Mother Tongue

Every American-born child of an immigrant learns to become an adept translator, inculcated into an adult world too early. You explain the terms of lay-away, recite DMV documents, field phone calls with AT&T or Citi Bank. You fill out unemployment insurance claims and write birthday cards on scrap paper so they can transcribe it in their own angular handwriting. You are the buffer between them and the world.

I used to translate for my mother as a standard practice in most public situations. It wasn't a translation between Korean and English, but rather, a translation from her English, a broken English, to the world. I’d telegraph her message to the JC Penney clerk or Outback Steakhouse hostess and dutifully repeat their response in a way I knew she would be able to comprehend. It was, perhaps, easier for her to understand the world filtered through my voice. She protected me in every imaginable way; I protected her from hot-faced embarrassment.

I once asked my mother if she dreams in Korean or in English. She did not know. When I dream of her, I only hear her in English. But I think her true self is in Korean. I’ll never know what my mother sounds like, what she really sounds like. What are the intricacies of her subtle humor? Is she powerfully confident, or quietly assured? Does she speak simply or wear academic vocabulary like a shield as I do? The same way we do not always let our parents know us deeply, I will never fully know my mother.