water running, and she yelled, Ahn Joo-yah, go find the back scratcher! I knew the stick was on her dresser, so I quickly fetched it for her. I said, Here, Mother. She looked at me and said, That was awfully fast. So you want to see your brother beaten, huh? And she pushed me against the closet doors.
Why did she give me the broken pancakes? Why did she thin my milk with water, not his? Why did Min Joo get to eat some of Joonâs applesauce, not me? Why did she brush his hair and not mine? Mine was longer. Why did she take Min Joo with her, and not me?
I remember when I turned nine, my mother made me seaweed soup with mussels. I wanted to thank her by eating it all up while it was steaming hot, but I did not know the steel bowl would burn my fingers. I dropped the bowl, and the soup spilled all over my lap. My mother struck me across my right ear and told me I was an ungrateful, clumsy daughter. That evening I saw her knitting in front of the television. I sat near my motherâs feet, watched with her, waiting for the right moment to tell her how sorry I was for spilling her soup. We sat quietly for a while, until she jerked my shoulder back to take a look at my face. My mother saw me crying, and she pointed the knitting needles at my nose and asked, What did I ever do to make you so miserable? When I didnât answer, she yelled, Ahn Joo-yah!
My mother blamed me for burning her cooking. She blamed me for the broken fan, the crank calls, the cockroaches. She blamed me for Min Jooâs crying. She blamed me for Fatherâs drinking and Fatherâs magazines. She said it was because of me we came to this awful country. Then my mother put down her knitting and cried herself, mumbling something about being a bad mother, killing herself or running away. I quickly wiped my face and told her I wasnât crying, that something got caught in my eyes, that I was all right, that I was sorry, and that I didnât want her to die or go away, please. But she poked her toe into the center of my chest and said it was too late.
My mother let Min Joo cry, but she never let me cry, so I hid in my closet, biting the edges of my blanket. She caught me once and yelled, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? She pulled me out of the closet and told Min Joo to look for the back scratcher. Min Joo was glad he did not know where it was. He did not like listening to the stick whoosh through the air, then land slap on my skin. He did not like seeing those red rectangles on my calves. When Min Joo came back saying, Mother, I donât know where it is, she went frantic until she remembered using it in bed the night before to scratch the back of her head. She had left it under her bed.
Pointing the stick at me, my mother chanted, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? The head of the stick landed on my arm. What are you crying for? Did your father die? What are you crying ⦠Before she could finish, for I knew the slap would come right after, I yelled, Iâm crying because you like Min Joo more than you like me! Taking a deep breath, my mother said, So thatâs why youâre crying. And youâre not going to stop? Arenât you going to stop? And the stick came down on my back. You stupid, stupid girl. Ahn Joo-yah, think hard. Think hard about it. Scratching her ankle with the stick, she walked out of my room.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
My fatherâs car was turning into the court, and Loo Lah was sitting on the passengerâs side. I let go of the pole, slid down, picked up my school bag, and ran to our apartment. I threw my things onto the couch and went into the kitchen, where I washed our dinner and breakfast dishes and filled three bowls with the steaming white rice I had prepared in the morning. With my thighs aching and my palms smelling like rust, I set three spoons, three pairs of wooden chopsticks, and three cups on the table. I
Why did she give me the broken pancakes? Why did she thin my milk with water, not his? Why did Min Joo get to eat some of Joonâs applesauce, not me? Why did she brush his hair and not mine? Mine was longer. Why did she take Min Joo with her, and not me?
I remember when I turned nine, my mother made me seaweed soup with mussels. I wanted to thank her by eating it all up while it was steaming hot, but I did not know the steel bowl would burn my fingers. I dropped the bowl, and the soup spilled all over my lap. My mother struck me across my right ear and told me I was an ungrateful, clumsy daughter. That evening I saw her knitting in front of the television. I sat near my motherâs feet, watched with her, waiting for the right moment to tell her how sorry I was for spilling her soup. We sat quietly for a while, until she jerked my shoulder back to take a look at my face. My mother saw me crying, and she pointed the knitting needles at my nose and asked, What did I ever do to make you so miserable? When I didnât answer, she yelled, Ahn Joo-yah!
My mother blamed me for burning her cooking. She blamed me for the broken fan, the crank calls, the cockroaches. She blamed me for Min Jooâs crying. She blamed me for Fatherâs drinking and Fatherâs magazines. She said it was because of me we came to this awful country. Then my mother put down her knitting and cried herself, mumbling something about being a bad mother, killing herself or running away. I quickly wiped my face and told her I wasnât crying, that something got caught in my eyes, that I was all right, that I was sorry, and that I didnât want her to die or go away, please. But she poked her toe into the center of my chest and said it was too late.
My mother let Min Joo cry, but she never let me cry, so I hid in my closet, biting the edges of my blanket. She caught me once and yelled, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? She pulled me out of the closet and told Min Joo to look for the back scratcher. Min Joo was glad he did not know where it was. He did not like listening to the stick whoosh through the air, then land slap on my skin. He did not like seeing those red rectangles on my calves. When Min Joo came back saying, Mother, I donât know where it is, she went frantic until she remembered using it in bed the night before to scratch the back of her head. She had left it under her bed.
Pointing the stick at me, my mother chanted, What are you crying for? Did your mother die? What are you crying for? The head of the stick landed on my arm. What are you crying for? Did your father die? What are you crying ⦠Before she could finish, for I knew the slap would come right after, I yelled, Iâm crying because you like Min Joo more than you like me! Taking a deep breath, my mother said, So thatâs why youâre crying. And youâre not going to stop? Arenât you going to stop? And the stick came down on my back. You stupid, stupid girl. Ahn Joo-yah, think hard. Think hard about it. Scratching her ankle with the stick, she walked out of my room.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
My fatherâs car was turning into the court, and Loo Lah was sitting on the passengerâs side. I let go of the pole, slid down, picked up my school bag, and ran to our apartment. I threw my things onto the couch and went into the kitchen, where I washed our dinner and breakfast dishes and filled three bowls with the steaming white rice I had prepared in the morning. With my thighs aching and my palms smelling like rust, I set three spoons, three pairs of wooden chopsticks, and three cups on the table. I
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