by Eugenia Kim
That autumn Grandmother grew tinier in body and spirit, and talked clearly about the old days as if they were yesterday. Uncle said this was not uncommon with the elderly; he’d seen it happen with the old-timers at church. Inja heard new stories about Grandmother’s brothers and her own family before she married, including how she had learned to read and write by eavesdropping on her brothers’ lessons with such cleverness that her father relented and hired a tutor for her as well. If Inja asked Grandmother something, her focus would shift and she’d tell Inja about how much, as a child, she had loved listening to stories. Then she’d tell them to Inja: Old Testament stories about children, like Joseph and his brothers, or folk legends about filial love and duty—how a princess sacrificed herself to the sea god to spare her father, or those princesses in the Middle Ages who threw themselves over a cliff into a waterfall to avoid being spoiled by the Hideyoshi marauders. When Inja was a child, these stories were meant to demonstrate how to be a good daughter, and though no one expected her to jump into a waterfall, it was easy to be an obedient daughter of faraway parents who couldn’t make real demands of her. Grandmother would say, “You were such a good baby, the best of any baby I’d ever known,” which is precisely what she said about Inja’s mother and Uncle as infants, and about Seonil, too, so it always made Inja laugh.
Soon after New Year’s Day 1962, Inja received a letter from her mother, including a color photograph of their Christmas tree from Miran’s new Kodak Starflash camera. When the Christmas package arrived from America, Inja received the same camera as well, plus boxes of flashbulbs and six rolls of film. Uncle couldn’t find a place to develop the color film, but Hyo told them about a shop in Yongsan by the American military garrison. It was so much trouble and so expensive to develop the film that Inja rarely used the camera.
Icy winds rattled their window sashes and doorjambs, and Inja soaked Halmeoni’s feet and described the Cho American Christmas: “—many presents with bright wrapping paper, and a tree covered in silver. Mother says it’s ‘tinsel,’ as if it were made of ‘tin.’” She babbled on, letting her imagination go in thinking about their Christmas and the kinds of presents they opened. Her imagination only went as far as the kinds of presents she’d received over the years in her mother’s packages, but she listed them all, and Grandmother seemed happy, the flyswatter forgotten in her hand.
That night as Inja crawled in next to her in bed, Grandmother told her stories about Miran, including the one Uncle had described about Miran’s birth and her runaway mother. Though Inja remembered about Miran’s childhood illnesses from Uncle’s stories, Grandmother was a better storyteller, and her vivid descriptions of a weak and thin baby, crying piteously, brought new understanding about her brush with death. Grandmother also told her something she hadn’t known—that her father partly blamed himself for Miran’s illnesses since he had been traveling so much during her early years. The child hadn’t been officially registered as being adopted until many months later, and therefore her mother couldn’t take Miran to the U.S. Army hospital, which had better surgeons and medicine.
Grandmother said, “She threw up everything she ate, and finally when she grew feverish, your mom took her to the missionary hospital. Her fever persisted for a week at that poor hospital. Your mother was already carrying you in her belly and was so exhausted, the missionaries wouldn’t allow her to spend every night with Miran like she wanted to. Uncle went instead, but they wouldn’t let a man stay overnight in the women’s wing.”
Now the stories coalesced. “So she almost died then?”
“Yes, and your father blamed himself, like he blamed himself for being in America, which was the reason the Japanese put your mother in prison . . .” She sighed, and Inja remembered it was that imprisonment that damaged Grandmother’s feet, walking hours in the ice to bring her mother food and hope. But she had known nothing about her father’s role. What had Uncle said? That the Japanese put people in prison willy-nilly, like President Rhee did.
Grandmother wasn’t sleeping, though she had quieted. Inja murmured, “Halmeoni, why did they put Mother in prison?”
“They were in charge of everything, including the mail. And of course a separated husband and wife would write to each other. Since he was in America, they believed he was a spy, and if he was, then his wife was surely a spy as well. Those were hard times.”
Inja recalled those exact four last words from Uncle’s telling of this story. She had lived through a war of three years, but was too young to remember its brutality. But her parents, and Uncle, too, had until the atomic bombs lived all their lives under Japanese rule; her grandparents for more than half their lives. She couldn’t imagine it.
“Remorseful. That’s what your father was most of all. And Miran being so sick while he was away only made him more so. It’s one of the reasons he didn’t pursue another posting with the army when his job ended—he wanted to be close to home from then on. And that’s when they decided to go to America so he could raise money to start a church or Christian school in Seoul.”
The irony struck her. She felt compassion for her father’s sense of remorse and responsibility, despite which there continued to be distance and separation from some part of his family. And more than a decade later, he was all the more distant from home than ever. But now, after all this time, home for them was America, and it was she who was far from them.
Grandmother sighed again and rustled in the quilts. “Don’t tell your sister this, though—she’ll feel as bad as your father if she knew, and though surely your mother would remember, these are the sorts of things one doesn’t talk about. But you’re fifteen now . . .”
Inja lay down and snuggled in. “Thank you, Halmeoni,” she said. “Without you I wouldn’t know my parents at all.”
“You just wouldn’t know the stories,” she said, voice fading into sleep. “Your heart would always know them . . .”
Inja studied the rafters and the faint light refracting inside from the icy outdoors. Of course they had to take Miran with them to America—not only was she weak and had almost died, her father blamed himself for it and for her mother’s hardships. She thought about all the family secrets they held on this side of the world and wondered what secrets her family in America kept from her, and if she’d ever learn about them. She was aware of a strange kind of power one gained from holding secrets, and how confidences begat a kind of self-confidence—how the power of secrets required an inner strength and the maturity of discernment to keep them hidden. But she was also aware that Grandmother had instilled in her too much integrity with her own example of hiding hurtful secrets, and that she would never abuse that power.
The next afternoon, a cold Saturday blanketed with heavy gray skies, a familiar whistle sounded outside the Han gate. Inja slipped on her coat and shoes and went to meet Hyo. His jacket collar was turned up and he stamped his feet, and she smiled because it was so pleasing to have such a handsome friend. He held out a bundle wrapped Japanese style in a pale green silk. “Merry Christmas,” he said. “Or should I just say Happy New Year?”
“You don’t celebrate Christmas, so Happy New Year to you, too.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’m so sorry that I didn’t think to get you a present.”
“Don’t be silly.” He held it out so she couldn’t refuse it. “This is very small, and you know that I have everything I could want, plus more. My parents are always buying things. Why do you think we have a house crowded with junk?”
“I wouldn’t call that junk.” Lately Hyo’s mother had been on a shopping spree for art, and she’d commissioned Inja’s uncle to create a calligraphic scroll with a four-line poem on the arrival of spring by Midang, Korea’s foremost poet.
He stuck his hands in his armpits. “Just open it, would you, so you can get out of the cold. So I can get out of the cold.”
She unknotted the silk, itself a lovely gift. A narrow box lay on top of a black leather book with nothing written on the cover or spine. Sh
e tucked the silk and little box under her elbow to open the book, a bound sketchbook of quality blank paper.
“It’s for your art,” said Hyo, looking pleased at her expression of wonder.
“It’s too beautiful. How can I ever use it?”
“Of course you’ll use it. Now your drawings won’t have those lines underneath.” She had sketched him at his piano once, but the only pad she had was primary school paper gridded in red for practicing one’s letters. “Quick, I’m freezing. Open the little box.”
She snapped open the padded box to reveal an obsidian-colored fountain pen with gold accents. She had never owned anything so equally exquisite and practical. “Omana,” she whispered.
“Gu-roovy, yes?” he said, using their newest English slang from the radio.
“Very gu-roovy,” she answered. “It’s so kind of you, so thoughtful. Saying ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem to be enough.”
“I have the ink at home. Next time you come over, I’ll show you how to fill it, then you can do a proper drawing. You’ll like how it feels, see? It’s like mine but black.” He retrieved his own silver-cased pen from inside his coat, and she couldn’t tell if his teeth were chattering for the cold or to catch up with his nervous patter. She caught his eyes, and her own spilled with surprised tears, for in that moment she felt closer to him than she had to anyone in her life other than Uncle—not because of the gifts he’d given, but because he was so full of wanting to please her.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing—really nothing’s wrong. I’m overcome. You’re so thoughtful. Thank you . . .” She bowed.
He bowed back. “I’m glad you like them. I’m freezing. Happy New Year, Inja.”
“Happy New Year.” All she had to offer was her hand, slightly damp from wiping her tears, and he took it, squeezed it, and dashed back home.
When she went inside, Ara and Aunt were busy in the kitchen, Uncle was at his desk working on Hyo’s mother’s scroll, and Seonil lolled on newspapers Uncle had spread out for him to play with, so only Grandmother saw Inja sneak in with presents under her coat. Inja showed them to her once, then several times, nearly fifteen happy repetitions, until Grandmother lost interest and went back to her flyswatter.
Spring came, giving Grandmother more purpose in her vigil for flies, though she mostly napped in the soft warmth of the spring sunlight beaming through the sitting room window. Seonil, in first grade, grumbled frequently about how mean his teachers were, but he had many new friends his age. He clamored for Uncle to walk him to this boy’s house or that one’s, and Uncle always complied.
Yuna, whose opinion mattered, approved of Hyo, and though he was often on Inja’s mind, she tried to refrain from talking about him too much. One day in April in the after-school park, Hyo introduced them to his schoolmate Junghi. Fortunately for them all, he took an immediate liking to Yuna, who was flattered and pleased to not be the “third wheel,” which she’d read about in American magazines her father gave her—Teen and Ingenue. These magazines also kept them relatively current with rock-and-roll music and “teen idols.” They all knew Elvis, of course. Yuna had a phonograph and a 45 rpm record of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” When she played that song and it was just the two girlfriends, they danced around the turntable waving scarves, singing in terrible English with fake vibrato, until Yuna’s grandmother complained about tigers fighting in the room.
Junghi sealed his friendship with Yuna when he brought her records. He wouldn’t say how or where he got them, but Hyo said Junghi’s father worked in Yongsan and had connections. At the park Junghi would show them a corner of a 45 sleeve poking out of a math book, and they’d beg to know what it was. The four spent many afternoons at Yuna’s replaying the same record, since they had so few, and memorizing the English lyrics. They figured out how to do the Twist, thanks to Chubby Checker, until that record was so worn, it was more scratchy rhythm than tune. Luckily the flip side had “Let’s Twist Again.”
Inja wrote home dutifully to her mother every week, not mentioning Hyo—though once, in a rare revelation beyond what she usually wrote about school and how everyone was at home, she did tell her about Yuna and her phonograph, hoping her mother would get the hint and send her some 45s. Once she tried writing to Miran, suspecting she’d have a record player and lots of rock-and-roll music, but Mother wrote back saying she was a good sister, but Miran couldn’t read or write Korean. She also wrote, what is “Mar-ba-rhettes” and who were the “Oeb-buh-rhee” Brothers?
22
* * *
The Fury
The Plymouth Fury that Calvin bought in the fall of 1961 was the source of the first fight Miran could remember between her parents. Without warning one Saturday in October, her father drove up in a brand-new, turquoise-green, two-door hard-top, a long and lean car, home from his usual errand of buying Napa cabbage for kimchi at the Florida Market on Capitol Hill.
“Omana!” Najin said, looking out the dining room window. They ran outside as Calvin got out with a huge grin—a grin that lost some of its brilliance when he saw Najin’s crossed arms and furrowed brow.
“It’s beautiful—a spaceship!” said Miran. She remembered the conversation she’d had with her father about them all being illegal aliens together. “Is it ours?”
“It is,” said Calvin, eyes firm on Najin. “On sale. The color is ‘twilight blue metallic.’”
Miran opened the passenger door and tipped the seat forward to climb into the back. Her parents circled the car on opposite ends as he pointed out features. His hand dusted the straight lines of the back apron, its center fin, the protruding circles of taillights on each side. “It’s easy to handle.” He slid into the driver’s seat. “It has an automatic transmission, so I can teach you to drive.”
“Groovy radio, Dad,” said Miran. “Looks almost like a piano with dials.”
Najin said nothing, though she did sit inside for a moment, and her hand skimmed the striped bench seat.
“Come see the trunk.”
They got out, and to cover her mother’s silence, Miran admired how neatly everything fit inside: the splintering crate of cabbage, a big carton with a gross of eggs and a bushel of apples, the bulk of which they’d sell or give away at church, plus a spare tire tucked in the side.
“Help your father unload,” said Najin.
“What do you think?” said Calvin.
“Very clean.” Still hugging her arms, Najin went inside through the mud porch.
Her father remained silent as they toted the produce and eggs into the cool basement.
On her way to the library that afternoon, Miran saw him washing the car and offered to help, but he said no, the burden was his.
Later that night, from her bedroom she heard them talking. Her mother said stuff in Korean with a scattering of English, foolish, gullible, as if English were the only way those words could be spoken.
Her father said on sale, trade-in, monthly payment, then silence. The front door closed and, soon after, the car doors shut.
Miran slid out of bed and kneeled backward on the living room couch to peer between the Venetian blinds. She vaguely remembered peering out at her parents in the backyard when she was small, but couldn’t remember for what reason. They were sitting in the car, and she thought it was all okay then, and maybe he was showing her the push-button radio. But as her eyes adjusted to the streetlight, she saw his unmoving silhouette, while her mother’s hands chopped the air until whatever she was saying fogged up the windshield. Miran went to bed having learned three things that night: her parents did have big fights and had taken care to hide them from her; her mother thought her father a gullible fool; and though he was a revered minister and radio broadcaster who spoke perfect English, it was her mother who had the upper hand in the family. She supposed they hid their fights to appear the perfect, harmonious Korean minister’s family. Her father didn’t seem to care that much about what others thought, but her mother did—a trait she’d passed down to
Miran.
Miran had saved money from her job with Miss Lone, and later that fall, following her father’s precedent of not asking permission, she bought a fancy hi-fi portable stereo for $69.95. Inspired by the swelling civil rights movement, she discovered R & B, soul, and folk music. She laughed when her mother asked about the “Marbarettes” and the “Eburry Brothers” for Inja, and she sacrificed a precious 45 of the Marvelettes’ “Please Mr. Postman” to a package going to her sister. She taught herself piano chords to play along with Dylan and Seeger, and checked out from the library a piano songbook of American folk music. If words wouldn’t so easily come from her mouth, perhaps music could provide the expression she needed, even if her mother complained about the caterwauling.
Distance had grown between herself and Sarah Kim, who was in a different school, which had never been a problem before but now mattered. Miran’s favorite haunts at Blair High School were the art and music rooms, and both teachers, who appreciated her talents, welcomed her presence and made her stand out in class, building her confidence and helping her make new friends. She still had her Campfire Girl Troop—they were all kooky together—and now a few friends who were oddballs like herself: a black guy who was passionate about modern dance, a half-Japanese and half-American girl who waited tables at her mother’s Japanese restaurant, and a fellow artist guy who’d grown up in Bangkok with his Foreign Service parents. Miran found a home with these friends, began smoking cigarettes with them, tried beer, wine, then marijuana, and had passionate discussions about Mao’s Little Red Book, the Tao Te Ching, Hesse’s Siddhartha, music, astrology, ecology, and civil rights.
Russia unleashed the largest-ever nuclear bomb test in October 1961, and soon after, her friends said their parents had been complaining with other parents about Chairman Mao’s book being available in the school, as well as their readings of Stalin and Lenin in social studies. One Wednesday afternoon, Miran left a flyer from school in the pile of that week’s junk mail. Neither of her parents went to school meetings, so she hadn’t expected them to notice. The mimeographed announcement read: Emergency PTA meeting! Parents concerned about the proliferation of communist propaganda in our school, please join in efforts to eliminate radical leftist influences from our children’s education, with the date—that very evening, at seven o’clock. It listed a half-dozen “radical leftist” books they hoped to ban. Miran’s mother was home at five-thirty, her father at six, and dinner was usually six-thirty, but when Calvin saw the flyer, he asked if she’d like to go with him—she said yes, hoping to see her friends—and told Najin to hold dinner for a couple of hours.