Read Online Happy Birthday or Whatever by Annie Choi - Free Book Online Page A

bought a set of titanium clubs and high-end golf balls designed to fly to the moon. Then she enrolled in a country club. She would call me on the phone each week to talk about the newest trends in putters or the latest improvements to golf cleats, and I’d sigh loudly hoping she’d realize she was boring me. Like fashion, golfing was something that put her in a special group, but to this I just couldn’t relate. I thought golfing was for people who were so wealthy that they had nothing better to do than chase a little white ball over some hills. Golfing was for the rich and white. My mother was neither. Her golf clubs were on layaway and her first country club was right next to the 101-freeway—large nets prevented balls from smashing through windshields. To my mother, golfing was the next step up. Her stylish clothes made her look sophisticated and wealthy, but being good at golf was a way to act sophisticated and wealthy. Plus, many of her church friends golfed. She needed to keep up.
    The first Thanksgiving after starting college, I returned home and noticed a few awards on the shelves. In just a few months, my mother had become quite a decorated golfer—there were a certificate of participation for a church golf tournament, a Booby prize for the worst but most spirited player, and an award for Longest Drive. Her awards were next to me and my brother’s high school diplomas, a trophy Mike got in Boy Scouts, and a plaque awarded to my father by his company for his dedication and commitment to excellence.
    â€œWhat did you do with my fourth-grade photo?”
    â€œOh I put away to make room for Mommy trophy.” She waved her hands casually.
    â€œWhat? Why would you do that—whoa, what happened to your hand?”
    One of my mother’s hands was golden brown. The other was pasty white.
    â€œI wear my golf glove on this hand.”
    â€œIt looks like you’re still wearing the glove. It’s freaky.”
    â€œWhat mean freaky?”
    â€œYou know, like scary.”
    â€œYou scare? I scare too. I scare that my only daughter look like homeless.” She looked over my outfit and recoiled. I was wearing a vintage leather blazer, a light blue tuxedo shirt, and jeans.
    â€œWhatever. Why don’t you wear sunblock?”
    My mother grinned and proudly showed me her shirt tan. A perfect line circled each bicep, marking a border between her bronze arms and her pale shoulders. It was the most shocking farmer’s tan I had ever seen, but there was something much more shocking—her outfit. She was wearing blue and green plaid Bermuda shorts with a red and yellow plaid collared shirt. On her tousled head was a terrycloth visor with plaid trim, also clashing. She was a confusing map of horizontal and vertical lines, in more colors that should be worn on one person. Her thick white socks had gigantic pom-poms on the back, which prevented the socks from slipping into her golf cleats. Her feet looked like she had stepped inside two cottontail bunnies. Her outfit was worse than The Little House on the Prairie throwback dress and more ridiculous than the Paul Revere ensemble. But not worse than the “Fun of Soup Bring Spring.”
    â€œDid you golf today?”
    â€œNo, not today.”
    â€œYou didn’t? Then why are you wearing the visor?”
    â€œBecause it part of set.”
    â€œThat’s a set? But you said you didn’t golf today.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo, why are you wearing golf clothes? Why aren’t you wearing normal clothes?”
    â€œThis normal clothes, Anne.”
    My mother, the one who used to scrutinize Korea’s version of Vogue , the one who taught me the difference between Kenneth Cole and Cole Haan, now looked like she shopped exclusively at Golfsmith and singlehandedly exhausted all the plaid in Scotland.
    â€œMom, are you going to change before we go out to lunch?”
    â€œI did change.”
    â€œWell