by Ayoung Kim

Ian T., *Untitled*, Polaroid photograph on watercolor paper, 2024. Courtesy of Unsplash.

Breaking Rank

Ayoung Kim | OCT 2025 | Issue 49

My mother was a pretty girl with a hot temper. Her classmates nicknamed her the Korean Doris Day. They didn’t know behind that perky nose and heart-shaped face was an open palm on a hair trigger. A black-and-white photo of her trendy bob cut and fresh complexion reveal youth in bloom. Her coy, closed-lip smile gives the impression someone told her a joke and she’s holding in a laugh. The firstborn daughter and the second eldest granted her the opportunity to study beyond high school, opportunities denied her younger sisters and brothers. Confucian hierarchy governed Korean households: in exchange for sending my mother to university—thus pillaging her parents’ coffers—she paid the price in unwavering filial piety. The bill came due when Dae-hyun arrived calling at the door.

My father was unattractive with a hot temper. Bony to an embarrassment, his beady black eyes and chiseled cheekbones appeared carved from haeseok, a beach stone hardened from repeated ocean blows. The eldest of five and firstborn male, he reeked of entitlement. During 1950s wartime, his mother might only secure three yams for seven mouths, yet he was entitled to the largest yam in a hungry household.

The first time my father saw my mother singing in the church choir, a surge of energy pulsed. He pursued her like a starved man. My mother refused him. Not only was he one year younger, he whiffed of disingenuous declarations. If you marry me, I’ll make us rich! She turned her nose up like a child. To get rid of him, she issued an impossible deal: If you take me to America, I’ll marry you. Perhaps she smiled a coy smile, knowing he would never find the money.

My father took matters above her head and approached her parents. In threadbare shirt and trousers, he promised to take care of their daughter. He’d already been admitted to a university in America on full scholarship. He was allowed to bring a wife. My father vowed to strike it rich. When her parents referred to him as my son, the deal was done. I imagine my mother’s shock, her blood-drained face while her parents sang the hymn of the holy dollar. They didn’t attend the wedding in Texas. My mother wore a short, white dress borrowed from a woman from the Baptist Church. Black-and-white photos show her bouffant hairstyle, dainty white gloves. My father, in a black suit and hair parted to the side, flashes a greedy grin. My mother stares straight ahead.

In this union forged by Confucius—entitled rank and filial piety—I was born. As the firstborn daughter, my birthright ensured privilege. My parents never imagined I’d use my privilege to break rank and refuse piety. They dangled their dated customs above me. When the Texan doctor spanked my bottom, I screamed and shattered their old relics.

Ayoung Kim is a writer and artist. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Two Hawks Quarterly, Best Travelers’ Tales, and The Razor, among others. She is originally from San Francisco.