by Maurene Goo
I laughed. “Nothing like kimchi to spawn the child of the devil!”
It was Thanksgiving at the Kim household, and it was absolute mayhem, the weekly Kim dinner on steroids. All my extended family happened to live in Southern California, so holidays were extra jam-packed — everyone drove out from their various suburbs to land at the family of choice. This year, that family was ours.
The kitchen was filled to the brim with women — five at the stove, three to a tiny one-foot counter space, knives and cutting boards spread with a variety of meats and vegetables. I could barely tell one aunt from the next through the steam billowing from pots and pans. The men were outside in the backyard, lounging around with beers, halfheartedly attempting to help my dad grill.
My grandparents and some of the younger kids were in the family room, the older women talking over tea while the kids screeched and slammed toys into each other’s bodies. The majority of my older cousins were packed like sardines into the living room, some watching a football game on TV, others on their laptops or sitting around and chatting.
I walked into the kitchen holding a grocery bag. “I got the potatoes. Where should I put them?” Mandy and Danny’s mom quickly took them from my hands and started scrubbing them furiously in the sink. “You’re welcome!” I called to no one in particular.
“Holly, you kids should start setting the tables!” my mom said. She was sitting on the kitchen floor, grating turnips.
I corralled some cousins and we expanded the dining room table, inserting the extra leaves so that it doubled in size. Then we went to the garage and pulled out our folding tables and chairs.
“Ew, these are disgusting,” I said from one end of a table as my entire shirt got covered in dust and grime. On the other side, my cousin Danny blew on the table and even more dust flew into my face. I dropped the table and ran after him. “You’re dead!” I yelled as he bolted across the front lawn.
My mom was watching from the doorway. “Clean them before you bring them in!”
Ugh. I was filthy and my cousins were rolling in the grass in laughter. I babysat these brats for most of my life, and I had to show them I was still the boss. I grabbed the hose lying on the front lawn and started drenching everyone in sight.
Ann squealed and ran off to hide behind a bush. “Now YOU’RE dead!” Danny called as he nosedived behind a car in the driveway. I managed to spray him on the butt before he went out of sight.
I was wheezing from laughing so hard, and then felt cold water drench me from above. “Oh my GOD!” I yelped. Sputtering, I turned to see Mark and Mandy behind me holding a huge empty bucket, both of them soaking wet, too. Before I could exact my revenge, my mom’s voice pierced through the chaos.
“HOLLY HEE-YOUNG KIM!”
Everyone froze. I looked up to see my mom looking furious beyond words. She had busted out my full name. She was maaaaad.
“What is wrong with you? You’re one of the oldest kids here and THIS is the example you’re setting? GET INSIDE. NOW.”
Everyone shuffled inside, trying to keep a straight face. “Go inside now or clean up the table and chairs first?” I asked angrily, wiping water out of my eyes.
She looked torn — what was more important, cracking down on me or clean tables and chairs? Cleanliness won out in the end. “Clean them first!” she barked, and then went into the house, slamming the door behind her.
My cousins sheepishly came back outside to help me wipe down the furniture, and then we hauled it inside, where the uncles finally got off their butts to set it up for us.
I dried off in the bathroom, squeezing in between Mandy and Katie. “Pass me the blow-dryer!” I shouted over the noise. Katie handed it to me and we jostled for mirror space, giggling the entire time.
When we finally joined everyone for dinner, the tables were already set out — the kids’ table separate from the adults’, as always. Laid out on them was a delicious hybrid of traditional American Thanksgiving fare (minus the gross marshmallows that Americans like to put on top of their yams) and Korean food. Among the platters of turkey, stuffing, and cranberries were small dishes of kimchi, marinated ribs, and noodles with vegetables.
“Shall we say grace?” my cousin James said in a high-pitched voice, and the kids cracked up. Everyone had started digging into the food already. There was no saying of grace or any real discussion of what we were thankful for, but I think our thanks was evident enough as we dug into our food with gusto — happily chewing in silence. I looked around at my large family. They definitely annoyed the heck out of me but I couldn’t imagine a Thanksgiving without them.
* * *
Have I ever mentioned how disgusting my locker is? Every time I open it, I’m like, “Something needs to be done.” Seriously. There’s some sticky substance coating the entire top shelf, there are always crumbs getting into my books, and the dreamy picture I have of Joseph Gordon-Levitt is always falling onto the floor when I slam the door shut.
I was standing there contemplating hosing it down with bleach when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
Well, my goodness. There was Matthew.
“Hey, Holly.”
I smiled automatically. “Hey!”
He was holding up the latest issue of The Weasel Times. “Cool article.”
“Oh, thanks. So you liked it?”
He grinned and did that head-tilt thing again. “It was all right. If you like stories about awesome dudes.”
I rolled my eyes. “Nice.”
“No, but seriously. Um, thanks for the nice piece. I wasn’t really sure what to expect. You know, with your rep and all.”
Embarrassed, I pretended to rummage around in my locker for something. “Well, I just wrote the truth.”
He gave a slight smile and said, “Right, Holly K. See you around, then.” And with that, he was gone in the sea of kids — blond head bobbing higher than most.
Because of my flustered state, I didn’t notice that Liz, Carrie, and David were all standing a few feet away from me, slack-jawed. “Hey, guys.” I waved feebly at them and they slowly walked over to me.
“Are you like, FRIENDS with Matthew Reynolds now?” Liz gasped, her expression beyond incredulous.
Carrie shook her head so hard that her hair flew around her face and her beaded turquoise earrings jangled loudly. “No way!”
David just stood there looking at me oddly, his hands tucked into skinny jeans that were in danger of falling off his narrow hips.
“Calm down! Geez, you’d think I just hooked up with Stalin!”
Liz leaned against the row of lockers and made a face. “Well, we are talking about Matthew Reynolds here.”
A flash of irritation shot through me. “Okay, not like you guys know him. At all.” They all gave me weird looks again.
“What, is he cool now?” David asked sarcastically.
I glared at him. “Shut up.”
David flinched and I immediately felt terrible. “Sorry. Just don’t be a jerk about it, okay? He wasn’t as bad as I thought he’d be.”
Liz folded her arms and looked at me. “Yeah, I read the article. Just short of glowing.”
“Oh, please,” I said dismissively.
“And what was with the BFF action we just saw?” Carrie demanded. “You two looked like, all cozy.”
I almost blushed again. “The thing is, he really wasn’t that bad. He was kind of a gentleman. And I felt bad for him.”
“BAD? Why?!” David demanded.
I was about to tell them about the whole weirdness with his flaky parents and his responsibility for his sister. But oddly, at the last second I decided not to tell them. It was Matthew’s secret, his Achilles’ heel. Everyone else knew him as the Golden Boy whose life was perfect, and I didn’t want to be the one to expose him.
My friends looked at me expectantly. I shrugged. “He’s just not that dumb. I feel bad that everyone thinks he’s dumb.”
Liz raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight: You … feel ba
d … because he is unjustly labeled as dumb?”
“Well, yeah, that’s a fancy way of putting it,” I replied.
The bell rang just then. Carrie and Liz walked away together with their heads bent, whispering. David skated off, throwing one last strange look at me before disappearing from sight. I knew that my friends would continue to give me crap about Matthew — and that they probably didn’t really believe my explanation. But for the time being, his secret was safe with me.
Someone needs to get her facts straight about Thanksgiving. It’s not a fact that the Pilgrims gave the Indians smallpox. It’s never been proven — stop spreading your liberal propaganda!
— BRYCE K., JUNIOR
As suspected, Matthew Reynolds has everything handed to him on a silver platter. Where’s the feature on the students who actually do something for the world! Like, me. I’m a member of PETA and plant trees on weekends. Holly, you sold out!
— IAN G., SENIOR
SMALLPOX IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I’VE EVER SEEEEEEEEEEEEN!
— LOLA S., FRESHMAN
If I have to read another article about another cafeteria related anything I am going to kill myself.
— KATHERINE A., SOPHOMORE
For many of you, the holidays mean wonderful things: presents, vacations, skiing, family togetherness, Macaulay Culkin, and some kind of ham.
For many of us children of confused immigrants, it means an entirely different thing. Our parents journeyed to the Land of Opportunity to start new lives and to offer their children better futures than the ones to be had back in the Motherland.
But they forgot to learn a few things on the way over:
Allowance? Bah! Yeah, we don’t get these. My parents laughed in my face at the idea of giving me money every week for burritos and books.
Sleepovers? Yeah, right! Try telling my mom that it’s normal for a bunch of girls to get together at night, sleep on the floor, and summon ghosts with a Ouija board.
Santa Claus? Who the … My parents had no idea until it was too late (read: LAST YEAR) that Americans have this weird tradition of lying to their children about some fat guy who leaves gifts under a tree in the middle of the night.
So for me, the holidays have always meant massive amounts of friends and family visiting from Korea and a whole heap of Korean food. I’ve grown used to the fact that my parents have their own way of celebrating the holidays. I’ve maybe grown to like it or something. But knowing that my friends were going on snowboarding trips to Colorado and waking up on Christmas morning to Bing Crosby’s holiday hits and piping-hot gingerbread cookies in the oven, I’ve always kind of wondered what that would be like.
However, this year, my parents revealed a delightful surprise. We’re spending Christmas in … LAS VEGAS. That’s right, the Land of Confused Immigrants who do not understand that Thanksgiving and Christmas don’t necessarily correlate with gambling and outlet shopping.
Could there be anything more un-American and depressing? I envy you all.
Viva Las Holidays,
P.S. Sob.
I really love Christmas.
I love the smell of pine trees. I love twinkly lights. I love shopping at breakneck speeds. I love caroling. I love presents. I love Home Alone. For someone who is occasionally known as a cynical grump, I can be pretty darn cheerful around the holiday season.
Ann and I were in our gross dust-coated garage digging through boxes in search of our holiday decorations. (I have my suspicions that it’s not just dust, but asbestos. Guess we’ll find out in a few years when we all grow fins!)
Although my parents pretty much suck with the Christmas décor, they recently discovered the joys of putting up Christmas lights. We were in the middle of untangling them when I heard my mom calling for us.
“WHAT?” I yelled back.
Ann winced. “God, do you have to scream? And why can’t Mom just come outside? The whole neighborhood can probably hear her. It’s so embarrassing.”
Everything was embarrassing to my sister lately. I understood being eleven very well.
“WHAT, MOM?!” What’s the point of being older if not to torment those below us?
Ann huffed and glared at me.
“COME INSIDE! DON’T GET THE LIGHTS!”
“Ugh. Let me go see what she wants.” I dropped the lights and ran inside. My mom was in the kitchen writing something down on a piece of paper. She looked up when I came in.
“You and Ann don’t need to put the lights up this year.”
I put my hands on my hips, confused. “Huh? Why not? Is Dad going to do it?” I asked this with some dread. My dad had tried putting up the lights a few times, and each time it involved some sloppy draping between tree limbs and poles. Not only was it ugly, but I thought it posed a serious fire hazard. And my dad has already had a few run-ins with the fire department.
My mom kept her eyes on what she was writing, which looked suspiciously like doodling. “No. We’re going on vacation this year!”
Excitement coursed through me. “Really?! Where? New York?” I had pleaded for years to spend Christmas in New York. On TV the snowy trees in Central Park and ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center always looked magical. I couldn’t imagine how amazing they’d be in person.
“Nooo, not New York. You know, my friend, the rich one, in Korea?” Seriously, how many of my mom’s announcements have started this way? She continued, “Well, her family is visiting, and they thought it would be really fun to spend Christmas in, you know, Las Vegas.”
My mom sped up that last part. And for good reason.
“WHAT?” I asked. My mom ignored me studiously as she continued her doodling.
“Mother! No way! I am not going to Las Vegas for Christmas!”
She finally looked up at me with a warning look. “It’ll be fun, you’ll see. I don’t know what it is with you and Las Vegas anyway. Why don’t you like it?”
Oh, let me count the ways. Ever since I was a little kid, I’ve hated that city. Many Asian American kids from California grow to know it well, as they spend many misguided holidays there. Easter? Egg hunt at the Bellagio! Thanksgiving? The Caesars Palace buffet! Holidays gone terribly, terribly wrong.
If there was one thing my parents got right with the holidays, it was always spending them at home with our extended family. The one or two trips we took to Vegas when I was a child were memorably miserable ones. The heat destroyed me. I spent most of the days reclined lazily across the hotel bed, watching bad movies, two inches away from the air conditioner. And it was so freaking boring. You can do three things in Las Vegas if you’re under twenty-one: 1) Eat; 2) Shop; 3) Watch Legally Blonde on TV. Everything about the place depressed me. My mother knew this well.
Ann walked in with her usual scowl. “Why are you being so loud? And why aren’t we putting up the Christmas lights?”
I looked at her with a shred of hope. Maybe we could unite for once and overcome this obstacle together.
“Guess where we’re going for Christmas?” I asked dramatically. A blank, completely disinterested stare looked back at me. “Las Vegas.”
She looked at our mom for a second and optimism filled my heart. Then she shrugged and said, “Whatever. Can we see Cirque du Soleil there?”
How this beast person shared my blood was a mystery to me. Feeling utterly betrayed, I walked out without another word and hopped on my bike, headed for Carrie’s.
It was a cloudy day, and the air coming off the ocean was especially cold. I rode along Pacific Beach’s main thoroughfare, Garnet Avenue, passing all the shoppers, skaters, and hippies that usually crowd the street. I turned left onto Carrie’s street and tossed my bike onto her house’s front lawn. Her door was wide open as usual and I smelled some kind of nutty bread in the air. Her mom was always baking something with grains.
“Hi, Susan!” I said quickly as I breezed past their kitchen and up the stairs. Even though I’ve known Carrie and her family since I was five, it still felt strange to call he
r mom by her first name. If some fifteen-year-old kid tried to call my mom “Mi-Young,” I would not want to be within one mile of her.
I found Carrie in her room, a small pile of dusty things on the floor and her feet poking out from underneath her bed. I plopped down on top of it.
“What are you doing?”
Carrie stuck her head out to look at me. “Cleaning, what does it look like?”
“Did your parents actually make you clean this weekend?” I asked with surprise. Carrie had always been allowed to keep her room as messy as she wanted it. In fact, her parents were not allowed in her room without her permission. I couldn’t imagine what my parents’ reactions would be if I proposed something similar. Actually, I had a pretty good idea — they’d probably make me sleep in the hallway to teach me a lesson.
“Nah. I just started getting these weird bug bites and thought maybe I should vacuum or something.”
I gingerly scooted to the edge of her bed and looked at the bedspread carefully as Carrie stood up and dusted herself off. Gross, dude.
I spotted something colorful sitting on top of the dusty pile. “Hey! Is that the Kachina doll I made for you in fifth grade?!” I asked, excitedly picking up a clay statue wearing a tattered purple sarong and a feather headdress.
“Yup. Good ol’ Kachina the Kachina doll.”
I looked at her. “Are you kidding? You named her ‘Kachina’?”
Carrie shrugged as she grabbed a broom to start sweeping. “Seemed to fit at the time.”
“You were always such a creative child.”
“Oh, please. Who was the one who named their sex ed egg-baby ‘Eggster’?”
I laughed. “Oh, Eggster. Poor Eggster, such a tragic premature egg death.”
“I can’t believe David sat on her. I still think it was on purpose,” Carrie said, plopping down onto a purple beanbag chair after she tossed the broom aside. She was wearing short overalls and covered in dust, her hair in a sloppy ponytail. Only a select few can get away with wearing overalls and not looking like a four-year-old or a hillbilly. Carrie was one of those people. Although with her dusty strawberry-blond hair and bare feet, she was pulling off hillbilly pretty well.
