We are the incredibly proud daughters of FELIPE HAHN LEE
an internationally famous wrestling champion
who despite being proudly Korean, was never acknowledged in Korea.
We know our parents are proud of what we have achieved. We hope our inmigrant ancestors are proud of us too.
Daddy's girls in Hawaii, looking as tan as locals and happier for it.
When you're born or live in a country where your face is different, things are sometimes going to be interesting...sometimes awful. The ONLY time the Hahn sisters felt they BELONGED was when we lived in Hawaii.
THE DAUGHTERS OF A WRESTLER
We traveled constantly since the day we were born. We moved countless times. We switched schools and got used to being the new girls in the classroom. It was scary....weird....but normal for us. We never questioned it.
Sometimes we had friends and it was sad saying goodbye...but mostly we never had enough time to make friends. So we learned to play alone and with each other, to wait for dad to come home and play, for mom to take us shopping or to the library (we got our love of reading from both our parents).
My dad looking handsome and elegant and his eldest in her fancy outfit, on their way to a wedding.
Our beautiful parents on their wedding day. The woman beside my father (right) is his mother, María Dolores Lee, wife of José Hahn, Korean Patriot, daughter of Alfonso Lee, also a Patriot.
We realized we were Korean early on because every time we returned to Mexico and when we finally moved here permanently, we were surrounded by Korean elders: our halmeoni great-grandmother "Mariquita" (Alfonso Lee's wife María), our great-aunt Luz María Lee, our great-uncle Eric Lee, their downstairs friends neighbors, their friends down the block...EVERYONE with whom we interacted was Korean.
We ate as a family, Korean style, crowded around the dinner table, sharing food, the elders insisting we have more Jook 죽 (rice porridge) "It's good for your stomach". They would fill your plate with more mandu-guk, whether you wanted it or not. We were taught to use gim (dried seaweed) to make wraps filled with bab 밥 (white rice) and kimchi. My dad's favorite was galbi (braised ribs) but ours was guksu (noodle soup) and Jangjorim 장조림 (marinated beef).
My first words in Korean were "아이구 죽겠다" (aigu jukketta) from my great-grandmother every time she had to get up from her chair: "Oh, I'm dying!"
My uncle Eric was missing half of one of his arms from a childhood accident where he fell from a tree. He used to patiently let us look at the stump and ask him about it.
But I was aware of ugly conversations: "I was walking down the street when someone shouted 'Fucking Chinaman! Go home!'" would say my uncle when he got home. As a child, I was mystified as to why they would call my uncle Chinese.
I often heard my father say that at a match, someone would heckle him, shouting, "Kill that Chinese fucker!"
And yet, we remain proud Koreans to this day.
Back in the USA, we went back to being just us four. Back to our routine: stay up late because dad had called mom to say the match went okay and he was bringing home pizza for dinner after he got a wound over his eye stiched at the hospital. We got used to seeing him walk through the door with stitches on his forehead. He used to say, "I'm okay, girls, it doesn't even hurt." We would jump up and give him a big hug and kiss, and listen to him tell mom about how great or bad or dangerous or exciting the match had been.
Other nights he would walk in holding a cake the fans had given him on his way out of the arena.
Sundays mornings he often said, "Let's go to the beach, girls! I'm going to buy meat and we'll have a barbecue." He was a master BBQ griller.
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Despite de generational trauma of Koreans living in a country where they were not accepted, my Dad loved us very much and would show it with a kiss, a touch of our hair, giving us a little pocket money so we could buy something we wanted, cooking Korean food for us.
Interpreting the Opening Ceremony speech of the ISSF President in Changwon, Korea (World Shooting Championship)
