So let me tell you a little about my parents. Their names: Sarah and Kang. My mom came to America with the name Chong suk, but decided that Sarah was a better, easier option.

Sarah and Kang are not unlike many a wife and husband duo in Korea. She is fierce and feisty with a penchant for cooking mean and delicious soups, often whipped up in less than five minutes using ingredients that she bought either at the “reject” pile at the local Korean grocer around the block or pulled from the garden and sea. She is frugal, resourceful, and a survivor.
Kang is quiet and reserved and incredibly humble. He possesses a child-like sense of wonder and lacks guile. He is a dedicated fisherman, a loyal groundskeeper, and absolutely terrible with money.

Together Sarah and Kang make quite a remarkable duo, enjoying eachother’s company day in and day out despite many years of struggle and hardship.

So Sarah and Kang own and run a guesthouse (or in Korean, a “ha-sook”) in Flushing, New York. The house in which they live and operate their business came to them through a string of fortuitous events, all of them auspicious and none of them without a great deal of insanity. Realizing early on the massive responsibility of owning a large house in the middle of New York City, my mother decided that she would begin renting out rooms in order to help offset the cost of the monthly mortgage payments. Concurrent to this burgeoning business concept was the fact that many Koreans were visiting or traveling through New York for purposes of tourism, study, and business. It was, as one would say, a perfectly hatched business.

What began as a small undertaking evolved into a bustling enterprise. Throughout the years Sarah and Kang have built additions to the house, converting a once three bedroom house into a staggering 14 bedroom shanty-lodge. Needless to say, the mortgage would soon be paid off in full, and they have never lacked financially since.

Throughout the confusing decade of my 20’s I spent most of my time living overseas. When I returned “home” to New York I’d stay with my folks, who would relegate me to whatever room was available at the time. Usually this meant the converted detached garage (or as my dad calls, “the bungal-row”), or a room that was once a part of the front porch.

During one particular visit home I happened to be spending time with my father outside on the back lawn. It was the summer of 2003 and the heat was already becoming oppressive. My attention was caught by a young Korean woman who was walking across the lawn. Her careful gait and slightly tilted head with eyes cast down and to the side was a clear giveaway that she was Korean. It was an unusual sight to see a young Korean woman at my parents house as the majority of the guests tended to be men.

I asked my dad about her. Kang was mowing the lawn, deep in thought as he reverently whistled church hymns. “Who is she?” I ask him. What my father says in reply stopped me in tracks and altered my existence and identity from that point forward.

“Oh–she has the same name as you–” he says calmly
“Oh really?”, I ask, pondering how yet another Korean female could be named Mary and whether that caused her the same deal of pain and suffering that it caused me growing up. For you see, I have no Korean name and I have been teased incessantly as a result.

” Yes, her name is Kee soon,” he says matter of factly.

Kee Soon. Just like that. He said it as casually as though I asked him what time it was.
“Three o’ clock honey.”
“Kee Soon. Just like you.”

Only, just NOT like me, I had never heard that name before in my entire 30 years of living. Apparently it means “Gentle Earth”. As I stood there with my mind reeling, I wondered about the ramifications of that tiny piece of knowledge being held from me all these years.

I still wonder about it to this day, whether or not I would have had a say in the choosing of my American name had I known my Korean name was Kee Soon instead of simply “Mary”, which in Korean phonetics is pronounced: “Ma-Rhee-Ya”. Who knows—maybe I would have become a Kathy, a Kristen, or a Kate. And not Mary, which means bitter.

Bitter.
Not Gentle.