The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

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?

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. 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. And as Asian women, we are foreign and especially powerless, with our supposedly porcelain skin, delicate physiques, “slanted pussies,” and quiet, submissive natures.

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. And if I could go back in time, I would pull my father aside and whisper in his ear: “Don’t give him the money; he’s full of shit. Lock the doors and call the police. I’ll get the knife.”

Watching this was eye-opening to me. Not just the fact that the woman managed to do it, but how she did it. As later experiences would confirm, to deal with a man like that, a man like George, you have to pull the rug out from under him. Not all at once, of course; a small tug here, another one there. You don’t back down when he tries to wield his power. Instead, you trip him up by slipping him little lies. Correct him whenever you can.

Confuse him. Make him feel foolish. 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 for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.

I stare at my reflection in the graffitied mirror, expecting to see a monster, a demon, a killer, but it’s me. Just me. The eye stares at me from the floor. I pick it up and wash it. Don’t you want to taste it, Ji-won? I don’t. I can’t.

Umma doesn’t seem to remember that George never does the dishes, nor does he ever go near the kitchen sink. Once he’s done eating, he simply gets up and plops himself down in front of the TV. Umma always cleans up after him.

It’s my mother. I’m in her room. She’s sleeping on her side, huddled over in the corner, even though the rest of the bed is empty. Perhaps it’s because she’s used to making herself small. Perhaps it’s because she’s spent a lifetime making herself inconspicuous for men like my father and George. Maybe it’s an unconscious reflex now. I feel sorry for her, and even sorrier when I study her features and see Ji-hyun and myself in them, all the pieces of us weaving in and out of her. We’re tangled together in this ball of yarn, my mother, Ji-hyun, and me.

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.

In all honesty, it’s a stupid, thoughtless gift, not even specific to Thailand in any way. I’ve seen the street vendors downtown selling this exact replica. Nevertheless, my mother smiles, her face eclipsed with happiness. Her expression makes my heart ache.

Hope is my mother waiting by the front door for months. Hope is a table full of banchan, side dishes, carefully prepared by hand. Hope is my sister curled in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder, asking, “Do you think he will come back?”

I follow them to a towering luxury apartment building in the center of downtown. It’s Jen’s apartment. George floats from place to place, preying on Asian women. He slithers into their hearts and their beds. He takes over their homes. He eats their food. He takes and takes and takes.

He jumps in without hesitation. 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. “Uber?” he asks, slurring his words.

“I do, Ji-won. I’ve been watching you. I know everything about you. For example, I know that you happen to be missing a backpack.” “You took it?” I splutter. “Why?” “Because you need to learn some sense, Ji-won. If you can’t see what’s good for you, I’ll have to show you. You can have your stuff back when you’ve proven that you deserve it. I have it locked up in my room at home.”

Umma used to tell me that she knows Ji-hyun and me better than anyone else. “I made both of you in my stomach and grew you for nine months,” she’d say. “I created every part of your bodies. No matter who you meet, no matter what you do, I will always know you and your sister best.” As a child, I thought this meant that my mother could read my mind. She knew when I was lying. She knew when I did bad things. But, as I grew older, I came to realize that this was one of Umma’s many untruths. She didn’t know what I was thinking or how I was feeling. If she did, she wouldn’t have acted this way. She wouldn’t have done things that hurt me, that made me sad, that made me cry. Most importantly, she wouldn’t have brought George into our house.

I know now that I was wrong to blame my mother for what happened to our family. And I don’t resent her for her grief. It comes from a place of weakness, of powerlessness. 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.