Frankly in Love (15 page)

“Hey, Internet, what are black people?”

Here’s what I found: The definition of
black
varies by country. In the US, people classified as black are defined as having roots in sub-Saharan Africa, and
black
is generally associated with those having darker skin tones. The term
black
has many meanings and connotations, many of them controversial and still a subject of debate today. The full article is 13,881 words. Would you like me to continue?

“Hey, Internet, what are white people?”

Here’s what I found: The definition of
white
varies by country. In the US, the term
white
is ever-changing. The category that once only included English and Scandinavians expanded to include those once considered to be nonwhite, such as Germans, Greeks, Iranians, Irish,
Italians, Jews, and white Hispanics. The full article is 13,752 words. Would you like me to continue?

“Hey, Internet, what are Asian people?”

Here’s what I found: The definition of
Asian
varies by country. In the US, Asian people are defined as originating from Southeast Asian countries like Cambodia, China, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam, et cetera. Until 1980, India and Pakistan were not considered Asian. Although technically in the Asian continent, countries like Armenia, Georgia, Chechnya, and Turkey are not considered Asian. The full article is 6,390 words. Would you like me to continue?

“Hey, Internet, what are Korean people?”

Here’s what I found: Koreans originate from North or South Korea, with 7.4 million expatriates living mostly in the United States, Vietnam, China, Japan, the Philippines, Russia, Uzbekistan, Australia, and Canada. Ancient Koreans were craniometrically more similar to Kazakhs and Mongols than Chinese or Japanese. Although most Koreans believe they share a single common ancestor, recent research suggests that belief to be a myth crafted by the widespread customary doctoring of genealogical records. The full article is 7,016 words. Would you like me to continue?

9. Every generation has challenges it must face on its own terms. Therefore humanity is _______ to repeat its mistakes even as it slowly evolves forward.

20. Evolution is less a ________ than it is a ________.

When I leave the testing room (née the chem lab) to meet up with the Apeys at the elephant tree, I see they all feel the same way as I do: all smiles.

“High fives?” I yell.

“High fives,” yells Q.

We all high-five in a great, slapping melee that devolves into mutual facepalms. Not surprising, for nerds like us.

“SATs can suck it,” I say.

“Fucking bitch-ass piece of cake, motherfucker,” says Q.

We all blink at his outburst of profanity.

Q caresses his elbows. “I mean, it was pretty easy this time.”

“Easy-peasy,” says a voice. It’s Brit, bounding into the group. She’s wearing a shirt that says
BUT WHO WASH
ES THE WASHCLOTH?
, another one of my favorites. I catch her in my arms. In the spirit of Openness, I kiss her in front of everyone.

“Get a room,” says Naima.

“Yeah, find lodging,” says Paul.

Brit dangles from my shoulder. She’s squeezing it. Sweet 1993 Keanu Reeves Buddha, Brit Means likes my shoulder muscles. “I’m still weirded out by that one about evolution,” she says. “
Evolution is less a line than it is a squiggle.
”

“I chose
march
and
scramble
,” says Q.

“I chose
decision
and
reaction
,” says Amelie.

“I think it was a trick question,” I say.

“What did you choose?” says Brit.

Brit blinks dramatically. She’s high on rocking the SAT. We all are high on rocking the SAT. We all feel we scored at least 1400, which is 95th percentile. We all feel like we more than made up for our mediocre first-round attempt.

“I chose
contest
and
struggle
,” I say. “Because a
contest
implies a level playing field. Evolution isn’t level. Creatures are stuck with whatever they’re born with. Some creatures
are big and strong and fast. Others, though, are too small, or too slow, or mutated. There’s nothing they can do to overcome the bad hands they were dealt at birth. The herd leaves them behind. They’re the first to get eaten. Evolution is not some contest. It’s an arbitrary roulette wheel of murder.”

The Apeys stare at me, agape.

I clap my hands to clear away the heaviness I’ve just spewed forth. “So! How are you gonna celebrate the day, you guys? Paul, you go first, then go clockwise.”

Paul: “Play
Pax Eterna
!”

Q: “
Pax Eterna
, baby. See you there!” (High-five.
Pax Eterna
is this new online game where, eh, whatever.)

Amelie: “Maybe I’ll go to Boba Castle?”

Paul: “Sweet. We can all go in my car.”

Naima: “Can I come? I don’t know how to drive! Ha ha!”

Brit: “I’m gonna hang out with my baby.”

Me: “Where?”

“Anywhere, don’t care,” sings Brit.

“The SAT hit us bad for round one,” says Paul Olmo. “But we hit back for round two. Let’s knock it out with a unity clap.”

We all begin clapping, at first slow like fat rain that then accelerates into a pounding tropical typhoon.

“Isang bagsak!” says Paul Olmo, and we all strike a single clap of thunder in unison to end the storm.

So?
I say.
Test? Gut check?

Crushed it, I think,
says Joy.
I cheat death. You?

Flattened it. Feeling psyched. Today the test dies so that we may continue to live.

Let’s college!
says Joy.

I laugh and put my phone away, because now here’s Brit approaching. She hops up onto the low wall I’m sitting on and rivets three little kisses along the length of my neck.

“What’s so funny?” says Brit.

“Tickles,” I say. But really I’m still laughing because of Joy.

Me and Brit wait for her dad to come pick her up. She tried telling him not to bother, that she and I were going to spend the rest of the day out together, but by then he was already in the car, and he’s apparently the only one on the planet who is disciplined enough to not even look at their phone while driving.

I realize I’m hungry. I reach into my bag and unwrap a little circular pastry from a square of wax paper. I offer Brit one.

“What is it?” she says.

“Homemade marzipan. Someone brought a bunch to The Store yesterday for Dad.”

When I take a bite, Brit peers in close to examine the result.

“What’s in it?” she says.

“No idea,” I say. “Just eat, don’t think.”

I unwrap one for her, and she takes a bite, then another, then another, and it’s gone.

After a beat, Brit says, “So how’s your dad?”

I feel a twinge—short and sharp, but with long sustain that takes time to ebb from my chest. Brit senses it, of course. She touches her thigh to mine to let me know:
I forgave you a while ago now. We’re okay.
And I relax. Body language is a real thing.

“Dad’s good,” I say, reaching for another piece of marzipan. I have a dozen. “He’s frickin’ back at work at The Store. He got himself a padded stool to sit on, though—woo-hoo.”

“Really pampering himself,” says Brit.

We laugh for a few seconds and dangle our legs off the wall. I find myself smiling sadly. I keep thinking,
Shouldn’t Dad be doing what he loves? Not working his life away at The Store all the time?
But then I think,
What is it exactly that he loves most? He has no hobbies. No friends. What if The Store is it?

“He’s a weird guy,” is all I can say.

“He just speaks a different language than you,” says Brit. She unwraps another piece of marzipan. Brit Means likes marzipan: noted. “And I don’t mean Korean versus English.”

“Do you feel like you speak a different language from your parents?”

“I feel like everyone speaks a different language from everyone else.” Brit smiles. “Except us.”

“We finish each other’s—”

“Sandwiches,” says Brit.

“Come here.” And I kiss her.

“Wait, I’m still eating.” Brit gulps down her pastry to continue kissing me. Our legs stop moving. Everything goes still. This stillness is something to live for.

When I open my eyes, I see someone watching us from around a corner. It’s Joy. She crosses her eyes and tongue-kisses the air, then vanishes. I snort.

“What?” says Brit.

“Nothing,” I say. “Your shirt is funny.”

“I love you,” whispers Brit.

“Love you too,” I say. I realize I left out the
I
part of that sentence—
I love you too
—but correcting myself would be strange, so I just leave it.

“I could feel you wanted to say more about that evolution question on the SAT,” she says. She says it in that whispery, intimate Brit Means voice of hers. “But you stopped yourself. Why? I want to hear what’s on your mind.”

Okay.

“It’s just,” I say. “Being me? My whole Korean-American situation?”

Brit squeezes my arm and waits.

At first, I can’t tell why this is so hard for me. But really I’m lying to myself. I know exactly why it’s hard for me. Because down this conversational road is the acknowledgment of a fundamental difference between me and Brit—a fundamental difference of
being
—and I can’t bear to admit that such a difference exists. Brit—wise, awakened, aware Brit—belongs to a white majority whether she wants to or not, and is entitled to all its privileges—also
whether she wants them or not
.

“I feel like I don’t belong anywhere and every day it’s like I live on this weird little planet of my own in exile,” I say all in one breath. This is impossible to talk about. But I force myself to. “I’m not Korean enough. I’m not white enough to be fully American.”

As I think of what else to say, Brit speaks. “My dad called you an
honest-to-goodness, red-blooded, all-American kid
. He said it was obvious from the moment he met you. He really likes you.”

Obvious? Really? Because for most people
all-American
means—

“For most people,
all-American
means
white
,” says Brit.

I lock eyes with her and see infinite recursive reflections of the two of us. Suddenly I feel like we’ve stepped into a new land. Brit and I are starting to talk about the hard stuff. It’s a step toward giving her the hardest truth of all:
my parents are racist.

“I love my dad,” she says. “But he can be a lefty bullshitter sometimes. I don’t doubt he sees you as this
all-American
boy. But I also know that if it weren’t for me, seeing you as you-you and nothing else, it probably wouldn’t occur to him to call you
all-American
. Just like it wouldn’t occur to him to think of himself as anything but white.”

Her
nothing else
makes me wonder what exactly I am, but I shake off the thought. Because Brit sees me. As in really sees me. That’s a rare thing.

There’s a car approaching.

“And here he is,” says Brit.

“With your mom,” I say, squinting.

The car looks like it once used to be some kind of military vehicle but has been painted sky blue with white clouds all over it. Brit’s mom-n-dad sit in the front, dressed in clothes that could easily be mistaken for safari gear.

“Hop in,” says Brit’s mom.

“Actually,” says Brit, “Frank and I were gonna—”

“This is what’s known as being spontaneous,” says Brit’s dad. “Also, we’re buying you two lunch to celebrate.”

“Can’t argue with free food,” I say.

We yank open the hatchlike door, and Brit shoves me in by my butt.

The spontaneous plan is to go to the Mocha-Dick at The Shops & Restaurants at Playa Embarcadero Beach Pier, but when we get there, the Mocha-Dick is no more.

“Mocha-Dick used to stand right here,” says Brit’s dad with wonder.

The Mocha-Dick, named after the article that inspired Melville’s seminal novel
Moby-Dick
, had long been an institution ever since Playa Embarcadero Beach Pier was erected. But its sign—crafted in the shape of a whale breaching high between two ocean swells—now bears the name
YOUNG DONG SEAFOOD & KOR
EAN BBQ
.

“I guess let’s go grab us some Young Dong,” says Brit’s mom without a hint of awareness of the breathtaking joke she has inadvertently just let fly. She even growls out the word
grab
and everything.

“Oh my god,” says Brit, unable to breathe.

“In through the nose, and shh, out through the mouth,” I say, and suddenly I wish Joy were here to see this magnificent sign. I snap a photo to send later.

Inside we’re greeted with a robust
Eoseo osipsio
, which means
welcome
but really loud. We score a killer table next to a floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking a dock laden with sunbathing seals, a harbor bristling with boats, and the open sea.

“How’s your dad?” says Brit’s mom.

“He’s busy working at The Store like always,” I say with a laugh. “I guess he’s recovering pretty well.”

“I find their work ethic tremendously honorable,” says Brit’s dad.

I can only shrug. Mom-n-Dad’s work ethic doesn’t feel all that special to me. That probably makes me a spoiled second-gen brat who doesn’t know how good he has it.

But isn’t that what Mom-n-Dad wanted?

“The weird thing,” I say to no one, “is he seems
happier
since being shot.”

Brit’s mom gives an eager nod. “I feel that makes a strange kind of sense. When your world gets shaken upside down, maybe you’re just grateful for what sticks. Your father’s trauma might be unexpectedly clarifying.”

I’m guessing Brit’s mom is a hobbyist psychologist—both Brit’s mom-n-dad are smart enough to be hobbyist anything—and I wish I could have her work on my dad in an interrogation room. Maybe Brit’s mom could solve the riddle of him.

Brit’s dad opens the menu, flips through it, puts it down. He turns to me. And here it comes: “Maybe it’d be easier if you just ordered for us, Frank?”

I smile, but inside I’m irked. Brit’s dad, despite his very Anglo last name of Means, would never be able to explain everything about, say, Irish cuisine. More importantly, he would never be expected to. Brit’s dad is only ever expected to be one thing, and that’s plain old generic American.

I’m not knocking Brit’s dad or anything. I’m just saying it must be nice.

Because I’m still expected to be the Korean expert, whether
I know anything or not. In other words, I’m still expected to be Korean
first
,
then
plain old generic American second. That damn hyphen in
Korean-American
just won’t go away.

I can’t say any of this out loud, because I’m at lunch with Brit’s parents and I want to keep things nice and light. So:

Hi, I’m Frank, and I’ll be your Korean Food Tour Guide for the duration of today’s meal.

Our waiter brings us tiny glasses of not water, but cold barley tea.

Brit’s dad fishes out his reading glasses. “Now what’s this we’re drinking here?”

“Uh,” I begin. “It’s cold tea. It’s called, uh, boricha.”

“Boricha,” say Brit’s parents, impressed.

“Oh, this tea has a wonderful roasted body to it,” says Brit’s mom.

I hand the heavy menus to the waiter. “We’ll just get three kalbis, a mul naengmyeon for me, maybe one of those small squid pajuns to start.”

The waiter hollers out, “Kalbi segeh mul naengmyeon hana haemul pajun hana!”

“Yeh!” the kitchen crew hollers back.

The food comes at us with blinding speed. First, all the banchan: tiny dishes of spinach and roasted baby anchovies and potato salad and spiced jelly and so on.