The Eyes Are the Best Part

by Monika Kim

I was certain that my father’s departure had caused my mother to lose her mind.

Forshadowing?

I remained awake, listening to Ji-hyun snore beside me. Only then did the awfulness of our situation swim back into my heart.

I can’t help but wonder what Umma would have been like if she had followed her brothers and sisters instead of staying behind. Would she still be this person, waiting around for my father, who doesn’t even want her?

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.

Lately, our mother has been trying to goad us into asinine conversations. She brings up crazy things, like conspiracy theories that she’s read about on the internet or news that no sane person could possibly believe is real. The other night, she insisted that the moon landing had been faked. When Ji-hyun and I started arguing with her, she seemed almost happy, even when it resulted in an almost hour-long quarrel that left Ji-hyun in tears. Whether it’s because Umma’s lonely or bored, I’m not sure, but now Ji-hyun and I are careful not to engage her.

“She said that white men were the best, and Korean men were the worst.”

She sounds racist but ok

Why is she assuming something about an entire group of people? It’s like when people tell me that I should be good at math or that I’m a bad driver, just because I’m Asian. . . .” “You are a bad driver,” Ji-hyun says. I glare at her.

LMAO

“I’m more curious about why white men are the best,” she says.

Umma is up to something

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.

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.

“I know it sounds crazy, but George is a very special man. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met. He’s appreciative of all cultures, but especially Korean culture because he was stationed in Seoul when he was in the military. He can speak our language, too! Better than you or Ji-hyun, at least. Isn’t that amazing?”

OH NAUR

“If you say anything, I’ll punch you,” she says grumpily.

You can tell the author has a sister bc this is such sister behaviour lmao

George has picked a Chinese restaurant that we’ve never heard of.

Oh this is not gonna be good

The truck looks new, and as we walk by it, I see a bumper sticker on the back: I’M REPUBLICAN BECAUSE WE CAN’T ALL BE ON WELFARE.

OH NAUR

I don’t know what I expected, but George is completely ordinary. He looks like every other middle-aged white man I’ve seen.

Screaming

“You know, I learned a lot of Korean when I was back in Seoul, but it’s been such a long time . . . and to tell you the truth, pronunciation isn’t my strong suit. If it bothers you that much, I can give you both nicknames.” Ji-hyun’s eyes narrow. “Nicknames?” “Yes. You can be JH, and you—” He points at me with his index finger. “I’ll call you JW.”

God pls let this chapter end OH MY GOD

It quickly becomes obvious that our mother has exaggerated George’s ability to speak Korean. We can’t understand a single thing he’s saying. And he was right about his pronunciation. It’s horrible. His accent turns our once-familiar words into a different dialect entirely, their meanings blurred under the heaviness of his tongue. But George doesn’t notice. He’s pleased with himself, as if we should be impressed by his butchering of our language.

How is it possible that they’ve been seeing each other all this time when they can’t even communicate? I envision them out and about together, grunting and pointing their hands at each other like cavemen.

I fully expect George to ask what we want to eat, but he doesn’t. He ignores all of us, Umma included, and begins ordering feverishly.

Of course he does

Oh . . . and an order of fried rice. With shrimp. No spice.” “But I like my food spicy,”

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

The food is awful. It’s overly sweet and so salty that I worry about my mother’s blood pressure. Grimacing, I force it down with a sip of lukewarm water. “Isn’t it great?” George says, his voice booming. “This is the best Chinese restaurant in the world!”

This is too funny I can't

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.

“Whoa, whoa. You guys having a pillow fight without me? At least let me watch!”

FUCK OFF

“Then why can’t we do anything about it?

Lord I can't wait until they do

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.

Appa always said that Thanksgiving was the most American of holidays, and that we needed to celebrate to show everyone else that we belonged, that we were good Americans, too. “It’s harder for us because we are Asian,” Appa said solemnly. “We have more to prove.”

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

His forwardness surprises me, but I know it’s a cultural difference. Geoffrey is being kind. To American kids, this is the type of thing a good friend would do. Oh, you’re fighting with your parents? Come stay at my house. I know there are many things about Korean culture that Geoffrey would find confusing.

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

Thoughts of George’s death start to preoccupy me.

Girl same

George walks in, keys jingling in his hands. He’s returning from a meeting with a client, and he’s wearing a suit and a shiny black pair of oxfords, which he doesn’t bother removing before lumbering onto the carpet. Umma has told him a dozen times not to wear shoes inside the apartment, but he does it anyway. Because of him, the carpet by the door is stained black.

I start typing back, ready to give in and agree to meet him. I feel bad that I’ve upset him, especially when he’s being nice to me, but then I realize this is something Geoffrey does regularly. Even when I say no, he pushes and pushes until I say yes.

Oh god

“I won’t be with you all the time,” he said. He tucked the cold metal into my palm. “I won’t be okay until I know that you’re safe.” The realization dawns on me. He must have known then that he was going to leave. That was what he must have meant when he said those words.

“It was romantic,” she says with a dreamy expression on her face. “He asked if we could go to CVS to pick up some medicine, and when we were stopped at the light, he asked if I wanted to get married. I told him to stop being silly, but then he pulled the ring out of his pocket.”

Girl the bar is in hell

“Is this one of those fad diets?” He laughs. “You don’t need to diet, Ji-won. I think you look perfect. Don’t you know dieting is a patriarchal tool used to control women? It’s not your fault. The institutional sexism propagated through the mainstream media and our societal norms and the capitalist superstructure as a whole is a form of gender persecution.”

Omg shut the FUCK UP

“How did you know which grocery store she works at?” I ask, confused. “Did I mention it to you?”

Oh nau

“You? Scare me?” he scoffs. “What’s there to be afraid of? Little Oriental girls are nothing to worry about.”

George sees himself as an alpha male. In his mind, only another man could pose any kind of threat or challenge. That’s why he behaves the way he does: ogling Ji-hyun and me and all the other women openly in front of my mother, treating us as though we are objects and not human beings. He does not fear her. He does not fear us. If anything, Umma is lucky that he chose her out of all the other Oriental women he could have chosen to save.

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.

How can you be an alpha male when you need your daughters to translate your bills for you, to make your doctor’s appointments for you, to help you read the billboards on the side of the road?

“What are you, some kind of feminist or something?” “Yes,” she said, matter-of-factly. “I am.”

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.

“Uh huh.” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve talked to girls like her before, and it’s always bullshit and drama with them. I can’t stand it. I thought you knew better, Ji-won.” He takes a step toward me. I take one backward. “You’re not like other girls. That’s why I like you.”

Kol khara

“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. . . .

“I know it’s crazy, but hey, if Jen ever forgives me, this one can be my side piece.” More laughter. “It’s Jen’s fault, anyway. I wouldn’t have done all this if she hadn’t kicked me out of the apartment.”

“Anyway, it’s nice to have someone cook and clean and take care of all that crap. I don’t have to worry about a single thing. Nothing! She does my laundry, cooks these ridiculous meals. And have I told you about the daughters?” He groans. “Outrageous. Let me tell you—the younger one’s got an ass. Always bouncing around in tiny shorts, too, the little slut.”

Kill him pls

I’ll take my time. I want to enjoy every second of this.