Memories of My Two Grandmothers

Like most people, I had two grandmothers—one paternal, one maternal. Their significance, of course, lies in the simple truth that without them I would not exist. Yet what lingers most are not abstract notions of lineage, but the faint, tender recollections of the brief time I shared with them. I spent more time with my maternal grandmother than my paternal grandmother. Naturally, my maternal grandmother was woven more deeply into the fabric of my childhood, and it is her presence that rises first in memory.

The details blur with time, but I recall most vividly the years when our family moved to the marketplace to sell eggs. We lived in a single cramped room, while my parents labored fifteen hours a day to keep us afloat. Life was heavy, and yet my grandmother—who lived nearby with my uncle—came almost daily to lighten our burden. She did our laundry, all of it, with a strength and devotion that seemed inexhaustible.

We had no washing machine. She boiled clothes in a great pot over the coal fire, laid them on a stone slab, beat them with a wooden stick, rubbed them with soap, and rinsed them in cold water. It was grueling work, yet she never complained. Because of her, we wore clean clothes, not fine ones, but garments imbued with her care. As she worked, she often scolded us with words of love—though the exact phrases have faded, the warmth behind them remains.

One memory, however, cuts sharply against the grain of her kindness. I was in my first year of middle school, walking home with friends, when I saw her on the street. She recognized me instantly, called my name with joy, and hurried toward me. But her clothes were shabby, and in the presence of my friends I felt a sudden, shameful embarrassment. I pretended not to know her and walked on. Looking back, I know how deeply that must have wounded her. Yet she never spoke of it, never reproached me. She continued to visit, continued to wash our clothes, until her health failed.

She passed away while I was studying in America and I did not attend her funeral. Now, having reached the age she was then, I find myself haunted by that moment on the street. Why did I turn away? Why did I let embarrassment eclipse love? The question lingers, unanswered, a quiet ache that reminds me of her enduring grace and of my own youthful failing.

I can relate. I used to feel embarrassed that my mother spoke with a Honam accent. I even envied my friends whose mothers spoke the more assertive Yeongnam dialect. Now that I’ve reached that age myself, I feel nothing but deep regret and sorrow for ever feeling that way.