Give Me All the Stories About Asian American Moms

We’re at my friend Inyoung’s house. I’ve dropped in unannounced, two daughters in tow, and she’s laying out a beautiful meal: gamja-guk potato soup, gyeran-mari egg rolls, and hobak-jeon zucchini fritters. Watching my daughter wolf down more zucchini than she’s ever eaten in her life, I begin to spiral. I can’t conjure up soup from the sorry depths of my fridge. I can’t make Asian food. I can’t even speak Mandarin. I’m a bad Asian mom. But then I jerk myself back from the precipice. I’m Asian enough, I tell myself. I’m mom enough. I’m enough. This defiance in the… Read Full Article