untitled memoir - version 2

Middle school – sixth grade. I had just returned to the U.S. the previous summer after living in Korea for four years. I had an insulated, pink Mickey Mouse lunch tote that was made in Japan, bought in Korea. It had a large compartment for rice and two smaller containers for banchan. Its Asian pedigree meant that all parts stacked perfectly; a clever, sliding compartment in the bottom hid a folding spoon. Usually, I bought lunch at the school cafeteria, but Mom had packed lunch for me that day. Mom's a great cook. I carried my Mickey Mouse lunch box proudly to school.

Lunchtime – sitting on the concrete stairs behind the library, peers surrounding me. I unpack my lunch carefully, setting the smaller containers next to me on the step. I felt very civilized with my chopsticks, white rice, and banchan. Compared to the aluminum tray of uniformly heated, sometimes unidentifiable food that I normally bought, my home-cooked meal was a treat to be savored.

As I was about to begin dining, I felt the eyes of my peers. They looked at my meal: white rice and a few banchan – I don't remember all the different types. Suddenly, someone yells, "Eww. What's that?" pointing to the tiny anchovies that my mom had fried and prepared. Their bodies had become translucent after contact with the hot oil, and the soy sauce and sugar had given them the color of caramel. Each individual anchovy – less than a centimeter long – was punctuated by two black dots, each the size of a period.

"Are you eating fish eyes? That's gross."

By now a small crowd had gathered. They proceeded to make fun of my meal and me, pointing, laughing, making faces. I felt helpless. I wanted to stand up and tell them how great my mom's cooking was, how tasty Korean food was… how stupid they were. I said nothing. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered how late my mom had stayed up the previous night to make that meal, how much work and care had gone into those crispy fish. I felt so degraded and alone. Sensing that no more drama was forthcoming, the crowd dispersed.

My best friend Jessica, a fellow Army brat, saw me and rushed over. She asked me what was wrong. In halted words, I tried to explain what had happened. I was crying so hard that my words didn't come out correctly. I don't know how much she really understood, but as far as she was concerned, all she needed to know was who had made me cry.

"Do you want me to beat them up for you?"

I shook my head.

I was so sad that I couldn't enjoy what my mom had worked so hard to prepare. For her, making those anchovies was probably no big deal; she could probably prepare them with her eyes closed with one arm tied behind her back. For me, however, that lunch represented all the sacrifices my mom had made for me and my sister. She had come to the U.S. after marrying my dad, leaving behind all her family and friends – everything she knew – back in Korea. I cannot fathom what both my mom and dad had to face in adopting a new culture and language. My dad learned English in the Army. Mom took ESL classes while I was in middle school.

How dare those jerks attack my mom. How I wanted to defend and protect her. Nineteen years later, I am still trying to process what happened and what it all means. Perhaps it is guilt that lingers and won’t let me forget.

As I get older, I am beginning to appreciate my mom and dad as real people with their own dreams, emotions, and problems. Are they happy with how their lives have turned out? What incidents shaped who they are? Until now, I could only frame my thinking and understanding of my parents from my perspective. They did not exist outside the context of me and my sister. Now, I want them to stand alone. I want to know their history, who they are. I’m not sure why. Is it because understanding them will help me understand more about our family and about me? Possibly.