by Ellen Oh
I bite my lower lip and nod.
“Oh, Junie, I’m so sorry.” Amy comes over to sit next to me and give me a hug.
I glance at Patrice, who is also glancing at me, and then we both look away. It feels so awkward. I decide I’m just going to apologize at the count of five. I breathe loudly and count to five, and then I say, “Patrice, I’m so sorry!” At the same time Patrice says, “Junie, I’m so sorry I was mean to you!”
We both stop short in surprise, and then we start to laugh. It feels so good I almost want to cry. When Patrice comes over to hug me, I end up bursting into tears.
“Junie, please don’t cry. I’m sorry!”
“No, I’m sorry, Patrice! I was such a jerk!”
“No, I was!”
Amy throws her arms around both of us.
“I love you two jerks!”
Which makes us both laugh. It is the best feeling in the world to know that your best friends still love you, no matter what.
“Junie, I’m so sorry that I was only thinking about what I was feeling and how angry I was, and I didn’t even see that you were hurting. I was such a bad friend.”
“No, you’re not,” I protest. “I should have been a better friend also. But I was only thinking about myself.”
“Junie, we’re your friends,” Patrice says in a serious voice. “If you are hurting or having problems, you have to tell us. That’s what friends do.”
Amy nods emphatically. “We’re here for you. Don’t shut us out.”
Had I done that? Shut them out? I hadn’t told them anything about my suffering. Not all last year. Not how I felt about being the only one without a cell phone. Not anything about how sad I was that they texted without me.
All the things I’d been dealing with. They were bubbling inside me. But I didn’t share any of my feelings. I did what I always do. Chama. I suffered by myself. I made it my problem alone. Sometimes to Chama is a good thing. It is about inner strength and resilience. To endure. But if I always endure everything on my own, how can anyone know what I’m going through? My friends aren’t mind readers, but I expected them to know how I felt. I shut them out and then was disappointed by their actions.
“I’m the worst,” I proclaim.
They squeeze me tighter. “No, you’re not. You’re just not much of a sharer,” Amy says.
Patrice nods and releases me but keeps a tight grip on my hand.
“Junie, you’ve never been one to complain or talk about your problems. We’ve always had to force it out of you,” she says. “We should’ve known something was up and pushed you to tell us. So that’s why we’re here. We want to know everything. Talk.”
Tears threaten to spill out again, but I blink them away and nod. It’s time to be honest from now on.
The front door slams shut and Justin walks into the living room shouting for food. He stops short when he sees us, giving us the strangest look.
“What are you three weirdos doing?”
“Shut up, Justin,” I say, a little embarrassed, as I push out of my friends’ embrace.
Patrice and Amy sit up and giggle hello.
Justin gives them a small wave and heads to the bathroom.
“Junie, your brother seriously glowed up!” Patrice says in admiration.
“Wow, he got so hot,” Amy agrees.
I give both my friends a look of horror. “Ew, gross. Do you want me to vomit?”
Patrice and Amy start laughing, and I can’t help joining them. It feels good to laugh with them again.
MY MOM DROPS ME OFF at school on Monday. She and dad are going to take turns for drop-off and pickup. They don’t plan on making me take the bus. I’m so relieved, but guilt eats at me. My mom sees my face and pulls me into a big hug.
“I know what you’re thinking. You think you are imposing on us and you feel guilty.” She gives me a knowing look. “But you don’t have to feel guilty at all. You are our top priority. And if work interferes, we will ask Grandma to pick you up. So don’t worry. It’s all going to work out, okay?”
I nod. I still feel guilty, but I’m going to let my relief override it. At first I thought Justin had ratted me out. But when I confront him, he is offended.
“Yo, that’s not my style,” he says. And I know it’s true.
“Besides, if Mom knew about Tobias bullying you, the whole school would know about it too. Like, it would be all over the internet.”
This is true also. And why I never told her. Mom would raise a massive stink, and I would never be able to show my face in public again.
“But Junie, if he ever touches you again, you’d better tell Mom or I will, understand?”
I nod. My brother is fairly laid-back until he’s not. And then he’s absolutely scary.
Fortunately, he’s on my side. And I don’t feel guilty about the rides anymore when I discover that Justin has managed to worm his way into the morning car schedule. Which means I have to get up extra early, since his school starts thirty minutes before mine. When I complain about it, he tells me to shut it.
“I need that twenty minutes of extra sleep.”
Ugh. Meanwhile, I have to wake up thirty minutes earlier. But I decide not to complain, because anything is better than riding the bus.
Mom drops me off early and I head to the gym to wait for my friends. We spent all Sunday planning. And now that I’ve accepted the phone my parents got me, I’m on the group text chat, which I’m still not used to.
I walk into the gym and sit in our regular spot. I’m the first one again, but I don’t mind. I can see where they painted over the walls and equipment. A part of me wishes I had seen the graffiti. Sometimes seeing something makes it more real than just hearing about it. But why do I need to see what I’ve actually experienced?
Patrice and Amy arrive together, soon followed by the others. We immediately discuss our plan. To produce videos about the lives of students of color and to explain what racism feels like. We’re also going to create a club, specifically to create a safe space for Black students and other students of color to share experiences. Patrice already approached our English teacher, Ms. Simon, who enthusiastically supported the idea.
“Is it okay if I shoot and edit the videos?” I ask. “My dad let me borrow his laptop and I love the video editing program on it.”
“Cool!” Patrice says. “Amy and I will write out the scripts, and Hena, Lila, and Marisol will help get all the other students for the interviews.”
As we walk through everyone’s duties, I can feel my anxiety sneaking up on me again. Why am I doing this? What if I mess it up? What if all this work ends up being for nothing?
I pinch my leg hard enough to make my eyes water. This is all worth doing, I tell myself internally. No matter what happens, I’m in this together with my friends. Even though I can feel my rapid heartbeat at the base of my throat, I ignore it and focus my attention on the conversation.
After school, we all head over to Patrice’s house, where we are holding a planning session. Her mom, Mrs. Thompson, is a vice principal at a nearby high school, but not the one we will go to. Patrice is deeply grateful for that. She says going to high school where her mom works would cramp her love life. Hena’s always like, What love life? Which is pretty funny because while lots of boys like Patrice, she’s the queen of no.
While we are talking, Mrs. Thompson arrives home with two boxes of Krispy Kreme donuts and milk for us, and we sit around the kitchen table as Patrice tells us her new idea.
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Patrice announces, and we all bust out in giggles at once.
“Yeah, okay, so I have a lot of thoughts,” she says with a rueful smile. “So, the whole safe-space idea is great, but to be honest I think it’s more important to educate everyone else.”
Everyone is nodding, including me. “But how would we do that?” Amy asks.
“What if we have a school-wide discussion on diversity? We could show our videos and discuss issues like racism, sexism, and h
omophobia related to current events, like the Black Lives Matter movement or celebrating Pride.”
“Will the school let us do something like that?”
“If we can convince Ms. Simon, she can convince the administration.”
“But it’s going to depend on how good our videos are,” Patrice says.
I bite my lip. I need to say what I want, carefully. “I think it’s great to have the video be like the discussion point for the program,” I say slowly. “And I’m sure we can make it great! What we need is really good, powerful messaging. To me, a message I would like to see is not to be a bystander. To speak up! Speak up and say something when someone is being racist or sexist or some other kind of terrible -ist, if you know what I mean.”
Everyone agrees, and for the next hour we talk and debate the wording of the script. We end up with a lot of good talking points, which Patrice and Amy plan to write up, and Hena will edit.
“So when’s our deadline?” Lila asks.
“Yeah, when do we need to get everyone for the interviews?”
Please not too soon, I think to myself.
“Let’s make a timeline and put it in a calendar,” Hena says. She whips out a clean piece of paper and starts setting out tasks.
“We have to write the script, invite people to be on the video, interview and film them, edit the videos, and prepare for the school event. Hmmm, how about the beginning of November?”
I’m relieved, but Patrice looks unhappy. “I was hoping for earlier.”
“I think it’s better for us to do a good job rather than rush this,” Hena says. “We want to open people’s eyes and maybe even change their thinking.”
Patrice reluctantly agrees.
By the time my mom comes to pick me up, Hena has given all of us deadlines and specific assignments and I’m so impressed by my friends that I forget to worry about how I’ll do.
In the car my mom asks, “How was your day, Junie?”
“Great!” I say, and I mean it. Between the project with my friends, the oral history assignment, and my regular work, I’m going to be extremely busy for the next few months. I’m looking forward to seeing Rachel and telling her about the positive changes I’m making in my life.
AFTER SCHOOL ON THURSDAYS, I go to see Rachel at her office. I spend all my time enthusiastically telling her about my dual projects. She asks me how I feel during the discussions with my friends. I tell her honestly that when I start to feel negative, anxious, or overwhelmed, I focus on how much I like just being with my friends. She tells me she is proud of me and that I’m already using good mindfulness skills. We go through my journal and discuss my emotional highs and lows each day. Not every day is a success. I still have bad moments. I still struggle. I still hear the voice that tells me I’m worthless, that nobody likes me. But not as often. Not as loud. And she tells me that’s okay. I will not get better all of a sudden. But I’m on the right path.
I let my mom know what we said after every session, and I can see that she is happier. But the worry is still there in her eyes. I know it will take some time for her too.
On Fridays, Grandma comes to pick me up, and Grandpa is usually in the car with her. The first thing they ask me is if I’m hungry.
It’s funny because I’m usually not until they ask me, and then I’m ravenous.
At their house, Grandma starts cooking right away, but as soon as she sets the table, she gets a call from a client and has to leave.
I look at Grandpa with a pitying look, but he only smiles at me.
“Lucky for me you’re here to keep me company and help me eat all this good food,” he says.
Grandma has set another feast. Grilled mackerel, purple rice, spicy bean-sprout soup, and lots and lots of delicious side dishes. I don’t know how she does it. Grandma works a very busy job and still cooks amazing meals. Meanwhile, my mom thinks putting an egg in instant ramen is gourmet cooking.
“Wow, Grandma is the best cook,” I say, devouring a huge scoop of rice and soup. “But Grandpa, what happened to Mom? How come she can’t cook?”
Grandpa is shaking his head. “Your mom can’t even make rice,” he says flatly. “I don’t know what went wrong. We both taught her over and over again, but she always messes up rice. If you can’t make rice, you can’t cook.”
That’s true. Korean food has to have perfect rice: not too dry, not too wet. If I didn’t know better, I would assume my mom messes up the rice so she can get out of cooking.
While we are eating, I ask Grandpa if he will be my interview subject for a school project.
“What would I talk about?”
I tell him what the project is about, and he is silent for a very long moment. I know not to interrupt him when he’s thinking.
“I don’t think I can talk about Gunwoo and Sunjin again,” he says. “But what if I tell you about meeting your grandma and moving to the US?”
I perk up. I’ve never heard their story before.
“Grandma always says you guys were an arranged marriage,” I say. “I’ve always wondered about that. It doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“That’s what you think, but it’s quite a romantic story.” His eyes twinkle at me. I’ve always read about eyes twinkling and I remember my friends laughing and saying eyes can’t really twinkle. But I swear my grandpa’s eyes do! His entire face crinkles when he smiles, and his dark brown eyes are little star-filled night skies.
“Wow! Really? Can we start now?” I jump to my feet to go grab my phone out of my bag. I’ve been playing with the camera app and it’s pretty good.
“Let’s finish eating first. I’m still hungry.”
I sit again and wolf down my food. I’m excited to start my project.
As soon as Grandpa finishes his last bite, I quickly clear the dishes, wash the plates, and run to set up my phone with the little tripod my dad bought for me. Grandpa is relaxed in his armchair. I center him in my video.
“Grandpa, you look so cute!”
“Cute?” he growls at me. “I’m not cute, I’m handsome.”
“Yes, very handsome and cute.” I chuckle. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
“I’m always ready!” he grouses good-naturedly.
I hit record.
“Okay, Grandpa, will you please introduce yourself and tell us your year of birth, and where you were born? Then tell us an important event from your life.”
“My name is Han Doha. That is the proper way to say my name in Korea, which is where I’m from. We say the last name first. I was born in Seosan, South Korea, in the year 1938.”
He pauses. “What’s the question I’m supposed to answer?”
Stifling my giggle, I say, “Tell us about an important event from your life.”
“Ah!” He nods and then clears his throat. “Did I ever tell you how I met your grandma?”
“No, you didn’t. Grandma told me that it was an arranged marriage. Wasn’t it strange marrying someone you didn’t know?”
Grandpa grins mischievously. “She wasn’t a stranger to me,” he says. “We’d met once before; she just never remembers.”
I can tell this will be a great story. “Where did you meet her?”
“I was studying at Korea University in Seoul when my friend suggested we go down to Ewha, to see the pretty girls.”
“Ew, Grandpa! I can’t believe you were checking out girls!”
He laughs. “What, I was young once!”
“What’s Ewha?”
“It is an all-women’s college, and one of the best in Korea. I remember the first time I saw her. I thought she was so pretty, especially when she turned her nose up at my friend.”
“She did?”
“Yeah, turned her nose in the air and pretended like he wasn’t even there. He was quite insulted, but I was enchanted.”
“Did she talk to you instead?”
Grandpa shakes his head. “I didn’t even try. We’d just been introduced to her by one of her friends, but I c
ould tell she had no interest in talking to any of us. If she were here, she’d tell you she had no time for silly boys!”
“She still says that!” We both laugh. Grandma is always telling me never to worry about boys and to spend my time worrying about myself instead. She always tells me, Let the boys worry about you; you don’t have to worry about them! But if my mom is around, she always corrects Grandma and says that they will be happy with whomever I end up dating. Which is a cool way of telling me that my family would be supportive no matter who I might love later in life. And Grandma will just nod and smile. My uncle Paul is gay, and they’ve always been accepting of him and his partner, Simon. Except that Grandma still holds a grudge against Simon for making Uncle Paul move all the way to Seattle.
“Your grandma liked studying more than dating,” he says proudly.
“So how did you get her attention?”
“I never did. I saw her a few more times. There was always some boy trying to impress her and failing miserably. So when I decided she was the one for me, I told my parents to hire a matchmaker and approach your grandma’s parents with a marriage offer.”
“Oh, how romantic,” I say sarcastically.
Grandpa laughs. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“So, what happened next?”
“Well, the matchmaker told us that your grandma had rejected many offers already, to her parents’ deep frustration,” Grandpa continues. “And she didn’t have very high hopes for me. I was a country boy and my father a doctor with a small, rural medical clinic. How could I compete with the son of some wealthy banking family?”
“Then how’d she pick you?” I’m so invested in his story that I forget about the recording and almost knock my phone over.
Grandpa tilts his head as he thinks. “You know, she never told me why she agreed to meet with me.”
“So you went on some dates?”
“We had a couple of meetings, the first with the family and then once alone,” he says. “I’ll never forget our first time alone. I took her to see the cherry blossoms, and as we sat on a bench, the petals rained down on our heads. She would catch them in her hand and laugh with such happiness. I thought my heart would explode with how full it felt.”
