The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

When my father was here, I could sense his longing, even if my mother and sister were oblivious to it. The dreamy look on his face when he was lost in his thoughts. The way his mouth went slack at random moments during the day. I knew he was imagining a way to escape his small, inconsequential life. Our small, inconsequential life.

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.

Does she remember that night in July, when she asked me if things were going to be okay? Does she remember that I lied?

There’s a lull in the conversation, and in the ensuing quiet I feel myself floating away from my body, circling it like an untethered balloon.

“No spicy,” Umma says. “George can’t eat spicy.” Of course he can’t fucking eat spicy food.

For the first time, I notice that his eyes are blue: a pale, icy blue that reminds me of the Niagara Falls, where my father took us on vacation six years ago. I don’t know why I didn’t notice them before.

Her knee is digging into my back, but I’m lost in the crypt that contains our family’s memories.

Since then I’ve been guarded, careful with new people. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely. I see students on campus, clustered in groups. They laugh and talk, and I just stand there, wondering why I can’t ever seem to fit in.

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.

There was a delicate, tenuous thread tying us together. If I moved, would it break? Just in case, I held still, as solid and unmoving as a statue.

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

I don’t care, I don’t care, I said to myself. Maybe if I keep repeating it, it won’t hurt so badly. Maybe I’ll really believe it.

“The choices you make absolutely matter. Put it this way: the major events in your life are predetermined, but the way you reach those events, the paths that you take? Those are shaped by your choices.

Who am I becoming? What’s happening to me?

My mother can’t support me, since she can barely support herself. It’s up to me to get a good job and make enough money to help her get by. I’ve always been jealous of the kids who have never had to deal with this crushing pressure. They have no idea how good they have it, how lucky they are.

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

She looks hurt. I should feel bad, but I don’t. If anything, I feel better—like I’ve transferred some of my pain to her.

Even when I say no, he pushes and pushes until I say yes.

His words hit me like a physical blow. I should have killed you in your sleep.

The truth is that men like George seldom notice things unless they are directly involved in them. Men like him are stupid and oblivious, convinced of their own self-importance. That night, I could have stabbed him, dug the knife into his throat, and if I had told him it was an accident, he would have believed me.

After all, why would he suspect docile, sweet, submissive Ji-won? What reason would I have for hurting him? Why would a woman, let alone an Asian woman, challenge his authority?

George sees himself as an alpha male. In his mind, only another man could pose any ki...

Men like George aren’t like us. Not like me, not like Ji-hyun. Not even my father, another man, can compare because George’s power doesn’t come only from the fact that he has a penis. It comes from his whiteness.

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.

loud, mediocre white men who had never once in their lives doubted themselves.

But in a way, it was also a good thing. Because it planted something deep within me, a seed of anger that grew, that made me watch and ponder and learn, until I was strong enough to release my own rage.

“It was a joke.” “It wasn’t very funny. In fact, you’re not very funny.”

Men like him hate being wrong, hate being embarrassed, hate not being in control. Men like him don’t know what to do when that happens, and they resort to childish displays of anger, temper tantrums, sulking. In spite of this, he won’t be able to do a single thing about it because in the end he’s the one who is weak.

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 f...

He paused, and I knew the next thing that would come out of his mouth was a lie.

I hide my smirk as I watch him root through his briefcase before dropping to the ground on all fours. Crawl, you pathetic cockroach. Crawl.

This is my destiny. Not a happy life, but one filled with pain and hurt. Around me, the world is blurred and soft.

“You’re late,” she points out angrily, as if I don’t know. I blink at her stupidly while trying to come up with a response. Yeah, sorry, I ate a homeless guy’s eyeball last night, and I’m really struggling with it, so. . . .

He crouches over it and begins sifting through the pile. Get down on your knees, you little worm.

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.

If you touch me like that again, I’ll break your fingers one by one.

The pain brings me back. It reminds me of the work I have left to do.

It must be nice to be so assured of your safety that you don’t have to worry about being alone at night or getting in the wrong car.

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

If she wasn’t crying so much, I would have told her that I already have a father. And that he, like George, is just a man.

I’m reminded of my childhood, when she used to get me ready for school. It seems like it should be funny that our roles are reversed, but it makes me go numb.

Once you leave, I’ll be on my way.” No you won’t. There are consequences for your actions.

“You caught me. I’m a man. I do what all men do. Congrats. Can I go now?”

I know they would make the ache disappear, but the pain serves as a reminder.

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.