The Incredible Eliza Kim

During the Korean War, young Korean girls were having babies with a lot of young soldiers. Mixed children were seldom accepted (especially those of African American and Korean descent) and the new mothers had to choose. Some kept their babies, trying to raise them on their own, often being disowned by their families. Some abandoned them on the street after realizing they could no longer care for them when they became ill. Others, like my mother's mother, chose the route of infanticide.

My mother was found crying in a pile of deceased infants left in an abandoned shack, by an orphanage worker looking for discarded children.

Crazy!? Right!?

I mean, to have that be one of your first experiences in life is just mind boggling to me. Her mother had taken a nail and driven it into her chest and left her there, just like those who had done it before her. Thankfully, thinking that the heart was on the right side of the body, she had miscalculated and my mother's life was spared. That wound would later cause more health problems in her adult life, unfortunately. No wonder she ended up so strong.

She was adopted by a biracial couple from California along with her adopted brother, Chris, who had also been left crying in a potato sack on the street. My mother's Korean name was Eliza Kim, but she was ultimately named Deena.

She has been my biggest inspiration, supporter, and influence. She started her life a fighter and was one till the very end. Her harrowing beginnings mark only a small part of her practice of resilience throughout her life. Too many examples to name here. Those who knew her personally can attest that she was one of the kindest, most silly, encouraging and thoughtful persons they knew. I take her lessons with me every day.

She was my best friend and one of the strongest woman I have ever known. We'd always had an unbreakable bond. With my mom, sis, and I, we were like three peas in a pod. We dealt with a lot of trauma together growing up and all we had was each other.

She grew up in the 60's and 70's. She was there during the Watts riots, dealt with crosses burned in her lawn and an arson of her actual house. You know, the usual, at that time. She dealt with an abusive environment in childhood and adulthood. From an alcoholic mother to a controlling and abusive brother, she had her plate full. She never took it out on my sister and I though. She was resilient through it all and still shared pure love and support with us. Even in her absence, she still teaches me how to be a good mom to my boy. To look through her eyes and see potential and wonder and encourage the best out of him.

I remember her always loving "being" a mother. Like she never really complained about how hard it is to be a mom. Now that I have a son myself, I don't see how she kept her composure and love dialed to "11" while dealing with illness, domestic mental abuse and the typical challenges that come from being a single black mother.

She is the reason I pursued my art career, keeping me well stocked with art supplies, musical instruments, encouraging my singing and dancing performances at school. She was THE person growing up that kept me focusing on things that I enjoyed, even if they were short lived... like volleyball. I could literally tell her anything. It was a blessed and rare relationship. I know I'm super fortunate to have had her in my life.

I even thought of following in her footsteps and joining the Army, that's where my parents met. She joined on a pinky swear with a friend to join together, but her friend backed out at the 11th hour and my mom stayed. Crazy how life works. I wouldn't be here if she hadn't.

It was her that put me on my destined path of art instead, thankfully. At the last minute before signing on the dotted line, having taken my placement test and everything...my mother saw a newspaper article showing Seattle's Cornish College of the Arts holding open auditions for admission and encouraged me to go show my portfolio. I was accepted that very day. I remember telling the Army recruitment officer I would ultimately put my military plans on hold and try this art school thing, see where it would lead me for now. A few months later, the 9/11 attacks happened. It was a miracle. I had been put on my path to pursue my ultimate passion, and I had just dodged recruitment for what later would be the "War on Terror" in Iraq. She was an angel.

She had always supported my artistic expression and talent, buying multiple copies of my yearbooks just because I had done the artwork or having me hired to take photographs of events at the bank she was the district manager of. She was the greatest cheerleader. She took me to buy my first camera, which I still have. She never missed an art show, spending the night in the space while I created. She was unorthodox, talking to me truthfully about adult subject matter, which led to us having an honest relationship. Nothing was off limits. Sex, drugs, you name it, we could talk about it. She had to be both my mom and my dad and although she wasn't perfect, she was perfect for us. She was one of a kind.

She was a huge proponent of hard work, education, professionalism and helping others. We would do walk-a-thons, fundraisers and canned food drives together. We even had a family paper route, getting up at 3am together, loading up our Bronco to deliver everyone's news. As a bank manager she would go to elementary schools and teach kids how to balance a check book. She was the best, always encouraging authenticity over popularity and wanting my sister and I to dance to the beat of our own drums. I see a lot of her in my son and wish that he could've known a sliver of who I knew. But we will have to settle on the stories and artistic expressions that come of it. She was a light in the world that sadly moved on too soon.

"Miss Deena" as her friends liked to call her, passed away from her 3rd bout of Breast Cancer a few months after her 50th birthday. During the last days of her life she held on until her best friend could come up from California to say her goodbyes. Shortly after that, she let go, while my sister and I were asleep next to here on her hospice bed. It was almost beautiful, we were the most important things to her, as she often told us that we were the reason for her being on this earth. Thanking us for "choosing" her to be our mother. And we had the blessing of saying goodbye with her peacefully.

Between her life's crazy beginning and hard fought ending she instilled deep love, infectious laughter, incredible lessons, LOTS of dancing... and an incredible sense of strength in me. She went through years of neuropathy, countless medical procedures, lots of radiation, lots of Chemo, lots of pills etc, etc. It was exhausting for her, and she still found time to dance and smile when she got a chance, all while working full time. I don't know how she did it.

One of the things she instilled in me came from a favorite song of hers, Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance". I can still hear my mom belting out "Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance ...and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance. Dance!!!... I hope you daaaaanceee! I hope you dance... I hope you daaaaaanceee!!!." That song pretty much summed up my mom's philosophy of life. I play that song in my head all the time when I get discouraged or want to quit.

She will always be the whisper encouraging me to keep going and leave my mark in the world. I am forever grateful. The imprint she's had will never leave me and I am very fortunate to have had such a beautiful teacher.

I love you mom.