Memoir writing and family roots

Writing a memoir isn’t just about looking inward—it’s also about discovering where we come from and how we fit into our family, culture, and community.

My grandmother, age 20, is on the left, and my great-grandmother is on the right. Circa 1940

I never imagined writing my memoir would make me curious about my parents and grandparents. Most of my grandparents were dead before I was born.

I remember one encounter with my maternal grandfather on his deathbed when I was five. I recall being at the hospital (my mom, sister, and I flew to Korea) and my grandpa reaching out his giant hand to me.

My maternal grandparents. I’m struck by how much my brother looks like my grandfather in this photo.

Before diving into this memoir project, I hadn’t thought much about ancestry. But growing up, I did feel envious when friends talked about their grandparents—Nanas and Pops who baked cookies, sent Christmas presents, and shared family stories. As a kid, I felt something missing in that part of my life, like I was somehow lonelier without grandparents.

Writing about my life made me pause and wonder: who were these people who came before me? What were their lives like? Were there patterns, values, or traits passed down through the generations that shaped who I am today?

On my dad’s side, I’ve only ever seen one photo: a single black-and-white picture of his mother, framed and hanging in my uncle’s house. She died when my dad was just a child, injured by bomb shrapnel during the Korean War.

How I started to see my dad as a human

Of my paternal grandfather, there are no photos—just the story of how he disappeared during the chaos of war. My dad’s family fled their village when the army arrived, threatening to kill anyone who stayed. My dad never saw his father again and only later learned he’d been living in the next town over—long dead by the time my dad found out.

On my mom’s side, my grandmother (the one on the left in the photo) passed away at 50 from a stroke, dying at home. Mom was 23 and pregnant with my older sister and rushed over to her mother’s house when she learned of her death. She walked into the room to find her mother lifeless on a mat and screamed.

Memoir Flashback: Remembering my mom's love when I was a latchkey kid

Mom was the eldest of four siblings, essentially a second mother to her two brothers and sister, and that sense of responsibility carried over into how Mom raised me.

Mom in the middle with her brothers.

When I was in fifth grade, and my mom was pregnant with my brother, she told me I’d have to help take care of him after he was born. And I did. While my friends rode bikes or spent afternoons watching cartoons, I was busy with diapers and bottles. That early responsibility shaped me in so many ways—and as I write my memoir, I’m discovering just how much it influenced my choices, challenges, and personality traits.

I am learning that this realization is the true beauty of writing a memoir. You start thinking it’s about one thing—your story—but once you get into the writing, it nudges you to explore connections, ask questions, and reflect. It’s like being your own therapist.

Mom recently sent me the photo (the first one at the top) of her mother and grandmother. I thought I had seen all the black-and-whites of my dead grandparents, so this one took me by surprise. But more than that, seeing their faces for the first time stirred a lot of questions.

These women before me lived hard lives, full of daily struggles like putting food on the table and keeping hunger at bay. How did their experiences shape my mom? And in turn, how did my mom’s struggles shape me?

I might never get all the answers, but writing this memoir has made me more curious about my family’s history. It motivates me to connect with my parents while I still can.

I’ve started recording interviews with my folks, capturing their stories in audio recordings. Last year, I made one about the 1992 L.A. Riots and how our store burned down.

I have a few more that haven’t been edited yet, but writing this has inspired me to get back to them.

Check out my mom’s Substack!

Memoir flashback: The time my dad got shot

‘Crying in H Mart’ made me think about my mom’s death