“Do people do it to you?”
“Yeah, except I’m really not from here, remember? We moved here when I was eight. I had an accent. The first time I saw snow, I was in homeroom and I was so amazed I stood up to stare at it.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” she says.
“Did the other kids—”
“It wasn’t pretty.” She mock-shivers at the memory. “Want to hear something even worse? My first spelling quiz the teacher marked that I spelled favorite wrong because I included the u.”
“That is wrong.”
“Nope.” She waves her spoon at me. “The correct English spelling includes the u. So sayeth the Queen of England. Look it up, American boy. Anyway, I was such a little nerd that I went home and brought her the dictionary and got my points back.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did,” she says, smiling.
“You really wanted those points.”
“Those points were mine.” She giggles then, which is not a thing I thought she did. Of course, I’ve only known her for a few hours, so obviously I don’t know everything about her yet. I love this part of getting to know someone. How every new piece of information, every new expression, seems magical. I can’t imagine this becoming old and boring. I can’t imagine not wanting to hear what she has to say.
“Stop doing that,” she says.
“What?”
“Staring at me.”
“Okay,” I say. I unearth my egg and see that it’s cooked perfectly to a soft boil. “Let’s eat them together,” I tell her. “It’s the best part.”
She scoops hers out, and now we’re both sitting there egg in spoon, spoon in hand.
“On three. One. Two. Three.”
We pop the eggs into our mouths. I watch as her eyes widen. I know the moment the yolk bursts in her mouth. She closes her eyes like this is the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted. She said not to stare but I’m staring. I love the way she seems to feel things with her entire body. I wonder why a girl who is so obviously passionate is so adamantly against passion.
LEARN HOW TO USE CHOPSTICKS.
Teach girlfriend how to use chopsticks.
My son, he did the same thing. He date white girl. My husband? He don’t accept it. At first, I agree with him. We don’t speak to our son for a year after he told us. I thought: We don’t talk to him. Make him see reason, come to senses.
We don’t talk and I miss him. I miss my little boy and his American jokes and the way he pinch my cheeks and tell me I’m the prettiest of all the ommas. My son, who was never embarrassed of me when all the other boys get too American.
We don’t talk to him for over a year. Finally when he call I think this is it. He finally understand. White girl will never understand us, never be Korean. But only call to say he’s getting married. He wants us to come to wedding. I hear in his voice how much he loves her. I hear how he loves her more than me. I hear that if I don’t go to his wedding, I will lose my only son. My only son, who loves me.
But Daddy say no. My son begged us to come and I say no until he stop begging.
He got married. I saw pictures on the Facebook.
They have first son. I saw pictures on the Facebook.
They have another child. A girl this time.
My sohn-jah, and I only know them from computer.
Now when these boys come in here with these girls who don’t look like their ommas, I get angry. This country try to take everything from you. Your language, your food, your children.
Learn how to use chopsticks.
This country can’t have everything.
JUST UNDER TWO HOURS to go before my appointment, and Daniel really wants to go to norebang, which is the Korean word for karaoke. Karaoke is itself the Japanese word for embarrassing oneself by singing in front of a room filled with strangers who are only there to laugh at you.
“It’s not like the American version,” he insists when I balk. “This is much more civilized.”
By civilized, he means that you embarrass yourself in a small, private room in front of only your friends instead. His favorite norebang place is coincidentally right next door to where we’ve just had lunch. It’s owned and operated by the same people, so we don’t even have to go outside because there’s an entrance inside the restaurant.
Daniel chooses one of the smallest rooms, but it’s still big. They’re clearly meant to accommodate parties of six or eight instead of just two. The room is dimly lit, and plush red leather couches line most of the perimeter. A large square coffee table sits just in front of the couches. On it there’s a microphone, a complicated-looking remote, and a thick book that has Song Menu written on the cover in three languages. Next to the door there’s a large TV where the lyrics will appear. A disco ball hangs from the ceiling.
Bev would love this place. First, she has kind of an obsession with disco balls. She has four hanging from the ceiling of her room and a disco ball lamp/clock contraption. Second, she’s got a great voice and will take any excuse to use it in front of groups of people. I check my phone for more texts from her, but there’s nothing. She’s just busy, I tell myself. She hasn’t forgotten about me already. I’m still here.
Daniel closes the door. “I can’t believe you’ve never been to norebang,” he says.
“Shocking, I know,” I say back.
With the door closed, the room feels small and intimate.