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The Cuddys at Woo Lae Oak in Los Angeles, celebrating Susan’s 70th birthday in 1985. From left: Christine, Frank, Susan and Flip

Susan dressed for an international day event in Los Angeles in 1936. • Family photo, 1941 in Los Angeles. Front row from left: Soorah, Helen Ahn and Susan. Back row: Ralph, Philip and Philson • 1941 in Los Angeles with mother Helen Ahn, Soorah and Susan.

Susan teaching at US Navy Link Training School in Atlanta, Georgia in 1942. • Susan and Navy pilot at Atlantic City Naval Air Station in 1942.

Excerpt from author John Cha’s Willow Tree Shade: The Susan Ahn Cuddy Story

Story John Cha

Mother Didn't Speak to Me for Five Years…

An extraordinary woman struggles with her estranged relationship with her mother. An excerpt from author John Cha’s Willow Tree Shade: The Susan Ahn Cuddy Story.

Susan Ahn Cuddy was born in Los Angeles in 1915 to Dosan Ahn Chang Ho, probably the most respected and well-known man in all of Korea and within Korean communities in the United States and around the world. Because of his lifetime work for the freedom and for the independence of Korea from the Japanese, Dosan is equated with leaders like George Washington, Sun Yat Sen, Martin Luther King, and Gandhi.

When World War II came Susan joined the U.S. Navy because she wanted to fight the Japanese war machine, the same military empire that had imprisoned her father and eventually killed him. She became the first Asian American woman officer in the Navy and distinguished herself as the first woman gunnery officer in the history of the U.S. Navy. As a gunnery officer, she taught the Navy and Royal Air Force fighter pilots aerial battle tactics.

From there she went on to the Office of Naval Intelligence in Washington, D.C., where she met and married Francis Cuddy, fellow Naval Intelligence analyst. Her marriage to a non-Korean man mortified her mother, who would not speak to Susan for five years. In the meantime Susan moved on to work at the National Security Agency (NSA) as an intelligence analyst and then section chief of CREF (Central Reference Section), supervising 300 linguists and experts on Russia.

She retired from the NSA in 1959 and went home to Los Angeles to work with her siblings in the family restaurant called “Phil Ahn’s Moongate.” Moongate was frequented by Hollywood stars like Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando, friends of Susan’s brother Philip who was also a well-known movie actor.

But Moongate was also a gathering center for the Korean community, where Susan began her work of collecting and organizing her father’s papers and memorabilia, about 6,000 items in all. The family donated the papers to the Korean government to the delight of the Korean scholars and historians. In the process, Susan Ahn became reacquainted with her heritage and became a historic bridge between past and present generations.

The following is an excerpt from John Cha’s narrative biography Willow Tree Shade: The Susan Ahn Cuddy Story (Korean American Heritage Foundation).


Not too many people knew about their marriage, only a handful of people from Arlington Hall on Susan’s side and a few Navy buddies on Frank’s side, along with Frank’s family. No one from Susan’s family was at the simple wedding ceremony in the Navy chapel. They had applied for a civil ceremony in Virginia only to find out that interracial marriage was illegal in that state. Up until then they hadn’t considered themselves an interracial couple, just a couple in love and nothing else and no arcane law was going to dim their rosy glow. They researched and found out that Washington, D.C. had no such ludicrous and racist law, and well, why not ask the chaplain at the Navy Building? The chaplain was delighted to do it, and they were married on April 25, 1947. Susan’s boss gave her away.

Susan didn’t tell her family anything. She knew that Mother would adamantly oppose the marriage because Frank was not Korean. Mom was stubborn that way. Her brothers would be only slightly more thrilled than Mom, but for different reasons. Judging by Philip’s reaction to Frank, her brothers and Frank weren’t going to become the best of friends. All she could hope for was that they tolerate each other, that was all, and she didn’t foresee much support for the marriage from her brothers either. Just as she had kept her Navy enlistment secret from her family, Susan kept her marriage under wraps. She wasn’t concerned about whether she was doing the right thing or not according to Korean tradition. She was more concerned whether she was doing the right thing with her own life: she was convinced that Frank was the right man for her and vice versa. No matter what tradition called for there wasn’t a Korean man alive whom she’d like to begin and spend her life with. She tried to think of Korean men in romantic terms, but she couldn’t. To her, Korean men were more like young uncles, brothers, comrades, friends, or pals whom she grew up and played with. She liked the same food that they did, and she shared the same background and concerns but that’s as far as it went. If there were anyone like Philip—tall, handsome and suave like him—it would have been a different story. But alas, there was no one like Philip. Moreover, her love for the Navy and those in it precluded other men from the running.

By the time Mother got wind of the budding romance between Frank and Susan and rode the train across the country to Virginia to dissuade Susan from marrying Frank, they were already married. During the time Mother stayed with Susan at her Wayne Street apartment, she tried to persuade Susan to give up the marriage. In her quiet, stubborn way, Mother spoke of the difference in cultures, the inherent incompatibility invisible to young lovers: You will see it later. When the fire dies down, you are left with who you are and who he is and you haven’t had a chance to see who you really are. Susan understood everything Mother was saying and she did not present an argument. Susan remained demure, only to remind Mother about the time when Professor Paul Pfaff, then a USC student, had walked by their 37th Street house and Susan had told Mother that “I’m going to marry a tall, handsome man just like that.” That was just an infatuation of a young girl, Mom argued. You are not a young girl, you are a grown woman who has served the country in the War and now you are talking like a young girl.

Frank wasn’t about to face the music. The big, gentle-hearted Navy boxer was no match for the tiny, determined woman. She was far more formidable to him than the Virginia law prohibiting interracial marriage and he stayed away at his home in Washington, D.C. during Mom’s campaign. Luckily for Susan, a group of visiting Korean dignitaries diffused the tension somewhat. Unaware of the mother-daughter struggle surrounding the “most important decision” Susan had made, or the “greatest mistake,” depending on who was talking, the gentlemen from the first-ever judiciary legation from the Republic of Korea enjoyed the sights around Washington D.C.

As she had done for years, Mother cooked for the men with whatever ingredients she could find in Arlington: steamed rice made with long grain rice from Texas, stir-fried pork slivers and string beans, squash chunks dipped in egg batter and fried, sliced cucumber marinated in soy sauce, sliced cabbage doused with chili pepper powder and vinegar. In the strict sense Mother’s cooking was not authentic Korean, and Mother apologized for the make-shift kimchee made of Virginian cabbage. Nevertheless, the judges and congressmen for the brand new republic her husband had dreamed of ate heartily, joking how they had stopped in Los Angeles just for her cooking only to find out that she had gone to Washington and so they had to follow her all the way across the country to track her down. After the boring food on the ship and on the train—meat and potatoes with more meat and potatoes— Mother’s cooking was indeed scrumptious and they hoped she would be around Washington while they finished their work there. Mother said nothing of her real mission in Washington, nothing of Susan’s “secret marriage.” As far as they were concerned Susan was an unmarried ex-Navy lieutenant. Mother knew, though, her stay in Washington would not be for too much longer: she saw in Susie’s determined jaw and steady gaze that her cross-country trip was a failure.

Mom would not speak to Susan for five years to come. It took her mother five years to overcome her silent state of mortification, until the eve of Philson’s wedding, with her to remark to Philip: “I wish Susie were here.” Philip walked away immediately and went to a telephone. He called Susan and said, “Get over here right now.”

As swiftly as she could Susan packed up a few things belonging mostly to Tina, then two years old, and the two of them boarded an airplane to Los Angeles. The airplane soared above the Capitol and so did her anxiety. What would she say, how would she say it? What would Mother say? Will Mother smile, will she hug me when she sees me? Will she be surprised when she sees us?

The innocence of a beautiful and precocious child facilitated the reunion, thawing the estrangement between them. Mom’s stubbornness was no match for the little girl’s crinkly smile, her dark curly hair and dark brown eyes. Little Tina discovered the magic in the word, “Halmoni,” and that the word meant more than just “grandmother.” She followed Mom all over the huge house on Victoria Avenue, calling after her grandmother with her clear, ringing voice, “Halmoni, halmoni!” There was no rehashing of the events five years before, no admonishment from Mom—it was as though the whole business had never occurred. Just like that, the five years of tears evaporated, and Susan became Susie again in Mom’s eyes.


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