by Angela Ahn
I groaned. Oh great, I get to be the Korean ambassador to my school. People will ask me stuff like, “How do you say fart in Korean?” and think it’s hilarious. Well, actually I do know how to say it in Korean, bangu, but don’t be fooled into thinking that I know any more than that. We just don’t speak Korean in my house. My parents speak English to each other. Grandma speaks Korean to my dad, but I honestly don’t think he understands much of what she’s saying because she just ends up switching to English anyway. The only time my mom speaks Korean is when she’s saying the names of Korean dishes in a restaurant. My dad on the other hand, doesn’t even try to say the names in Korean. He just points to pictures or says the number next to the dish on the menu.
“Mrs. June!” shouted Emma. “This is not fair. I am quarter Chinese, quarter Malaysian, quarter German, and quarter Czech. I have to do way more work than somebody like…Krista!”
I mean really, is it my fault that both my parents are Korean? Geez, Emma needs to relax. She is one of those girls I never spend any time with and I really don’t care what she thinks anyway, but why point me out?
“Yeah!” seconded Evan. “My parents told me once that I was like the human version of a mutt. I’m from so many different countries! Do I have to research all of them?”
Mrs. June stopped moving and looked very serious. She remained dead calm in the face of all this rebellion. She said, “Class. You are the sum of all your parts. You must know what it means to be all those parts of you. If you need to explore eight or twelve countries, ethnic groups, or religions, it doesn’t matter. Which one would you leave out? Which part of you will you be too lazy to discover? That grandmother whose eyes you have? Will you forget her? Or that great-grandfather who nearly died traveling to this country whose last name you still carry? Will you say, ‘No, he’s too much work’?”
We all got very quiet. Nobody was complaining anymore. There was lots of paper shuffling, downcast eyes, and shoes scraping the floor. “What makes you you? That is the point of this project. You will see from the description that it is quite open-ended. I do not want a list of facts and figures about a country. Too easy, too boring. I want you to tell me how this country or countries have impacted you and your life. Start with big ideas and then, if you want to, go small. This may be quite challenging for some of you, but I am confident that if you talk to your parents or grandparents or cousins or aunts or uncles, you will find something that you can use to tell an interesting and unique story.”
Jason looked at me from across the room with his scared face. Mrs. June had only been our teacher for a couple of weeks, and so far she had been pretty easy going. But today she was presenting us with a pretty difficult project and we had upset her. I knew exactly how Jason felt. Even though I want my independence for most things, I’m still a kid, and I like to be told what to do for school projects.
Nobody said anything negative for the rest of the morning as we settled down to tables in the library and Mrs. Germaine, the librarian, gave us the “talk”—the talk you get every time you do a research project—about plagiarism and copying and using your own words. We all listened politely. I don’t think anybody was stupid enough to say anything sassy right now, what with the mood Mrs. June was in.
When the bell rang for recess, we ran back to our class, grabbed our jackets, and headed outside to brave the downpour. Our school has a rain-or-shine policy—we are never allowed to stay inside during recess and lunch. They want us to get outside and get some exercise and fresh air, never mind all the rain. Sometimes I hate Vancouver.
As I opened the door and received a blast of cool air and drizzle on my face, Jason put up his hood and said, “So, I’m thinking tartans!”
“Being Scottish is so easy,” I grumbled as I zipped up. “What, are you just going to print some plaid pictures off the Internet?”
“She said it was open-ended!”
“I think she wants a bit more effort than that, Jason.”
“Do you have any idea of what you want to do?” he asked.
“I guess I’m the official representative of Korea,” I said as I shrugged.
“No, like what specifically?”
“I specifically have no clue,” I replied.
“Well, when Mrs. June was talking, I couldn’t help but think of your grandma and how she likes to bring your dad food every week.”
“Go on.” I stopped and stared at him.
“I dunno, I just thought you could do something about Korean food.”
Huh. Maybe he was on to something. I started thinking about food, possibly because I was so hungry, and I was lost in thought when Madison Wong stopped me.
“Hey, Krista!” she said. Madison and I were friendly, but not friends. She and Emma hung out a lot.
“Hi, Madison,” I scrunched up my nose and looked at her through the rain. I wiped some rain off my nose.
“I sent you an email this morning, check it later okay?” She gave Jason a funny look that I couldn’t figure out.
“Okay,” I replied, slightly confused. She had never sent me an email before. I guess if you had to describe Madison, you’d say she was one of the popular girls. She was always very well dressed, but it always seemed to me that she was slightly overdressed. Madison wears a lot of sparkly shoes. She always has. She has a sparkly shoe addiction. I clearly remember she wore ballet flats to Sports Day last year. She kind of reminded me of my grandmother for some reason. Also, she never wears a raincoat. She wears denim jackets and bomber jackets and other materials that seem to soak up, not repel water.
But aside from what I thought was impractical dressing for school, she just seemed more mature than all the other girls. She seemed to draw people to her. She wasn’t ever silly or funny or loud. She was kind of a natural leader.
When she walked away with her squad of friends, Jason said, “You want to check right now?” Jason pulled out his cell phone, which he wasn’t supposed to have at school.
“Jason!” I whispered. “Put it away!”
“Nobody’s looking, Krista. Here, log in.” He passed it to me.
I hated the idea of getting caught, but I really wanted to know what Madison’s email was all about.
I stared at the email, a little bit stunned.
“It’s an invitation to her birthday party,” I finally managed to say.
“Oh, okay,” Jason said.
“Jason. You’ll never believe it, but it’s a theme party. The theme is Red Carpet Party.”
“You mean like an awards show ‘Red Carpet’?” Jason used his fingers to do air quotations.
I sighed and looked up at the sky. If there was one thing I hated, it was wearing a dress.
It was a lot to think about. At home after school, I plunked myself down on my bed to think. A big school project, for which I had no real ideas, and Madison’s invitation. I was the only one who hadn’t replied by the end of the day. On the list was her usual group of friends, but she also included a few surprise guests, me being one of them. I couldn’t figure out why.
“I hear you’ve been invited to a party,” Tori said, barging into my room without knocking. I hate when she does that.
“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.
“A bunch of your loser classmates have older sisters who go to my school you know.” She sat down on my bed. “So, what are you going to wear? I assume you’ll need my help.”
“I haven’t even decided to go yet,” I told her. Why was she being so nice to me, anyway?
“What? It could be really cool. You should think about it.”
“You know I don’t like dressing up. So what you think might be cool might actually be awkward and humiliating for me. Ever think about that? And also, I’m a bit busy being Korea’s lone representative at the school. It’s been a crazy day!” I was getting pretty worked up.
“What, a Cultural
Fair or something?”
“No, Heritage Month.”
“Oh Mrs. June’s project! I totally remember that.” She half-laughed. “I asked Grandma if I could borrow her Korean dress. It was very uncomfortable and I felt like a total loser because it is so big and not flattering.”
“You wore it to school?” I asked.
“Yes, it was part of my project. I did a whole thing about traditional Korean clothes.” Leave it to my fashion-obsessed sister to work clothes into a school project.
She stood up suddenly and clapped her hands together. “I still have it, you know, the Korean dress.”
“I believe it’s called a hanbok,” I said smugly.
She kind of scrunched her face at me and gave me a sneer. She hates it when I correct her. I rarely get a chance, so when an opportunity comes my way I grab it.
“Krista, I have a great idea!” Tori was sounding a little too excited. She jumped up and ran out of my room, leaving me very confused and alone.
CHAPTER 4
We went to the library to research our projects again the next day. I was a little bit stumped. After Tori and I had talked, she hadn’t really helped me figure out what I was going to do. She had just disappeared into her room. So while we were in the library, I grabbed an old encyclopedia off the shelf because I actually like flipping pages instead of staring at a screen. I guess I’m old-fashioned, but I still like books.
I looked up Korea. I started skimming the page by glancing at the subheadings: Three Kingdoms, Mongol Empire, Hermit Kingdom, Annexation by Japan, Soviet Influence, War. That’s pretty depressing. I kept flipping. None of that stuff interested me. Then I saw the entry about cuisine. This was something I understood. I thought about what Jason had said to me earlier too, about my grandmother and the way she was so happy feeding her son Korean food. I remembered how my mom always said that certain foods were “in the blood.” I had found my topic.
I realized I couldn’t ask my mom for any help— the kimchi at our house came from Grandma. My mom had never made it before, and she bought most of the banchan in our fridge from the Korean market downtown. Her Korean food was not authentic enough. I hated the idea of it, but I knew who I needed to ask.
I slammed the encyclopedia shut and sunk back into my seat. I let out a huge sigh. Jason looked over at me. “You okay?” he asked.
“No, I’m not,” I replied.
“What’s up?” He put his pencil down and looked at me.
“I think I need to ask Grandma for help,” I sighed.
“Oh geez, I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Why?”
“Because my mom buys her Korean food pre-marinated and pre-made from the Korean store,” I said.
“Huh?” he replied.
“Oh sorry, I forgot you weren’t reading my mind,” I continued. “I think you were onto something when you suggested I do something food-related for my project.”
“I am quite smart.” He smiled.
“Yes, you are the smartest boy I know, and the funniest.”
“Don’t forget handsome!”
“Okay, okay, we took that too far. Anyway, I need to ask Grandma for help and it might kill me to ask her for it,” I said.
Mrs. June walked by and said, “Everything okay here, Krista? Jason?”
I hated sneak attacks by teachers. “Uh, yes! Great! Fine!” I stammered.
She didn’t look like she believed me, but she did me a favor and walked away anyway.
“Who knows,” Jason said, “your grandmother might surprise you.” How could he always manage to be so optimistic and positive?
After school, I knew what I had to do, but it took me forever. I stared at the phone for a long time before I got the courage to call Grandma. I was pretty nervous. I don’t remember ever calling her up and asking for her help. The phone rang three times, and I almost hung up. She picked up on the fourth ring. “Yoboseyo?” she said. She has lived in Canada for decades, but she still doesn’t answer the phone in English.
“Hi, Grandma, it’s Krista,” I said.
“Krista. Something wrong with your dad? Why you calling?” Grandma sounded worried.
“No, Grandma, he’s fine. We’re all fine. I just have something to ask you,” I started carefully.
I paused. There was dead air. She was waiting for me to continue.
“Um, so…we’re doing this project at school,” I said. Still nothing. I could just hear her breathing. I took a deep breath and continued. “We’re supposed to be exploring our background, for Heritage Month.” I stopped, waiting to hear something on the other end. Nothing. I kept going. “But it’s not like a normal project. I’m supposed to find out something about Korea or being Korean that is different.”
“What you mean?” she finally said.
“That’s just it. I can kind of choose what I want to do,” I said. I paused for a little bit before I said, “I want to do Korean food.”
“What ‘do Korean food?’ Eh?” My grandmother sounded confused.
“I want to learn about Korean food, Grandma. I want to find out what it is that makes me Korean, and I think it’s the food.” I was starting to ramble now. “You know how I love kimchi and rice and soup and bulgogi and I always have. I just ate it. I always just eat it. But with Jason for example, he thought kimchi was weird at first and it’s only because he’s my friend that he likes it now, because he’s not Korean. He wasn’t born knowing it or liking it. But I was. Do you understand what I am talking about?”
“Jason like kimchi?” Grandma sounded surprised.
“Yes, Grandma, he does.”
“So you want to learn something?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I do. Will you teach me some stuff? You know Mom, she doesn’t really know how to cook Korean food.” I felt terrible saying that to Grandma, as though I was betraying my mom. But I needed Grandma on my side.
“Yes, your mom not know too much. She make Mexican food and tacos,” she said scornfully. I loved tacos, but I let that one slide.
“Okay. You have time on Friday? I pick you up after school and we go Korean store to go shopping, okay? Korean girl should learn how to make Korean food. Good idea!” She sounded almost happy.
“Okay, Grandma. I’ll come home right away after school on Friday,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Friday, we make kimbap,” she said and she hung up the phone.
CHAPTER 5
We unloaded all the groceries from Grandma’s car in the dark. We had spent a good long time at the grocery store. Too long. I was super tired and hungry and we still had a lot of work to do.
“Kimbap,” my grandmother started, as we walked into the kitchen, with our hands full of plastic grocery bags. “Everybody’s kimbap little bit different.”
“It’s like sushi right?” I asked.
Grandma had a shocked look in her eyes. “No! Not like sushi! Aigoo! Sushi use vinegar in the rice.Not in kimbap,” Grandma scolded. “Your mother not teach you anything! Korean in name only! Sushi is Jap-an-ese,” Grandma said each syllable slowly and with emphasis. “You NOT Japanese.” She pointed her finger at me.
I kept quiet. She muttered to herself some more in Korean, and I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but sometimes all you need to hear is the tone in somebody’s voice, no matter what the language, and it was pretty clear she was irritated with me. There was no use arguing with her. I was just going to pretend I never mentioned the word sushi.
I watched her lay out the ingredients. Sheets of dried seaweed, eggs, beef, carrots, spinach, yellow pickled radish. “You wash spinach. Wash very well.” She bent down into a cabinet and pulled out a colander. “Then you wash carrots,” Grandma ordered.
She proceeded to fry the beef she had bought at the store while I washed. I washed for a long time. I was afraid of doing it wrong. She had started a pot of water to boil
and after I finally handed her the spinach she dumped it in the pot of boiling water. “Only one, two minutes,” she instructed. Then she dumped the contents back into the colander in the sink. “You squeeze later, when cool.” She moved on to the carrots, which she had started to slice into perfect long, slim sticks.
“Now, cook carrots.” She gestured for me to come to the stove and help her. I took the wooden spoon. “Add little sesame oil, not too much!”
The preparation was endless. It was way past dinner time and I was so hungry, but I couldn’t tell Grandma that. She was trying to help me, and I was kind of surprised at how nice she was being, especially after how I had stuck my foot in my mouth earlier.
We were finally ready to roll up the kimbap. We stood side by side, each with a sheet of seaweed laid out. “Now, spread rice. Not too thick.” My grandmother showed me. We laid out each of the other ingredients we had prepared and finally, finally, we were ready to roll.
“Not bad for first roll.” Grandma smiled as I finished rolling. “Next time, little bit tighter.”
“Can I eat some now, Grandma?” I asked.
“Okay, I slice for you, but we still have to finish more.”
She got out a big knife and sliced up the roll I had made. It was nearly 8pm, and after having been surrounded by food all afternoon, finally getting to eat it felt so good. I loved the way the pickled radish crunched in my mouth. I ate the whole roll very quickly.
“You want some soup too?” Grandma asked.
“Yes, please.” She pulled out a pot from the fridge and set it on the stove for me. I didn’t even care if it was tteokguk again. I was so hungry any soup would have been welcome.