Finding Junie Kim

by Ellen Oh

  “Your grandfather is best for your project,” she says. “He likes to talk too much. So he is perfect. Me, I don’t like talking.”

  “But Grandma, I want to hear your war story also!”

  “Ah, that story?” She nods. “One day I’ll tell you. But not now. I am too tired.”

  And then she goes and cooks. Which some people might think is weird, but I understand. Sometimes I find talking much more exhausting than actual work.

  I look at my grandpa with a what do I do gesture, and he whispers in my ear. “Don’t give up,” he says. “Keep trying, and one day she’ll tell you.”

  I’m disappointed, but I set up my phone to keep recording my grandfather. I now have twenty of his stories recorded, and I’ve enjoyed every single one of them. I plan to put them into a movie to give to my entire family. I think they will love it.

  “So what are we talking about today, Junie?”

  “You said you would tell me about why you moved to Maryland.”

  “That was all because of your grandma.”

  The great thing about Grandpa’s stories is that they don’t really end. One story will lead to another one through some connection, and then he weaves them all together. Sometimes he repeats stories, but I don’t mind. I still enjoy hearing them. A few times, Grandma has been home during his recordings. And those are my favorite times because Grandma will always add something to the story. Like today.

  “What do you mean, because of me?” she demands from the kitchen. She comes out and gives us a plate full of cut-up fruit. “I could have stayed in New York for the rest of my life. You’re the one who said you wanted to move down here and finally be able to garden. I had to give up my New York real estate practice and take another broker’s license test for this big suburban area, just so I could work here.”

  “Well, the truth is it was your mother’s fault,” Grandpa says to me. “If your mother hadn’t moved to Washington, DC, for work, we’d probably still be in New York.”

  On the coffee table is a bowl of honey-roasted peanuts. Grandpa reaches for them, but Grandma is faster and snatches them away.

  “No more of these for you! Eat fruit instead,” she says, as she puts a fork with a piece of cantaloupe in his hand. “And don’t blame Sasha! You couldn’t stand the idea of being too far from your only grandchildren!”

  “That’s true.” He reaches over and pinches my cheeks. “Who can blame me when my grandchildren are so smart and beautiful? Who do you think you take after, Junie? Your mom or dad?”

  I smile. “I take after Grandma, of course.”

  Grandpa busts out laughing. “Good answer!”

  AT SCHOOL THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Lila and Marisol come to Ms. Simon’s classroom at lunch with some of our flyers.

  “We saw these in the eighth-grade hallway,” Marisol says as she hands them over. Lila looks like she’s going to cry. When we see the flyers, we know why. Someone has written all over them with racist hate words. We are all quiet. Ms. Simon reaches over and takes the flyers. We can tell how furious she is by how her lips have disappeared into a tight line.

  “I’m going to show this to the principal right now,” she states. “Wait here for me.”

  She marches off, her heels making loud, angry clacking noises on the wood floors.

  Marisol moves closer to us and whispers. “So, it must be an eighth grader, huh?”

  Lila is nodding vigorously and says a bad word in Spanish, which normally would make me snicker admiringly.

  “It could be anyone,” Patrice says, “but for sure it is definitely a student.”

  I agree with Patrice. I keep looking at the handwriting, and it looks so familiar to me. I’ve seen it before. That weird scrawl of small and large letters that slant to the left instead of to the right.

  I think it might be Tobias. But do I say anything? What if I’m wrong? Would I be accusing someone just because I’m biased? I’m not sure what to do.

  “Listen, my mom told me that the police think the gym graffiti and the boys’ bathroom graffiti are two separate people,” Patrice continues. “The gym was spray paint, but the bathroom was a black Sharpie.”

  “Like this flyer.” Lila points to the black markings.

  “My mom says they think the gym graffiti was actual vandals who don’t go to the school.”

  “Well, why won’t they tell us this?” Hena fumes. “This is kind of important!”

  Patrice nods. “Probably because the police are still investigating. But this is our problem.” She stares down at the flyer. “This is someone we go to school with, and we need to find them and expose them.”

  “How do we do that?” Amy asks.

  “I don’t know, but we’ll think of something.”

  I’m taking in everything they are saying, and suddenly I have a thought. “You know whoever did this had to have done it during the school day,” I say slowly. “It isn’t like the vandals who broke into the school at night. This was done during school hours.”

  They all look at me. “Meaning someone might have seen them.” Patrice smiles.

  I nod. “What we have to do is encourage people to do the right thing and speak up.”

  Before we continue, Ms. Simon comes back. “I’ve talked to the principal, and we are not taking this lightly. Principal Sumner is taking it to the police, but he also wants to have a professional diversity trainer come and talk to the entire school.”

  Patrice’s eyes light up. “Ms. Simon, what if we show our videos and present our message along with the professional trainer?”

  Ms. Simon looks unsure. “Is this something you all want to do?”

  Patrice and the others all look at each other and agree. I’m not sure, so I just stay quiet. When they look at me, I nod firmly. “We should do this.”

  I can see my words make them happy. This is me being the supportive friend Grandpa told me to be. I can’t wait to tell him about all this.

  “Well, I’ll ask the principal. I just want to make sure that it’s safe for all of you to do this.”

  “Why not?” Patrice asks. “Everyone knows who we are and what we’re doing. Bringing it to the whole student body’s attention is why we formed this club and are making these videos. We should be allowed to share them.”

  Ms. Simon nods. “And to do it with a professional trainer may be the best way. It will be their job to help understand and teach tangible action plans. Okay, I’ll speak to Mr. Sumner. I’m sure I can convince him, but I need all of your parents’ approval to do this.”

  I’m nervous about it, but I’m trying to be brave. I will be brave. But then that little voice of negativity starts to chatter in my head.

  What can you really do, Junie? All this is useless. You’re useless. You should give up. They’re all waiting for you to disappoint them again.

  Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

  The videos for school are taking a lot of my time, and instead of going to my grandparents’ place on Friday as usual, I go to Patrice’s to show my friends what I’ve got so far. We’ve decided to focus on showing how racism affects Black students and other students of color, and why silence about racism is just as bad.

  Ms. Simon shows a video clip of the diversity trainer the school has hired. His name is Michael Giles, and he is great. He starts by talking about his experience growing up Black in Mississippi and moves on to talk about systemic racism and how we don’t even realize how embedded it is in our world. I am struck by all he has to say and how much I didn’t know.

  “He’s amazing!” Patrice’s eyes are glowing with admiration.

  “What all of you have been doing here is the same thing,” Ms. Simon says. “You are helping to educate your fellow students who’ve never experienced being anything other than part of the majority. I think you all are just as amazing.”

  Her words are like an energy shot to all of us. We are determined that the diversity assembly will be the best we can make it. The date is set for the first Thursday in N
ovember. It gives us more than a month.

  “Junie, it’s up to you to really make these videos great,” Patrice says. “We’re counting on you.”

  “No pressure or anything,” Hena jokes as she pokes me in my side.

  I smile weakly. I really hope I do a good job. The voice of depression is speaking to me again, getting louder. Telling me I’m no good. But I stomp on it by chanting my words of affirmation out loud. “I can do this. I am good enough. I can do this. I am good enough.”

  In therapy, I talk to Rachel about my fear.

  “Tell me what you’re afraid of, Junie.”

  It’s hard to put into words, but I try. “What if everything we’re doing makes it worse?”

  “Makes what worse?”

  “The racism. What if it makes them angrier and they lash out at us?” I think of the flyers and the graffiti. “What if next time someone gets hurt?”

  “This is a very valid concern,” Rachel says. “And I don’t have an answer for you. This is a difficult position to be in. The question for you is whether or not the fear is greater than your desire to help your friends. And there is no judgment here. Whatever you do is fine. You have to decide what your position is and what the consequences of that decision will be. Because there will always be consequences to any action or inaction.”

  I know she’s right, and I also know what the consequences would be. Disappointing my friends. But also disappointing myself.

  The group wants to meet on Friday again, and so I call Grandpa and tell him I won’t be over, but promise to come next week.

  “Don’t you worry about me, Junie!” Grandpa says. “You focus on your school projects and come see me anytime.”

  I feel guilty, but I want to put all my extra time into being with my friends and getting ready for the event.

  The next Friday, I finally go to see my grandpa, but he’s not feeling too well.

  “Grandpa, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m just tired,” he says. “I think I caught a cold. Probably from your grandmother because she’s always running around.”

  Grandma is insulted. “I’m not running around; I’m a working woman!”

  “Why don’t you retire already?” he complains.

  “I like my work, and I’ll keep doing it until I can’t.” She turns to me and caresses my cheek. “Junie, make sure your grandfather drinks lots of tea and let him rest, okay?”

  “Yes, Grandma.” I wave as she heads out the door.

  Instead of recording, I just tell him all about what’s happening in school and how everything is going. He smiles and tells me I’m a good girl. As I show him the diversity video, I see he’s fallen asleep in his armchair. He looks pale. I’m worried. Since Grandma is still out, I call my mom. When she comes to pick me up, she talks to Grandpa and asks to take him to the doctor.

  “I’m perfectly fine! Just tired. Don’t worry.” He is grumpy and waves off our concern.

  I can’t shake my weird feeling, and I give Grandpa a tight hug. “Don’t be sick, Grandpa,” I tell him. “We need to finish our recordings!”

  He gives me a tired smile and hugs me back. “I love you, Junie.”

  “I love you, too, Grandpa.”

  LATE SUNDAY NIGHT, I WAKE UP because I hear my mom’s anxious voice talking on the phone. I come out of my room and see my parents getting dressed.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Grandpa got rushed to the hospital,” my father says. “We’re going to meet your grandma there right now.”

  “Is he all right? What happened? I want to see him!”

  “No, honey, you stay here,” he says. “We’ll call you as soon as we hear some news.”

  I spend the next hour wide awake in bed, anxiously waiting for my parents to contact me.

  Finally, my dad calls.

  “How’s Grandpa?” I ask desperately.

  “He’s in the intensive care unit. He had a pretty serious stroke, but they are hopeful they caught it in time,” my dad answers.

  I let out a shuddering breath, and tears of relief stream down my face. “When can I see him?”

  “I don’t know yet, honey. But as soon as you can, we’ll bring you here.”

  I fall in and out of sleep but am wide-awake when my dad comes home in the early morning hours. I jump out of bed and yell out to him.

  Justin pops his head out in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  I ignore him and run down to my father in the kitchen, where he’s making himself coffee.

  “Did you see Grandpa? What did the doctor say? Where’s Mom?”

  Justin pads into the kitchen behind me. “What happened to Grandpa?”

  “They are calling it a massive stroke. We’re lucky he didn’t die. But he’s still not conscious yet, so we don’t know how it has affected him.”

  “What’s a massive stroke mean?” Justin asks, his eyes now wide open in shock.

  “He had a series of blood clots in his brain,” Dad says gently. “It cut off oxygen to his brain. That’s what a stroke does.”

  “Was he in pain?” I ask.

  “No, honey.” My dad gives me a big hug and then pulls Justin into his embrace too. We are all quiet for a long moment as we think of Grandpa.

  “I assume you guys don’t want to go to school today.”

  We both shake our heads a hard no.

  He smiles. “I don’t blame you. Let’s all wait for Mom to tell us when we can go in to see Grandpa. Until then, try to go back to sleep. You’ll need your rest.”

  I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, I’m so worried about my grandfather. But as I lie in bed, I’m overcome by tiredness.

  My dad’s voice wakes me up immediately. He’s telling us to get ready to go to the hospital. I beat my brother to the bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face as fast as possible. I throw on any clean clothing I get my hands on, then grab my phone and zoom down to the kitchen, where I’m surprised to see Dad’s made us pancakes. I don’t want to eat, but I can see from his face that he won’t take no for an answer.

  “Junie, you have to eat to keep your strength up,” he says. He puts a few mini pancakes on my plate with fresh strawberries. Even though I don’t feel hungry, I slowly eat all of them. My brother shows up and swallows ten of them without chewing, chugs a glass of milk, and then says, “Let’s go!” He doesn’t even notice that his shirt is on inside out.

  Bethesda Hospital is made up of several buildings in a large complex all connected by glass corridors. It doesn’t really look like a hospital, but I guess that’s a good thing. The parking lot is crowded, and we end up parking far from the building that Grandpa is in. Once inside, we walk through a lobby that seems more like an office building than a hospital. We head to the seventh floor and find Mom waiting for us by the elevators. I can see she’s been crying, but she smiles as soon as she sees us.

  “He’s awake and talking a little bit,” she says. “But please don’t be alarmed when you see him. Because of the stroke, he’s having a hard time speaking.”

  The seventh floor looks like what I’d expect a hospital to look like, with wide white corridors and nurses stations. It has that weird rubbing-alcohol smell that makes you scrunch your nose.

  At Grandpa’s room, I see Grandma holding his hand. I rush to his side.

  “Grandpa! I was so worried!”

  He tries to smile at me, but only the right side of his mouth goes up. The other corner droops down. His cheek seems to sag on his left side. But his eyes are the same. They still twinkle as he smiles.

  “Juuunie, aga.” He hasn’t called me aga in a long time. Since I was eight and told him I wasn’t a baby anymore. He’s talking again. But only in Korean. I don’t understand him. I am trying not to cry because my parents told me not to in front of Grandpa.

  “He says don’t worry,” Grandma translates for me. “He says he’ll be okay.”

  He is talking again and looking at me and then Justin. His voice still sounds like
Grandpa but slower and weaker, with a slight slur.

  “He says, ‘I’m so lucky to have my beautiful grandchildren here. I’m so proud of them both.’”

  I can hear Justin sniffle, and he turns away. I sit on the bed and hold Grandpa’s right hand. I can feel him squeeze it slightly. Mom told us to keep things as normal as possible.

  “Grandpa, you have to get better soon so we can continue recording our family history.”

  He does the lopsided smile again and agrees in Korean, which even I understand. Justin then takes his turn talking to Grandpa about school and soccer until we notice Grandpa’s eyes starting to close.

  “Okay, kids, it’s time to let Grandpa rest,” Mom says. “You can come back tomorrow after school to visit him.”

  We give him and Grandma hugs, and we reluctantly leave. Out in the hallway, Mom explains why Grandpa is speaking in Korean.

  “Sometimes after a stroke, people lose their ability to speak,” she explains. “But in your grandpa’s case, because he is bilingual, he has lost his ability to speak English and has reverted to his mother tongue, as it is probably easiest.”

  “Will he get it back?” Justin asks.

  She nods. “The doctor says he should, but we don’t know when.”

  I can feel the tears threatening to come out. Mom hugs me. “It’s okay. You can cry now. I just didn’t want you to do it in front of Grandma and Grandpa.”

  I nod and let my tears fall silently into my mom’s jacket. I’m so relieved Grandpa is alive that it doesn’t matter to me if he never speaks English again. I’ll just have to learn Korean. When I’m done, she hands me a tissue and turns me toward the elevator.

  “You guys go home. I’ll stay here until your uncle Paul comes. He should arrive some time tonight.”

  She walks us all the way out of the hospital. I wave goodbye to her until I can’t see her anymore.

  In the car, Dad asks if we want to go back to school as it’s only eleven thirty in the morning. Neither of us is up for it, so instead he takes us to our favorite diner for milkshakes, burgers, and fries.

  “Dad,” I say. “Will Grandpa really be all right? Is he safe from more strokes?”