Honoring My Mother, Heikyung Chun Min
Mr. Speaker, I rise today to honor the extraordinary life of my mother, Heikyung Chun Min, known to family and friends as HK, who passed away on August 29 at the age of 79. When you are young, you tend to think your parents are invincible,…
Mr. Speaker, I rise today to honor the extraordinary life of my mother, Heikyung Chun Min, known to family and friends as HK, who passed away on August 29 at the age of 79.
When you are young, you tend to think your parents are invincible, that
they are larger than life, and that they will be around forever.
If you knew my mom, you can understand why it was particularly easy to believe that about her. She was brilliant, funny, fiercely determined, and deeply loving. She had an incredible joy for life and what seemed like an endless supply of energy.
When I was a kid, some of the things that made my mom so uniquely her could also feel embarrassing. One of my mom's notable habits when we went out to eat was to ask the waiter to divide her meal in two, to give her half of it and put the other half in a to-go container.
None of my friends' moms ever did anything like that. As someone who was self-conscious back then, I felt awkward when we went out to eat.
When I got older, I realized that what she was doing was actually brilliant. Restaurant portions are too big. Half is plenty. The other half is tomorrow's lunch instead of extra calories I don't need.
Now that I am a dad, I often do the same thing: half now, half to go. Are my kids embarrassed by me? Probably. But I tell them that this is what their ``grandma''; ``halmoni'' did. They know she is very smart, and maybe we started a family tradition.
My mom was different than the other moms in so many other ways. She grew up during the Korean war, studied hard, and got into the top college in Korea, Seoul National University, where she studied chemistry.
She came to America in 1972 to get her Ph.D. at Brown University, got married to my dad, had me and then my younger brother, Andrew, and moved out to California where we grew up.
My mom was one of the early women engineers and executives in Silicon Valley's semiconductor industry, working at Fairchild and later at National Semiconductor. Most of the other moms I knew back then didn't work, and I don't remember any moms who took business trips like my mom did, to exotic locales like Taiwan and Israel.
As a kid, I had no idea how remarkable that was. I will be honest. I didn't know what semiconductors were. It was only when I got older that I understood she was working at foundational companies helping to pave the way for an industry that would transform our global economy.
Years later, I remember reading about supermoms, the moms out there balancing successful careers in a patriarchal society where they were also expected to be wives and mothers. I remember thinking that my mom was the original supermom.
But I didn't think any of that as a child. To me and my younger brother, Andrew, she was ``mom''; ``eomma.'' What I remember about her is that she was always there: at my parent-teacher conferences, my violin lessons, and my soccer games. Despite a demanding career, she was home just about every evening by 5 p.m. making dinner, taking care of us, and watching over us.
Mom never stopped watching over us. Even toward the end of her life, she would call me after seeing me on TV to compliment my haircut or text me after seeing a video from Minneapolis to tell me I needed a heavier coat.
A few months back, I used some language on social media my mom did not approve of. Within an hour, my phone rang. Even though she was weak from cancer, she still had enough energy to give me an earful. ``We did not raise you to be the type of person who uses the f-word. Please take that post down. We raised you better than that.'' Of course, I took the post down.
My mom also loved telling stories, especially embarrassing stories, about her sons. One of her favorites was when I was 4 years old. My dad had given me a few dollars at the grocery store and told me to buy flowers for my mom.
When he found me at the checkout line, I was chewing Bubble Yum. He asked me whether I had bought the flowers, and I supposedly told him: ``Even better, I bought flower seeds. We can get lots more flowers from the seeds, and I had money left over to buy gum.''
My mom loved that story and told it probably hundreds of times to people. Every single time, she laughed, that beautiful laugh that I miss so much.
In February 2024, my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, one of deadliest and most unforgiving cancers. I will be honest. I still thought she was going to beat it. I still thought she was invincible.
She went into that fight with so much conviction and energy. We were initially told she might have only weeks to live. But weeks became months, months became a year, then 2 years. She lived for more than 2\1/2\ years after that diagnosis. For so much of that time, she was still mom, still laughing, still telling stories, and still watching over us.
Every single extra day she gave us was an extraordinary gift to my dad, Brian; to me; my wife, Jane; our kids, Teddy, Emmy, and Paxton; to my brother, Andrew; his wife, Melissa; and their kids, Zach and Niko.
The last text message my mom sent me reminded me again of those flower seeds I had bought her as young child. She ended simply by saying ``saranghaeyo''; ``I love you.''
At her memorial, we gave everyone a packet of flower seeds in her honor to hopefully keep spreading the joy and brilliance and energy that she had spread in her remarkable life on this planet.
Mom, ``I love you''; ``saranghaeyo.'' I'm sorry for the f-word I used on social media earlier this week. I will try to do better, and I hope to see you soon.