times after school before facing her relentless pain, the moans that ground into my every thought until I never wanted to think again, or how she had begged me to put her to sleep as the morphine reached toxic levels without easing the pain, and that wasn’t the worst of it. It must have been the same for my father, though he thanked the man for his kind words. New Mother, who overheard, started tapping that foot of hers.
The men concentrated on eating. These men who had grown up in wartime didn’t let conversation interrupt. As the saying goes, they wouldn’t have noticed even if someone at the table had died. They swallowed in hurried, dogged silence; they knew the value of food. In the rest of the hall, men drank and complained about jobs; women bragged about their children while wrapping extra food in the hotel’s napkins, some even brought Tupperware and plastic bags; others sang and danced to a rented karaoke machine, changing the cassette tape each time the music ran out; kids myage roamed around the hall as bored as I was; others passed out business cards. At our table, the conversation inevitably turned to God.
A man with a bushy monobrow said that the church needed to prepare for the future of North Korea. “Just think about all those unsaved souls in Pyongyang alone. It makes me want to get on my knees and pray.”
“Basic needs first,” my father’s voice barreled down the table. “Those people suffer; they’re still living the war. Give them democracy, and meat, first.”
“Prayer is our food,” said the man with a nose like a fishhook. “Next you’ll be saying that Jesus and Buddha are brothers.”
“Ah,” New Mother said. “There’s a thrilling book on just that subject.”
As if these men stuck in another era were interested in a woman’s opinion, she began talking. Even I, who didn’t think of myself as a real Korean, knew my place. She jabbed her fork at the centerpiece of roses while she made her point. “As early as 1979—”
“Why don’t each of you stand up and say something nice about me?” my father said. His voice was needy. I slipped lower into my seat, ready for the evening to be over.
“Pastor Ryu saved my life, in the army,” said the eyebrow. “You could’ve left me on the field.” His lips trembled. “But you took me out of there on your back.”
New Mother’s head jerked up obstinately. “I was saying—”
“This man loaned me money when my own family turned me out,” said another. “No questions, nothing. Like a brother. Better than a brother.” He embraced my father. “You are my brother.”
The stories kept coming, some that I knew, many that I’dnever heard because my father rarely talked about his past. He kept his eyes turned above the crowd to the frosted cupcake of a ceiling. His face was greedy, insecure, solitary. New Mother was biting down on her fingernails; I could see her thinking that if she were my mother, Father would have let her finish her sentence. The sad fact is my mother would have gone into a cave of quiet, with opinions and feelings I only wondered about once she was gone. Long before any of us were born, it seemed, she had given up hope of changing a thousand years of tradition, or my father.
“Look at my boy eat.”
My father patted me. The entire table looked over as I popped a piece of fried pork in my mouth.
“He’s all appetite. He stays skinny like that because all he does is run. You did twenty kilometers this afternoon, didn’t you, Jingyu? In the rain, too.”
I shrugged.
My father sighed. “He reminds me of me.”
His friends disagreed.
“No, he’s more like his mother’s body, long and lean.”
“Well, he’s got your bones, but he’s too pretty to look like you.”
“You’re one of those quiet but notice everything types, aren’t you?” said a man with a dribble of soy sauce down his chin. “Your mother was like that, a rare woman. That’s a wise way to be. People shouldn’t
The men concentrated on eating. These men who had grown up in wartime didn’t let conversation interrupt. As the saying goes, they wouldn’t have noticed even if someone at the table had died. They swallowed in hurried, dogged silence; they knew the value of food. In the rest of the hall, men drank and complained about jobs; women bragged about their children while wrapping extra food in the hotel’s napkins, some even brought Tupperware and plastic bags; others sang and danced to a rented karaoke machine, changing the cassette tape each time the music ran out; kids myage roamed around the hall as bored as I was; others passed out business cards. At our table, the conversation inevitably turned to God.
A man with a bushy monobrow said that the church needed to prepare for the future of North Korea. “Just think about all those unsaved souls in Pyongyang alone. It makes me want to get on my knees and pray.”
“Basic needs first,” my father’s voice barreled down the table. “Those people suffer; they’re still living the war. Give them democracy, and meat, first.”
“Prayer is our food,” said the man with a nose like a fishhook. “Next you’ll be saying that Jesus and Buddha are brothers.”
“Ah,” New Mother said. “There’s a thrilling book on just that subject.”
As if these men stuck in another era were interested in a woman’s opinion, she began talking. Even I, who didn’t think of myself as a real Korean, knew my place. She jabbed her fork at the centerpiece of roses while she made her point. “As early as 1979—”
“Why don’t each of you stand up and say something nice about me?” my father said. His voice was needy. I slipped lower into my seat, ready for the evening to be over.
“Pastor Ryu saved my life, in the army,” said the eyebrow. “You could’ve left me on the field.” His lips trembled. “But you took me out of there on your back.”
New Mother’s head jerked up obstinately. “I was saying—”
“This man loaned me money when my own family turned me out,” said another. “No questions, nothing. Like a brother. Better than a brother.” He embraced my father. “You are my brother.”
The stories kept coming, some that I knew, many that I’dnever heard because my father rarely talked about his past. He kept his eyes turned above the crowd to the frosted cupcake of a ceiling. His face was greedy, insecure, solitary. New Mother was biting down on her fingernails; I could see her thinking that if she were my mother, Father would have let her finish her sentence. The sad fact is my mother would have gone into a cave of quiet, with opinions and feelings I only wondered about once she was gone. Long before any of us were born, it seemed, she had given up hope of changing a thousand years of tradition, or my father.
“Look at my boy eat.”
My father patted me. The entire table looked over as I popped a piece of fried pork in my mouth.
“He’s all appetite. He stays skinny like that because all he does is run. You did twenty kilometers this afternoon, didn’t you, Jingyu? In the rain, too.”
I shrugged.
My father sighed. “He reminds me of me.”
His friends disagreed.
“No, he’s more like his mother’s body, long and lean.”
“Well, he’s got your bones, but he’s too pretty to look like you.”
“You’re one of those quiet but notice everything types, aren’t you?” said a man with a dribble of soy sauce down his chin. “Your mother was like that, a rare woman. That’s a wise way to be. People shouldn’t
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