Chapter 9
Once upon a time, I was lonely. My parents made us move to a different town every few years for new jobs and business opportunities.
With few Asians in these neighborhoods, I felt isolated.
My name made it even more difficult. In Korean, Dahee meant “much brightness.” Da for “much” and hee for “brightness.” Children laughed at me.
Duh, they said, elongating the u to sound dense and clueless.
Teachers asked if my name was Dolly, as in Dolly Parton.
My parents said I could change it to Dolly if I wanted.
Maybe I should have agreed. Maybe my life would have been easier if I’d had an American name.
Some part of me resisted though. I couldn’t imagine being called anything else.
As a teacher now, I knew I couldn’t blame everything on being Korean or having a name like Dahee. Personality was a major factor. I was a shy kid with shy parents.
In Vale, Ohio, the town where we lived one year, the house was gray and creaked and cracked.
Our friends from Vancouver came to visit and commented on just how far it seemed to slope.
They laughed about how they would manage if the house collapsed, and I remember thinking if the walls fell in, they would be strong enough to hold them up, unlike my parents and me.
In this same town, I stood in my yard beside a white girl who held my collector Barbie doll.
She said friends had rules: Friends had to play together after school every day.
Friends had to bring snacks to the picnic in her yard.
Friends had to give their friends their Barbies.
I owned two Barbies that Channing’s mother had given me for my birthday, and this friend refused to give one of them back.
Her brother invited us to look at a discovery in the yard.
Why did I go? I sensed it was something terrible.
Instead, I followed the girl, and we reached her brother, who was crouched over something on the ground.
Suddenly he jumped up and threw something small and wet at my face.
A mound of reddish-brown twisting worms. I swatted at it and shrieked.
He laughed. “Isn’t it the food you like to eat?
” he said. The friend laughed loudly. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet and run to my house.
East End became the relief from those places where we lived: a town near the ocean far away from overcast valleys, where it was always bright and never muddy.
On school breaks and many holidays, we drove there to visit my father’s brother’s family.
They were the opposite of us. My uncle had a wife and a daughter.
They threw big parties with lots of Koreans and lived in a sturdy stone castle by the sea.
Though I’d visited for as long as I could remember, all those people in my cousin’s house felt like strangers to me.
Each time, I tried to hide by the grand piano in the large hall, and my mother had to coax me to follow my aunt up to her daughter Channing’s room.
I would hold on to the hem of my mother’s sweater to keep from falling back down the stairs, which seemed to be impossibly steep.
What I really wanted to do was reach out for my mother’s long ponytail, which she’d let me hold when I was a baby, but I was too old for that now, and I knew she had trouble keeping the strands tucked in.
I remember my aunt wore a brown turtleneck sweater, no matter the weather.
She had short, fluffy thin hair through which I could see her gray scalp and gold-rimmed large round glasses that magnified her eyes.
Her deep voice and bark of a cough reminded me of videos I’d seen of seals, though hers made her wince and pause when she walked.
Channing’s mother was my kun-eomma. I was told by my parents to call her that, which translated to “big mother.” Kun-eomma was an excellent pianist and played five other instruments as well as worked as a lawyer in town.
Although this Korean term had everything to do with age and not size, she was the tallest Korean woman I’d ever seen at five seven.
Channing would grow two inches taller than her by the time she was eighteen.
During these big parties, Channing would be in her room with a group of children. She sat in front of a desktop computer playing StarCraft or World of Warcraft and other games unfamiliar to me, her left hand clicking on a keyboard while her right hand moved the mouse.
The children in Channing’s room at these parties—usually there were six or seven in that room—would look at me when I walked in and make space for me to join.
And then they’d turn back to shout in awe at Channing’s progress in the game.
In those moments, I’d be close enough to see Channing’s gold hair pins that held back her short hair.
She’d lift her chin and turn, and I could see tiny sparkly gold rosette earrings in her earlobes.
When I was nine years old, we arrived at Channing’s house on Christmas as usual.
I ran from the car into the house, my parents on each side of me, holding my hands.
A moment before we reached the door, I thought we were going to be blown out to sea.
My feet left the ground, but we made it.
My uncle opened the door and waved us in.
My mother took me upstairs to Channing’s room, but Kun-eomma didn’t go with us.
Someone said she was resting. In Channing’s room, as usual, the children were cheering on my cousin.
I went out and explored the hallway. At the end of it was a double door, and through it I heard someone coughing.
It had to be Kun-eomma, so I turned the knob with the intention of saying hello and retreating.
I missed her hug, the way she greeted me each time we arrived at her house.
I remember the overhead light was intensely bright, bouncing off the white walls and the white shelves lining the room.
The shelves were packed with books; some were jammed horizontally on top of those with spines standing up.
Everywhere were books: on the bed, on a long red couch, on a round table.
Thick white curtains covered the windows with some sort of light where the rod was, as if to mimic sunlight coming through and around the drapery.
I thought I was in a library except for the king-size bed in the middle of the room on a yellow-and-orange patterned rug.
Unlike the decor of the rest of the house, which was full of somber dark wood and maroon colors, everything in this room spoke of a warm summer day.
In bed facing me, sitting up with newspapers, brown thick folders, and books laid out on the blanket, was Kun-eomma in her usual brown turtleneck.
She was wearing flannel pajama pants with red-and-white-striped candy canes on them.
She squinted at me, leaning forward. “Channing?” she said.
She had a book in her lap, which she overturned just then, laying it cover side up beside her, and she scooted closer.
“It’s me, Dahee,” I replied.
She waved me in to my relief and put her glasses on. “Oh, Dahee, there you are, I’m so glad, come in, come in,” she urged.
I continued into the room, and she reached farther still and hugged me, the way she always did.
I was so relieved she was still my kun-eomma.
She urged me to sit on the bed and said, “Take up space, Dahee, spread out.” I tried to but was still careful not to disturb her newspapers and books.
The one she’d been reading was blue with a painting on the cover: a group of figures standing before another who wore a hat that looked like the origami hats I’d learned to make.
The title stated in white letters: Virtuous Women.
Below it was the subtitle: Three Classic Korean Novels.
And then three more names of what must be those novels: A Nine Cloud Dream, Queen Inhyoˇn, and Ch’unhyang.
I touched the glossy cover. “A Korean book?” I said.
She patted it. “It’s a good translation. I’ve read it so many times, but each time I notice something else. Especially that last one, the story of Chunhyang.”
I stared at the books on the shelves around the room. My aunt awed me. There were so many, how could she read them all and then read them again? It felt like a superhuman feat.
My aunt continued, “Chunhyang’s mother dreamt of a blue crane before Chunhyang was born.
Blue cranes aren’t native to Korea, so maybe it was actually a Himalayan monal.
They have an iridescent blue wing. It meant her child would know great love.
I’ve had dreams like that, of birds. Large-winged birds.
Like Chunhyang’s mom I was so happy when I learned I was pregnant.
” She touched the book again as if to sear that detail into her brain.
“Do you remember your dreams?” she added.
“No,” I replied, but she looked sad so I told her about a recent school project on birds. “My parents have a pair of wooden mandarin ducks on a shelf in their room,” I said. “They let me take them to school. My mom told me you get them as a gift when you’re married, but she didn’t explain why.”
Kun-eomma laughed, which brought on a stretch of coughs.
When she was calm again, she said, “A lot of couples get them as gifts on their wedding day because mandarin ducks stay together their whole lives. Cranes do too. Not sure about those pretty Himalayan monals.” She chuckled, and I joined in at the thought of birds getting married.
When it was quiet, she said, “Sit, please. What have you been thinking about lately? Me, I’ve been thinking about all the places I want to visit this year, when it’s warm again.
Why haven’t I gone before now? We should all go together, you and your mom, Channing and me.
Singapore and Vietnam, Greece and Turkey.
Are you game?” She was reclining now with pillows behind her back.
So many pillows, I counted six. Since I liked talking with her, I returned to sitting on the bed but was prepared to get up if she coughed.
“I’ll go with you, Kun-eomma,” I offered.
She nodded. “Good. I love that you’re willing to go out into the world.
I wish Channing did. She’s always playing those video games in her room, never wants to go anywhere.
We even put a lock on her computer so she couldn’t play, but she broke into it.
I don’t see you constantly on a computer. Do you like those games, too?”
I was embarrassed to tell her I didn’t have a computer to play games on. Changing the subject to reading, I said my favorite book was still Misty of Chincoteague, which she’d given me the last time I’d visited her. She smiled and directed me toward a tower of books that reached up to my waist.
“Take whatever you want,” she urged.
Right then, I slid off the bed and sat down on the floor to inspect the stack. The spines were slick and bright, newer than those in the school library with plastic covers that dulled the designs. At the very top was one called A Single Shard and below that, Rivers in Korea. I took both.
“I have so much to do. I didn’t think I’d run out of time,” she said, still musing on lost plans.
There was so much sadness in my aunt’s voice that I defended Channing even though I didn’t know my cousin. “When she’s older she’ll want to go. We can all go together.”
She looked at me as if she knew I’d said those words as a wish. “Thank you for that,” Kun-eomma said.
Afraid she’d start coughing again, I told her I would leave to let her rest. “One more thing, Dahee,” she said. “Did you know your grandfather is coming from Korea?”
I told her I didn’t.
“He’s yours and Channing’s—he’s your dad’s dad. The only living family we have from that generation. Funny thing is I feel like he could have been my father more than the one I had.”
I must have had an odd expression on my face, because she smiled. “Do you remember him? You were five when you left Korea, so I would think you’d have some memory of him?”
I shook my head. She continued, “He’s moving here to help out. Channing will need him. My point is this is a good thing. He’s like us, Dahee. You and me. He loves stories.” She began to cough again.
I waited, holding my breath, flattered to be in any group that included my aunt.
In a moment, she continued, “Promise me you’ll look out for Channing.
I mean if I can’t.” Her words hung between us.
I must have looked confused, because she added, “Don’t look so worried.
I’ll be here, if I have anything to say about it, I will.
But I feel better knowing you’ll look out for her. ”
She continued to speak when I stayed silent.
“Dahee, when I was pregnant with Channing, I was worried about her being alone. I don’t know how I knew it then.
It was just a feeling, so when your mom said she was pregnant with you, I felt this huge weight lift.
We promised each other that the two of you would be like sisters.
I mean, you’re cousins so it’s like you’re sisters anyway, but when you were born on the same day, I knew my wish had come true. Look after one another? Promise?”
She held out her arms, and I reached over and hugged her. She smelled of sweet pea and pears. My aunt had a reason to make me promise. Channing needed protecting, but how did her mother know so many years before?