Our Father Was a Wrestling Legend- Korea Chose to Forget Him
We are the proud daughters of Felpe Hahn Lee: a Korean hero abroad, ignored at home. His legacy lives through us - and we won't let it be erased.
Daddy's girls in Hawaii, looking as tan as locals and happier for it.
When you're born - or grow up - in a place where your face marks you as "other," life gets complicated. Sometimes people are curious. Sometimes they're cruel. Either way, you never really forget that you're different.
For the Hahn sisters, the only place we truly felt like we belonged was Hawaii. There, for the first time, we weren't the exception. We weren't stared at, questioned, or made to feel foreign. We were just...home.
The Daughters of a Wrestler
Our lives were in constant motion. From the moment we were born, we were on the move - across countries, cities and classrooms. We became experts at starting over. New schools. New faces. New rules. It was disorienting, sometimes lonely, but for us, it was normal. We didn’t know any other way.
There were times we made friends, and saying goodbye was hard. But more often, we left before there was time to form real bonds. So we learned to be each other’s best friends. We filled the gaps with books, imagination, and waiting—for Dad to come home and play, for Mom to take us to the library or sneak in a little adventure.
Reading became our anchor—our escape and our connection.
That gift came 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. Standing beside our father (on the right) is his mother, María Dolores Lee—wife of Korean patriot José Hahn and daughter of Alfonso Lee, also a proud Korean patriot.
We realized we were Korean early on—not because someone told us, but because it was all around us. Every time we returned to Mexico, and especially once we moved there for good, we were surrounded by Korean elders.
There was our halmeoni, our great-grandmother Mariquita (María, wife of Alfonso Lee), our great-aunt Luz María Lee, and our great-uncle Eric Lee. Their neighbors, their friends down the street—everyone we interacted with was Korean. We didn’t just know we were Korean—we lived it.
We ate together in the Korean way: crowded around the dinner table, dishes covering every inch. The elders insisted, “Eat more jook 죽—it’s good for your stomach.” Plates were loaded with mandu-guk whether you wanted seconds or not. We learned how to wrap rice and kimchi in sheets of gim (dried seaweed), and we each had our favorites—Dad loved galbi (braised ribs), while we couldn’t get enough guksu (noodle soup) and jangjorim 장조림 (soy-marinated beef).
My first words in Korean weren’t sweet or scripted—they were real: “아이구 죽겠다” (aigu jukketta). I heard them from our great-grandmother every time she groaned her way out of a chair: “Oh, I’m dying!”
Uncle Eric had lost half an arm in a childhood accident—he fell from a tree. He never hid it from us. In fact, he would let us ask about it, inspect it, study it. Patient, kind.
But not everything was warm or kind.
I remember overhearing the ugly stories. Uncle Eric would come home and say, “I was walking down the street and someone yelled, ‘Fucking Chinaman! Go home!’”
I couldn’t understand why anyone would call him Chinese.
My father told us about the abuse he endured at matches:
“Kill that Chinese fucker!” someone once shouted from the crowd.
We learned early on: to the world, we were foreigners. To many, we were invisible—or worse, misseen.
And yet, through it all, we remain proudly Korean.
Back in the U.S., it was just the four of us again—back to our rhythm, our world. Staying up late, waiting for Dad’s call after a match. “The match went okay,” he’d say. “I’m bringing home pizza—just got a few stitches over my eye.”
It became routine: Dad walking through the door with stitches on his forehead, smiling like it was nothing. “I’m okay, girls. Doesn’t even hurt.” We’d jump into his arms, hug him tight, kiss his bandaged face, and listen to him tell Mom how wild, painful, or amazing the match had been.
Some nights, he’d come in holding a cake—leftover from the fans, handed to him as he left the arena.
And on Sunday mornings, he’d shout, “Let’s go to the beach, girls! I’m buying meat—we’re having a barbecue!”
He was the undisputed champion of the grill.
Our lives were shaped by movement, by difference, by the quiet and not-so-quiet ways the world told us we didn’t belong. But we knew who we were—because of the food on our table, the stories in our family, the love we were raised in, and the grit our father carried into every ring.
We are the daughters of Felipe Hahn Lee, a Korean warrior the world knew, but his homeland refused to see. His story is ours now—to tell, to honor, and to pass on.
We carry him with us, just as we carry our halmeoni’s words, our mother’s warmth, and every scar our father turned into strength. We are not forgotten. We remember.
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Despite the generational trauma of being Korean in a country that never fully accepted him, our father showed us love in quiet, tender ways—a kiss on the cheek, a gentle touch of our hair, a few coins slipped into our hands, or a home-cooked Korean meal made just for us.
Our parents worked tirelessly to give us what they never had - a good education, a stable life, and the freedom to dream beyond survival.
Growing up as Korean descendants in Mexico wasn't easy. We were often treated as outsiders, questioned, stared at, and underestimated. But then, something unexpected happened - we were hired by a Member of the International Olympic Committee, not in spite of our Korean heritage, but because of it - because of how we carried ourselves, how we spoke multiple languages, how we represented something rate and powerful.
Proud to represent Korean Descendants on the global Olympic stage.
Interpreting the Opening Ceremony speech of the ISSF President in Changwon, Korea (World Shooting Championship)
