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

don’t you think you should put on a dress? Something pretty? You can’t go out like that.”
    My mother exploded with laughter. She grabbed my arm and clutched it to her chest, shaking me. The plaid on her clothes quivered, giving me mild vertigo.
    â€œWhat? What’s so funny?”
    And then it occurred to me that I sounded like my mother.
    My face turned into a gigantic eggplant, for what child wants to sound like a parent? I was even holding back. I had nearly asked my mother to clear her crap off the kitchen table, which was cluttered with old mail, church newsletters, phone books, and a pile of muddy golf tees.
    I rolled my eyes and left my mother chortling in the kitchen. I walked into the master bedroom and took a peek into my mother’s closet. I was aghast. I saw what seemed like hundreds of collared shirts, in plaids and stripes and even animal prints—tiger and zebra. I wondered if my mother ever mixed prints, so predator and prey could meet on the lush green hills of Los Robles Golf Course. Her drawers exploded with overly pleated shorts in a dizzying array of oranges, greens, purples, and puce. Her stylish dresses and skirts were pushed aside and crumpled to make way for windbreakers, golf slickers, and sweater vests. I shook my head. My mother hasalways been fashion-savvy, so what if hers were the best threads on the links? What exactly were the badly dressed golfers wearing? I shuddered.
    I picked up a shopping bag from a pro shop off the floor. It contained an extremely chunky green wool sweater with a giant appliqué of golf clubs and a ball. The price tag was still attached. I sprinted back to the kitchen.
    â€œMOM! HOW COULD THIS COST ONE HUNDED AND TEN DOLLARS?”
    â€œAnne, it on sale!”
    â€œAre you out of your mind? No one should pay for a sweater like that. It should be free.”
    â€œIt style! It Callaway, very famous. Make golf club and clothes.”
    â€œWell there’s the problem. Companies that make golf clubs have no business making clothes.”
    When did my mother forego sensible, silk blouses for wallet-gouging, wooly mammoth sweaters? What happened to that elegant lady? And, more importantly, why was she wearing a visor indoors? Golfing had ruined her fashion sensibilities and my eyesight.
    â€œAnne, you ready to go lunch?”
    I flinched at her outfit. I had a choice here: I could force my mother to wear something civilized, or let her be her and let me be me, which in this case would be an accomplice to the worst fashion felony since 1982, when my mother forced me to wear a puffy barber-pole-striped dress that had matching pants attached underneath. This outfit, meant to offer the femininity of a dress with the safety and comfort of pants, put me in tears because I couldn’t figure out how to take it off to go to the bathroom. The surly hag of a recess aid—the one everyone feared—had to help when she saw me jogging in place with my hands cupped around my crotch.
    â€œYeah I’m ready, but can you take off the visor?”
    â€œNo, I tell you, it part of set.”
    â€œTake it off.”
    â€œNo, Anne, I say no.”
    â€œYou can’t wear it. I won’t let you. I can’t eat with you if you’re wearing a visor.”
    â€œAnne, why you make Mommy angry?”
    â€œWhy are you wearing all that plaid?”
    â€œWhy you get you clothes from trash can?”
    â€œThis jacket is yours.”
    â€œNo I think you wrong. I never see this jacket.”
    â€œOK fine I bought it at a store, but come on, take off the visor. Do that.”
    â€œAnne, NO.”
    We ate at California Pizza Kitchen and my mother babbled loudly about golf—she had just volunteered to organize the next church tournament. I hunkered in the corner of our booth, hoping the power would go out.

STROKE ORDER
    A lthough my brother and I were born in America, Korean was our first language. My parents never taught us