor one, a clan of novelty (yangban) that had miserably declined. My father was raised in Seoul, the capital, but she in rural vicinity of Seoul. She was the second[?] among siblings of four brothers and two sisters. Her elder sister was much older, and had been married to a man who lived in Yongin, miles away from her home.
Her parents were very conservative and stubborn, and her mother was much more so. By tradition, education for girls was not welcomed in the family; education was supposed to lead them only to a rigorousness in a girl’s future. Instead, girls were supposed to meet good husbands and depend their lives upon them. My mother, however, was deeply academic minded. She always sat behind her two younger brothers, while they were studying Chinese Classics from their father: taking ‘over-the-shoulder’ study. She recalled later that her father closed his eyes to her secretive presence in the study and never sharing it with his wife.
Though she had no chance to receive formal education, her academic achievements at that secretive home education far exceeded her two younger brothers. I remember her fluently reciting Chinese poems, essays and teachings on top of her head. Her favorites included Four Books and Three Classics (四書三經). Among those, the Gem of Classical Writings (古文眞寶) was one which she recited so often that to me it still feels as if she is reciting it right now beside me as my memories travel back in time. She showed her tears sometimes reciting the famous petition an old Chinese council (諸葛亮) submitted to the new Emperor who had just succeeded his dead father, and who was not as wise as his deceased father. (出師表)
Our family belonged to Ei An Prince (宜安大君) branch of Junjoo Lee clan. We were relatives of the royal family, although somewhat distant from the direct stem though. Why would a prominent family like this decide to bring a bride from a declined rural one like my mother’s? Interestingly, my grandmother was from Andong Kim clan, my aunt, wife of my father’s brother was from Min clan. This picture is precisely a duplicate of the royal family related among them at the period. At the time, the class that a family belonged to was considered essential for marriage of their children. Not only the class, or social standing, but also other traits such as the political sect was considered critical. They chose eligible brides and grooms from the same class and same sect. Our ancestors belonged to Noron Sect (老論) for centuries. The marriage should therefore have been between Norons. Noron is a group based on the ethical view of a fundamental school of Confucianism called Sung Ri Hak (性理學). The combination of traits represented an ultra conservatism.
That parents kept their girls from education was just a tip of an iceberg. The bulk of iceberg is of course under the sea. Girls had other stringent disciplines to observe. For instance, girls were not supposed to sit with boys at the same place, once they turn seven. One day when my mother was about eight, her elder sister who lived afar, came to visit her maiden family with her husband. It was one of rare visits she paid, and it was long since their previous one. My mother was so glad to see them that she forgot about this rule. She jumped to the hall to greet them without noticing the face of her angry mother. When she realized something went wrong, it was already too late. She was summoned to the master’s room, and was harshly reproved by her mother. She said, “A grown-up girl must not greet men, even in-laws.” For a child of seven years, it was not only unexpected but also thought totally odd and unfair. She wouldn’t forget this until many years afterwards, and told it to me from time to time.
Her calligraphy, especially writing Hangul characters with traditional brush (붓) was excellent. It far exceeded that of famous calligraphers at the time. I was given a chance to make a farewell speech on behalf of all remaining students for graduating seniors at graduation ceremony when I was a 5th grader. Teacher Lee Hee Bok drafted the speech, and my mother wrote it down on a scroll. She did it with the traditional brush. Teachers looked at it, and couldn’t help but praise her artisanship. It is my great regret that not many of her works are available today.
Was I a ‘mama boy as they call one nowadays? Always, I couldn’t think of myself apart from her. Myun Soo, my younger brother, used to complain about the partiality of her love given to us. He always thought that her love to him was not as deer as hers to me. Myun Soo inherited the image of my father including character and so one, while I did my mother’. It is not fair however to say that her love was especially favorite to me because I looked more like her. She passed away while I was in the States as a student, and Myun Soo alone was beside her bed.
This is only a remembering, no reality returnable. My mother was born in 1904, and would have been 109 years old now. I’m composing this memoir before May passes.
Kwang Soo Lee, May 2013