“To remember who you are, you need to forget who they told you to be.”

I remember who I was.
I was Korean.
My mother tongue was Korean.
My name was MyungSook.
I was the daughter of  Koreans.

They raised me as their own, someone I was not.
I was raised to live as their own and I became who I wasn’t.

They told me to be someone else.
I’ve been someone they told me to be for so long  that I am who I wasn’t.

To forget who they told me to be means to forget who I am.
I’m Quebecker.
My mother tongue is French.
My name is Kim.
I’m the daughter of Quebeckers.

To remember who I am means to remember who I am not.
I’m Korean but I’m not really Korean.
I don’t speak Korean.
Her name MyungSook sounds like Chinese to my Quebec ears.
I am the daughter of nobody.

They raised her as their own, someone she was not.
They killed her, they created me.

The dead lives in the memory of the living.
She lives in my memory, I live in her body.
Her body I call mine is her coffin.

To remember who I am, I need to remember her, the missing me.
She is not because I am.

To remember who I am, I need to remember I am dead
I am not me, I am her, I am dead.