The waitress gives her a disapproving look and turns to me. “Teach girlfriend how to use chopsticks,” she says, and walks away.
Natasha looks at me with wide eyes. “Does that mean she’s not going to bring me a fork?”
I laugh and shake my head. “What the hell?”
“I guess you should teach me how to use chopsticks,” she says.
“Don’t worry about her,” I say. “Some people aren’t happy until everything is done their way.”
She shrugs. “Every culture is like that. The Americans, the French, the Jamaicans, the Koreans. Everyone thinks their way is the best way.”
“Us Koreans might actually be right, though,” I say, grinning.
The waitress returns and places the soup and two uncooked eggs in front of us. She tosses paper-clad spoons into the center of the table.
“What’s this called?” Natasha asks, when the waitress is out of earshot.
“Soon dubu,” I say.
She watches me crack my egg into the soup and bury it under cubes of steaming tofu and shrimp and clams so it will cook. She does the same and doesn’t make a comment about whether it’s safe to eat.
“This is delicious,” she says, sipping a spoonful. She practically wiggles with pleasure.
“How come you call yourself Korean?” she asks after a few more sips. “Weren’t you born here?”
“Doesn’t matter. People always ask where I’m from. I used to say here, but then they ask where are you really from, and then I say Korea. Sometimes I say North Korea and that my parents and I escaped from a water dungeon filled with piranhas where Kim Jong-un was holding us prisoner.”
She doesn’t smile like I expect her to. She just asks me why I do that.
“Because it doesn’t matter what I say. People take one look at me and believe what they want.”
“That sucks,” she says, scooping up some kimchi and popping it into her mouth. I could watch her eat all day.
“I’m used to it. My parents think I’m not Korean enough. Everybody else thinks I’m not American enough.”
“That really sucks.” She moves on from the kimchi to bean sprouts. “I don’t think you should say you’re from Korea, though.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true. You’re from here.”
I love how simple this is for her. I love that her solution to everything is to tell the truth. I struggle with my identity and she tells me just to say what’s true.
“It’s not up to you to help other people fit you into a box,” she says.
“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.