The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

I opened my mouth, unable to stifle the frustration growing inside me. It came up like bile, the need to say something mean and biting, the desire to cut her down for her stupidity. The want to make her feel small. But soon, that feeling gave way to sadness. I felt sorry for her. Sorry that every part of her life had been characterized by misery. Sorry that even now, she was suffering.

There are some things that you can never truly escape. Not really. Maybe that’s why, even now, she’s stuck in the past, long after everyone else has moved on.

But the worst is when I find the little red-and-white candies that he turned to once he quit smoking. He would never be without them. Now, whenever I catch a whiff of peppermint or hear the crinkle of plastic, I feel a small zap, an electric current that runs through my entire body. A reminder that I once had a father.

In Korean, the word for “fortune” is palja. It comes from the term saju palja, which means “the four pillars of destiny.” These four pillars are based on the year, month, day, and hour of a person’s birth. And, according to my father, these seemingly meaningless components determine whether your brief existence will be good or bad before you even have the opportunity to live.

More than anything, he hated that everything in his life served as a reminder of his failures. I don’t blame him. Maybe because I know what it’s like, to live a life so defined by want. That’s why I was able to recognize it in him—it was what I had been feeling for so long.

Swearing on your mother’s life is something so American, so white, that neither of us can truly understand it. In our culture, swearing on your mother’s life is probably one of the worst sins you can commit. What is there that’s more important than your mother, your father, or your grandparents? It doesn’t sound like George has ever heard of filial piety.

Her tears dripped onto my hands, onto the carpet; I watched them fall and had the sudden realization that our roles had reversed. Somehow, I had become the mother and she the daughter.

Fate can bring you together, but it can just as easily tear you apart.

What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?

She’s shy about her hands because they’re stained and rough from years of hard work at dry cleaner and grocery store. Every time I see them, I feel small. I feel like I am responsible for every unhappiness and injustice she has ever experienced. Why couldn’t I have been born a boy? Someone strong and confident who would be capable of taking care of her?

For us, that kind of certainty and self-assuredness is an impossibility. We girls are taught from an early age that we are demonstrably inferior to our male counterparts. We are smaller, weaker, stupider. When we succeed, it’s only because men allow us to.

The only power he has is the power you are willing to give him, and you’ve given him nothing. Not a scrap. By the time you’re done with him, he’ll be begging for mercy. Who is he if he can’t control you? Is he even a man anymore? It will seem like a relief when you give him a hand, even if that hand is holding a blade. And when you take everything from him, you can say what these men say about us: He was asking for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.

How do I explain to her that the home I miss isn’t a place? It’s a time when my life made sense. When things made sense.

Funny how things never change. Here I am, wide awake. My mother is crying. And once again, she is powerless.

“I know that the plant is pretty, but poison is everywhere, even in the places where you least expect it.”

Umma allowed the men in her life to control her, to tell her what to do, to make all the big decisions for her. Without them, she’s lost, adrift at sea.