Happy Birthday or Whatever (11 page)

“Eat meat.”

“No. Be vegetarian.”

“No.”

“I guess we're back where we started.”

Sometimes I think that my mother and I are very close to finding a common ground, to finding an area of interest that we can explore together and bond over and discuss without bickering or nagging each other. But then I realize this is impossible, that if we didn't give each other a hard time, we probably wouldn't get along.

 

I don't remember what chicken tastes like, nor do I recall the flavor or texture of pork and beef. I imagine them to be rubbery and grainy and maybe a little squishy. As of this moment, I've been vegetarian for thirteen years, four months, twelve days, and nine hours, plus or minus thirty minutes. I'm approaching the moment in my life when the number of years spent as an omnivore and as a vegetarian are equal, and yet, every time I talk to my mother, she asks me what I ate for dinner and if I'm still vegetarian, as if I'm still going through some kind of a phase. She'll leave messages on my voicemail: “Hi Anne, it Mommy. You still vegetarian? I get worry because you not eat meat. You have to eat meat again. Ok, it warm in L.A. Bye, bye.” Why does she do this? Does she think that I'll suddenly stop and think, yes, you were right all along, please give me some beef, and then my mind will be blown and I'll start listening to everything she says? Could beef be the gateway drug to pork, chicken, and ultimately, obedience?

To be honest, I'm not certain that I ever truly cared for the vegetarian cause. Sure, it could be a healthier way of living, better for the environment and all of its creatures, but I'd be a big, fat liar with flaming, leather pants if I said that becoming vegetarian wasn't about rebellion and making decisions about my own life. As a teenager, vegetarianism fulfilled both these needs. Plus, I thought it was kind of cool. It made me feel unique, set me apart from other high-school kids—albeit in an inconvenient way—and annoyed my parents, and what adolescent wouldn't want that? I'm sure my parents know that the choice I made when I was sixteen was not one I actually thought through, and my mother is laying in wait for the day when she can point and say, hah, it was all just a silly phase, one that lasted over thirteen years. But today, my being vegetarian is more about inertia than principle. I haven't eaten meat for so long, it's no longer part of my vocabulary. I'm set in my dietary ways, just the way meat-eaters are, and even if I wanted to give up being vegetarian, I couldn't. There's too much at steakie.

I
n my grandmother's opinion, everything was too something—the weather was too cold, food was too spicy, clothes were too itchy, the neighborhood was too loud and too dirty. Even fruit was too sweet. My father's mother complained about everyone: people on the street (rude), store clerks (fraudulent), housekeepers (lazy), her children (thoughtless), and her grandchildren (disrespectful, reckless, and spoiled). She never approved of the women her four sons married, and she constantly reminded her daughters-in-law of their
lower status (you come from a poor family) or lower intelligence (you never went to college). In short, my grandmother was a bitch. I never liked my grandmother, and I'm pretty sure my relatives never liked her either. They're just too polite to admit that she is a miserable woman. Still, we all understood that she was old—she wouldn't and couldn't change—and so we silently endured her. After my grandfather passed away, she became the eldest in our family, the matriarch of the Choi clan. Her position demanded respect and we showed it to her. It was the Korean way.

When I was in elementary school, my family and I visited my grandmother and our Korean relatives every year, but as we got older, the trips became less frequent. By the time I was in high school, most of our relatives had moved to the States. The ones that remained in Korea, with the exception of my grandmother, preferred to visit us. Seoul, they explained, didn't have Las Vegas or the Grand Canyon or bagels. By the time my mother and I took a trip to Seoul in the winter of 1998, I hadn't been in about ten years. I was stunned by how much the city had changed. There was more of everything—people, cars, skyscrapers, factories, subway stations, lost tourists. My favorite department store, the one with an entire floor dedicated to stuffed animals and dolls, was now nestled between a Kentucky Fried Chicken and an All-American Burger, which is Korea's fast-food chain that competes with McDonald's. I gawked at a three-story Haagen-Dazs packed with young Korean hipsters and wondered how they could eat ice cream in the middle of December. Then I wondered how they could even eat ice cream. I guess Koreans and dairy have an abusive relationship. On the congested streets, billboards and jumbo televisions competed for my attention: a wafer-thin Samsung cell phone with a built-in mp3 player, camera, and PDA; the faster and more luxurious Chairman sedan from Ssangyong; the always
refreshing and always tasty OB Lager; Amore White, a cosmetic designed to soften and whiten skin. Posters of Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan were plastered on the side of every bus, urging Koreans to watch them fall in love in yet another movie, this one called
Yoobu Gotu May-eel
(
You've Got Mail
)
.

Though in ten years Seoul had changed from a modest city to a modern one, my grandmother's house was as exactly as I remembered it. According to my mother, my grandmother's house hadn't changed in fifty years, maybe more. The same battered furniture my father and his five siblings grew up with was still in the house, in exactly the same places. The table with the loose leg still leaned against a corner; the wooden chairs still had the same ripped cushions, and my grandfather's armchair, threadbare at the armrests, still stood eerily in the corner. During the last years of his life, my grandfather enjoyed looking around the living room, enchanted by details that everyone else overlooked because they weren't stricken with Alzheimer's. On the shelves there were picture frames that held white pieces of paper with ghostly outlines of landscapes and people; the photographs had faded in the sunlight decades ago. There was a still rip in the rice-paper screen door. When I was six, I had accidentally kicked a hole in it and my grandmother spanked me. No one other than my parents had ever punished me and when my grandmother took her open hand to my bottom, I pleaded with stinging eyes to my mother, who turned her head and told me that I should listen to my grandmother.

My grandmother refused to install indoor plumbing in her house even though she could afford it. She probably had the last three-bedroom house in Korea without modern conveniences. She preferred to urinate in an oversized brass teakettle; the way Koreans did in a bygone era. When I was younger, she would order me to empty it at inappropriate moments, for example, right before
dessert. I think it was a test of obedience, which I always passed. I'd get up from the table and carry the kettle outside and dump it in the empty alley, which reeked like stale urine and hot trash. Then my grandmother would order my mother to pour me a glass of weak barley tea, which looks a lot like urine.

The only thing more intolerable than my grandmother's personality was her smell. Ever since I was little, a thick odor came from her mouth. It was as if her tongue were decomposing, and I imagined a mass of flesh-eating maggots in the back of her throat. Her gums were lined with a few brown nubs that posed as teeth but served no real purpose. Her wrinkled mouth always had mysterious crumbs in the corners, though there were no cookies or crackers in sight. Whenever I had to hug her, the stink overpowered me and I could smell it on my own clothes hours later. My grandmother's smell hung heavily in the house, seeping into the furniture and rugs.

When my mother and I walked into my grandmother's house, the odor singed my nose; her stench was exactly as bad as I remembered it. Though I hadn't seen my grandmother in a decade, she wasn't exactly excited to see me, which didn't surprise me, and I wasn't exactly excited to see her, which didn't surprise her. My mother and I greeted and bowed to her and she ordered us to sit down for lunch. I glanced at my mother nervously. My mother had reminded me that it was important to eat everything that was served, despite the putrid quality of my grandmother's food—everything she cooked actually tasted like vomit. My mother and I had argued over this for an hour. I was vegetarian and didn't want to eat anything with vertebrae, especially if my grandmother had touched it. I suggested going to a restaurant instead, but my mother explained that my grandmother rarely left the house anymore. She was in her eighties and her legs were weak. Wouldn't it be a shame
if she slipped and fell, I said, and my mother pinched me on the arm. She warned me to behave, and I explained that I always did. She rolled her eyes.

We sat on the floor, hunched over a low table. My grandmother was our only relative who still ate this way—the rest of my family switched to kitchen tables with chairs. I looked at the “feast” my grandmother had prepared: a large bowl of rice; gray, overcooked bean sprouts; kim chee that I knew would be bland because it lacked the bright red spices; a bowl full of something chunky and greasy—turnips, maybe. A whole fried fish, whose gummy, cloudy eyes stared at me despondently. I felt another pair of eyes on me, too. My grandmother was scrutinizing my face. The two dark pebbles underneath her drooping, wrinkled eyelids moved over my forehead and my cheeks. I ducked her stare and looked at the fish again. How could I put that in my mouth? I had been vegetarian for nine years; I had forgotten what fish even tasted like.

“Her skin is too dry. What is wrong with her? She should wear more make-up.” My grandmother liked to talk about people in the room as if they weren't there.

“I guess it's the Seoul weather. It's very windy and cold here.” My mother reached into her purse and handed me a jar of cream.

“Yes, it's the weather,” I echoed and smiled apologetically at my grandmother. I dabbed the lotion on my face, which I thought felt a little greasy.

My grandmother's eyes moved over to my mother's face. “You're wearing too much make-up. What are you trying to hide? Wrinkles? You can't hide them forever.”

“I'd like to try.” My mother forced a laugh. I did too.

“Why is she so skinny?” My grandmother gripped her hands around my wrist. Her hands were surprisingly soft and warm. Apparently, the devil moisturizes.

“She's not so skinny. She's fine.”

“I don't think you feed her enough. It's your cooking.”

“She has a great appetite.” My mother looked at me, glanced at my bowl, and looked at me again. I shoveled a spoonful of rice and some dingy bean sprouts into my mouth. The only bean sprouts I've ever liked are my mother's. She is an amazing cook, and her dishes are the first to go during potlucks.

“It's very delicious. Thank you.” I picked up my napkin and wiped my mouth. Normally in front of other relatives, I would say more. But in front of my grandmother, my remedial Korean wrapped around my tongue and choked me. Or maybe that was the food. I studied my bowl of rice. How many bites would it take for me to finish?

“What is she wearing? What is that?” My grandmother stared at me. I stared at my mother. My mother stared at my grandmother.

“Pardon me? What do you mean?” My mother spoke for the both of us. She had asked me to wear something conservative, and I had. I wore a maroon sweater and a pair of black pants. She approved and even wore a similar outfit.

“She shouldn't wear so much black. Where is she going, to a funeral?”

I poured my grandmother some tea, and without thinking, filled her cup to the top. This is considered impolite in Korea, and I knew it. I might as well have flung the tea in her face and smashed the cup against the wall.

“I'm so sorry. I wasn't paying attention.” I bowed my head and looked blankly at the cup.

“This is very rude. Is this how they do it in America? Are all children this disrespectful?”

“Please, I'm sorry.” I kept staring at her cup. Why was I such an idiot?

My mother laughed nervously. “It's OK Annie, it's just an accident. The pitcher is too heavy for you. Why don't you show Grandmother what you brought for her?”

My mother had purchased a blue cashmere cardigan for my grandmother before we left for our trip. She shopped for days in order to find the perfect gift, and she had even paid full price. Since my grandmother was always cold, my mother thought the sweater would be appropriate. I presented the gift to my grandmother, using two hands and bowing my head.

“What's this?” She tore open the box, looked at the sweater, and threw it aside. “Probably made in China.”

My mother blinked. “No, it's made in Italy. It's cashmere; it's warm.”

“It's not real cashmere.”

“Please, Annie would never give you a sweater that wasn't cashmere.”

I nodded my head in agreement. “If you don't like it, Grandmother, I can buy a different one for you.”

“Why would you buy another sweater that I won't like? I like the sweaters that I have. I don't need a new one.”

“I'm sorry, this was my fault. I told Annie that you would like it.” My mother picked up the sweater and started folding it. I sat quietly and simmered. I hoped that when my grandmother finally arrived in hell, she would find indoor plumbing and new, unfamiliar furniture, including a very high kitchen table. I rubbed my lower back; sitting on the floor was giving me scoliosis.

“Annie's Korean is shameful. You didn't teach her.”

I shoved a spoonful of rice and turnips into my mouth to keep it busy. The self-righteous American fireball in me wanted to come to my mother's defense; my patchy Korean was my own fault, and it wasn't
that
bad—my listening comprehension was far more
advanced than my speaking skills. But the obedient Korean girl in me knew to stand back silently. There was no point in arguing; it would only make things worse. I had a vision of my grandmother spontaneously bursting into flames and me coming to her rescue by emptying the brass kettle on her. My grandmother wouldn't be hurt too badly, just covered in her own piss, her body smoldering. She'd be grateful that she was still alive and finally realize what a horrendous bitch she had been her entire life. She'd probably smell better, too.

“Annie's Korean has gotten a lot better. I'm sure by the end of this trip she'll be writing books in Korean.”

I tried not to laugh too hard.

“What would she write about? What does she know?”

 

In 1984, my grandmother turned seventy, which is a milestone in Korea, like turning sweet sixteen or fifty in America. My father and his five siblings organized a traditional Korean feast and family reunion in Seoul in honor of my grandmother. At the time, I was a diminutive eight-year-old with oversized teeth and an unruly perm. My mother had convinced me to get one a few days before flying to Seoul—perms were the hottest trends in both America and Korea. Curls helped limp American hair look fuller and helped straight Korean hair look more American—assuming American hair looked like black cotton candy.

“No, Anne, you hair so cute! You look like Shirley Temple!”

“No I don't, I look like Tina Turner!”

“You so silly. Everybody like you hair. They tell me, ‘Oh you must be good mommy because you daughter so pretty.' Even you grandma will like.”

“No she won't. Grandma doesn't like anything.”

“Anne! Why you say such rude?”

“Because it's true.”

Though I feared her deathly smell and her slashing tongue, I still had to pay my respect to my grandmother when she turned seventy. After all, she was my grandmother. It was the right thing to do, but even my father seemed filled with dread—his jaw tightened and the veins in his neck bulged the entire week before we left for Seoul. He had helped plan his mother's celebration, playing the part of the dutiful son, but from the look on his face I knew he wanted the party to be over before it even began. When I got older, I figured out that ever since my father had moved to the States, his relationship with his mother had been strained, and when he sponsored three other siblings and their families to immigrate, my grandmother never forgave him.

Relatives and family friends—some I knew, most I did not—donned their best
hanboks,
Korean traditional clothing, and packed into a banquet hall. The women wore floor-length, puffy skirts and colorful short jackets with wide sleeves that taper at the wrists. The men wore baggy silk pants with vests and decorated long jackets. Unfamiliar, clammy hands pinched my cheeks, patted my bottom, and stroked my hair, only to get their watches and rings caught in the frizzy black mass that engulfed my head. I spent most of the evening at my mother's side, smiling and nodding at distant relatives, trying to understand what they were saying to me. Even my mother had problems understanding some of them—a few guests spoke in thick country accents. I tugged at my curls, trying to straighten them, and tugged at the bright red skirt of my hanbok. The skirt, made out of stiff fabric, was too big for me and a good two inches dragged along the floor. The sleeves of the mint green and gold jacket were also two inches too long. The hanbok was a hand-me-down from a cousin and I needed another three years to
grow into it. No one had passed down a pair of traditional white slippers, so I wore my Reeboks instead, and my feet were the only comfortable part of my body. My coarse, heavy petticoat irritated my legs. I reached underneath my skirt and furiously scratched them.