The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

For him, words were magic. The people who knew how to use them, who were able to bend them to their will, sat in their nice houses and ate meat with every meal. They walked by in their fancy Western-style clothing, in crisp suits and shirts so luxurious he longed to run his fingers over them. Words, he understood, were a way into that world.

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.

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.

Crawl, you pathetic cockroach. Crawl.

Yeah, sorry, I ate a homeless guy’s eyeball last night, and I’m really struggling with it, so. . . .

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.

It doesn’t surprise me that your father loved the watch more than he loved you, George. You’re greedy. Selfish. Unlovable.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I wish Umma and George wouldn’t get married,” she says. “Your wish is my command.”

I know what my mother is feeling right now, at least a little bit. To be the person who is always alone, always rejected. I have never been anybody’s first choice. Not my mother’s, who loves Ji-hyun more than me; not my father’s, who chose another woman over me. Over all of us.