by Ellen Oh
“Me too, me too!” Junsoo begged.
They laughed and frolicked in the beauty of the flowers, their cares forgotten for the moment. Even Eunjoo smiled and sat in the fragrant soft grass to make a flower crown.
Jinjoo took out the last brown candy bar and shared it with her siblings. This time Eunjoo insisted she eat one too.
“I wish I knew what this candy was called,” Jinjoo said. “I’m afraid we won’t find it again.”
“I’m sure you will,” Eunjoo replied. “You are very stubborn. If you want something, you’ll get it.”
Jinjoo furrowed her eyebrows as she tried to sear into her memory the look and taste of the most delicious candy she’d ever eaten.
“One day I will eat you again,” she said out loud. “And I won’t have to share!”
She stood up to stretch, and then noticed the dark shapes of two people far off on the road. One of them was pushing a bicycle. Something about them seemed familiar to Jinjoo.
“Come on, let’s walk a little more before the sun sets completely.”
They went back onto the road, holding their brothers’ hands, and saw that now there were quite a lot of people who were walking in the fields and along the road. But Jinjoo’s eyes were fixed on the figures in the far distance. The orange-gold flowers waved slightly in the wind as the sun set to their left, casting the entire area in a golden haze.
“Eonni, doesn’t that look like our parents?” Jinjoo whispered as she gazed at the approaching forms. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was?”
Eunjoo squinted. “I don’t know. They are too far away. But do you really think they are?”
Jinjoo didn’t know, but something was making her heart beat faster. The stiff straight back of the thin male form and the way he held his head. The short height of the other person, who was just a little rounder. She couldn’t be sure, and yet everything in her body seemed to know. She began to rush forward, still holding Junsoo’s hand.
“Eomoni? Abeoji?”
Junsoo began to run also. “Eomma? Appa?” he repeated.
Up ahead the two figures suddenly became clear. They too began to run.
“Jinjoo! Eunjoo!”
“Eomma! Appa!” Jinjoo heard her sister scream as she ran past Jinjoo, holding Junha.
They were now all running toward each other. Their father dropped the bicycle and whisked Eunjoo and Junha into his embrace, while their mother fell to her knees and caught Junsoo. Everyone was crying; even people passing by had stopped and were moved by the reunion.
Jinjoo stood in front of her weeping family. She was so tired and yet so happy. She stood and cried. Tears of overwhelming exhaustion and fear mixed with the joy of seeing her parents. She couldn’t move until her father came and pulled her into his strong embrace.
“Jinjoo, how did you come to be here on this road?”
“Appa, I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”
“But you found us, my brave little girl. I don’t know how, but you did,” he said.
As she wept, she felt her mother come and embrace her also.
“Jinjoo-ya! Your eonni said it was because of you that we are meeting like this. I’m so proud of you!”
“Eomma!” Jinjoo sobbed.
“Don’t cry, my brave girl! We are all here together now!”
The sun had set by the time they all stopped crying. Appa led them to a quiet grassy area away from the flower field, where they could rest for the night. Eomma gave them all dried squid to eat, and they told their parents of their adventures until they were finally too tired and fell asleep in a large happy heap of bodies.
In the morning, their parents got on the bicycle, their mother wearing the podaegi with Junha strapped onto her back, Eunjoo sitting behind them holding Junsoo, and Jinjoo sitting in front of her father. They all hung on tightly as Appa pedaled his bicycle to take them as far away from the war as he could.
Book V
Junie
“THANK YOU FOR TELLING ME your story, Grandma.” I am now by my grandma’s side, hugging her tight. I’m crying and feeling the warm glow of satisfaction from a happy ending.
Grandma nods and wipes her eyes. “It’s been so long since I told anyone that story.”
“I still can’t believe you were able to find your parents like that!” I say. “It’s almost unbelievable. If you hadn’t insisted on taking the other road, you would have never met them.”
“It was a miracle, I know,” Grandma agrees. “I often think about how lucky we were. How we could have been killed, or kidnapped, or bombed. The war claimed so many innocent lives. Orphaned so many children. And yet we were able to stay together and find our parents. We were so fortunate.”
“If this was anybody but you, Grandma, I don’t know if I would believe it.”
Grandma laughs. “Many people have said that. But miracles happen all the time.”
“How far did Great-grandpa take you on the bike?”
“That bicycle got us as far as Suwon, where we found my gomo,” Grandma recalls. “And then we went by car to Kunsan, where my father worked for another watchmaker until he was able to open his own shop.”
Grandma shows me where Kunsan is on the map. It is almost directly south of Incheon and on the western shore.
“Did you ever go back to Incheon?”
“After the war, we went to find our house, which was still standing, although uninhabitable. I remember my mother and father digging up a hidden stash of valuables from our inner courtyard. My father used that to open his own store in Kunsan.”
“What was it like living there?”
“Very different from Incheon, but we liked it because it was safer. Away from the worst of the fighting.”
“Did you ever forgive Great-grandmother for abandoning you?”
“Of course,” Grandma says. “She was my mother. It was wartime. And I also think she was very young. She was only sixteen when she married my father. He was just twenty. She’d been the pampered daughter of a wealthy family, and then she’d married someone who could afford to take care of her and even hire a housemaid. She’d never had to take care of anyone but herself. Then the war came and she found herself alone, with no husband and four young children. I understand why she did what she did.”
I’m not sure if I understand. I think of my own mother, and I know without a doubt that she would never have done that. And as I look at my grandmother, I know that neither would she. I think she is reaching for a reason to forgive her mother. And that I can understand.
Since Grandma looks tired, I stop recording.
“I didn’t have enough time with Grandpa. I wish I had recorded more of his stories,” I say. “But I want to make sure I get all your stories, Grandma. Please?”
Grandma agrees. “It will be a good history lesson, maybe?”
“It will be our family history,” I reply. “So, can we do this every Friday?”
“Like you did with Grandpa?” she asks.
“Yes, just like Grandpa.”
She pauses and gazes at the big framed photo of Grandpa that now hangs on the living room wall. “Sure, let’s do it. Grandpa would have liked that.”
“He really would.”
That night I find myself sketching again. Grandma’s story fills my mind and I draw a field of orange flowers and a young girl carrying her little brother on her back. I can’t get over how brave my grandmother was. How at such a young age she crossed a war zone looking for her parents. I admire her so much and wonder what I would have done in the same situation. I try to imagine it, but I can’t. War is not something I can understand. And yet as I finish my sketch, I realize I have drawn a picture of myself in that field of flowers. Maybe, now, I can be more like my grandma.
BACK AT SCHOOL, IT’S GOOD to see my friends again. They all came to my grandfather’s funeral, but while I loved their warmth and sympathy, it also felt very surreal. I still catch myself thinking, Ah, Grandpa will love this, or Oh, I can’t wait to tell
Grandpa about this. And in those moments, the reality of him being gone cuts me so sharply, like a razor. It burns intensely and then dulls to an aching throb. But I think to myself, if it hurts this much for me, how bad must it be for Grandma?
She’s the one I need to be strong for. I promised Grandpa.
And in this weird way, thinking like this helps me with my own depression. Rachel tells me it’s a coping skill. Focusing on Grandma helps me not focus on my own pain. She says it’s a good thing for both me and Grandma. I think she’s right.
On my way to class, I bump into Esther Song.
“Hey, Junie,” she says. This surprises me.
“Hi,” I respond, and then just stare at her.
“Listen, I wanted to say I’m sorry about your grandfather,” she says. “My grandparents were friends of his from church. They said he was a wonderful man and they’ll miss him a lot.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I miss him a lot also.”
She pats me awkwardly on the shoulder, and then she leaves. I watch her and think to myself, Maybe there’s still hope for her.
During lunch, my friends start talking about the diversity assembly.
“Junie, it’s okay if you can’t finish the video,” Patrice says. “We all understand.”
“Actually, I finished it.”
My friends look surprised. “Working on it helped me,” I explain. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”
The next day I show the video to the group and Ms. Simon. The title screen reads What You Don’t Know About Racism.
When it’s done, they all begin to clap. Patrice gets up and gives me a bear hug.
“Junie, you did it! It’s so freaking good!”
“You should be a film director! It’s excellent!”
“I love the background music!”
Ms. Simon pats me on the back. “That was very well done, Junie! It is going to be perfect for the diversity assembly. It really shows people all the big and small ways racism can happen, and how hurtful they can be. I’m forty years old, and I learned so much from your video. Thank you for that.”
I’m embarrassed and yet really happy from all their praise. All those long hours have paid off. They like my video. I can’t wait to show it to my grandpa. My heart spasms. For a moment, I forgot that Grandpa was gone.
“Should we do the video before our speech or after?” Patrice asks.
“I think it should be first,” Hena answers.
The others all agree.
“Junie, will you still introduce the video?”
I talked to Rachel about this. I asked her if I was a coward for not wanting to speak in front of the entire assembly. She told me whatever I decided was absolutely fine.
“Junie, it’s okay to say no,” Rachel told me. “It’s okay not to do something that you will find burdensome. You don’t have to push yourself into the spotlight to know your worth. You can shine from wherever you stand.”
“But will Patrice be disappointed?” I worried.
Rachel shook her head. “I bet anything she will understand.”
Now I take a deep breath. “What if we start the assembly by just playing the video as the introduction, and then you guys can speak?” I ask.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Hena says. “The video pretty much starts with all of us anyway.”
Patrice nods. “I think the video speaks for itself. It’ll be perfect.”
Patrice leans forward and gives me a high five, and I am both relieved and content.
As the day of the diversity assembly draws near, I can see how nervous my friends are. We’ve been invited to go onstage to be introduced before the professional speaker. But only Patrice and Hena will speak, so I’m not nervous at all. However, the bigger problem is that someone is still scribbling racist messages on our flyers. And as Patrice and I walk into the cafeteria, Lila and Marisol come rushing over with a Diverse Voices club flyer.
“Look at this handwriting,” Lila says as she shows it to us. “It’s the same person as before.”
We all look at it and agree. “Yeah, it’s definitely the same person,” Patrice says. “I wish we’d seen the graffiti to compare this to.”
“Wouldn’t the police have taken photos?” I say loudly. We happen to be walking by the popular table, and I catch Stu’s eye. “I bet they can do a handwriting analysis.”
He smirks at me and reaches over to snatch the flyer out of Lila’s hands.
“Oh, how scary these words are,” he mocks. His entourage laughs.
Patrice gets in his face and grabs the flyer away. “Don’t start with me, Stu, I’m not in the mood for your nonsense.”
“What’re you gonna do, Patrice?” Stu smirks. “Cry about it at your stupid club meeting?”
I can see everyone in the cafeteria is starting to pay attention to their heated argument, and any minute now, the teachers will come over. But I’m not paying attention to them. I can’t help but notice how upset Esther Song looks. I saw her face when she looked at the flyer, and I know she saw what it said. She sees me staring and looks away.
The teachers have come now and are dispersing everyone. My friends drag me along to our table, but I keep glancing over at Esther.
When the bell rings, I tell the others I have to do something, and I follow Esther out. She’s alone and not with the Stu crew. The hallway is crowded, but I follow her into the stairwell and then I tap her arm.
“Esther,” I say as I stop her.
She jumps in alarm. “What do you want?”
She is not very friendly.
“Why do you stay friends with them?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“They make racist comments all the time. They hate people like you and me. Why do you put up with it?”
“They may hate you, but they don’t hate me,” she says with a wave of her hand.
I’m shaking my head. “I don’t think so,” I say. “They say hateful stuff about Asians all the time. I’ve actually heard them make comments about Koreans eating dog in front of you. Why do you let them do that?”
“They’re just joking,” she says defensively.
“It’s not funny. It’s hurtful. You know that.”
“You don’t understand . . .”
“I think I do.” I want to get through to her. “I know you’ve been friends with that group for a long time. But they don’t treat you right.”
“Just leave me alone!” She pulls away from me and starts to head up the stairs.
“You’re Korean, too, Esther. You can’t change that.”
“Shut up!”
I ignore the looks from passing students and run to class.
ON THE DAY OF THE diversity assembly, my friends and I meet up early at school. Everyone is dressed really nicely, but I’m in my regular school clothes. I decided that I didn’t want to be introduced onstage, and they all understood.
At the assembly, I sit up front with my friends as the principal starts it off and then introduces the video as a Diverse Voices production. The auditorium darkens, and the video plays. On-screen, it reads “What it’s like being a student of color at Livingston Middle School.”
Then the video opens on Patrice, who says, “A microaggression is when someone says or does something that they might not even know is racist or sexist, but it is.”
It then cuts to a series of students mentioning a microaggression.
An Asian student who says, “Where are you from?”
A Black student who says, “No, you cannot touch my hair.”
A Latino student who says, “Yes, I speak English.”
Another Asian student who says, “But where are you really from?”
Then Lila and Marisol show up on the screen together.
“I’m Lila, not Marisol,” Lila says.
“And I’m Marisol, not Lila,” Marisol responds.
“Stop confusing us,” they both say. “And not all Latinas are from Mexico.”
“You do realize that
South America is actually a continent, right?” Lila asks.
“And I’m Cuban,” Marisol continues. “So stop being so ignorant.”
All the Latinx students in the auditorium let out a big cheer.
Patrice is back on-screen, talking about how racism causes anxiety, depression, and even physical ailments. Several Black students speak honestly on how demoralizing racism is, not just from students, but from teachers and administrators too. Hena is now on-screen sharing a story about being called a terrorist and explaining just how horrifying it is whenever anyone uses the word to describe Muslims. And then a few Asian students recount their experiences being asked if they understand English.
I’m proud of myself. I think I did a great job editing, but I tense up, knowing that my part is coming up. Toward the end of the video, I show up on-screen.
“Some of you might be watching and think that since you aren’t a racist, this doesn’t apply to you. But you’re wrong. Every day in this school, a racist remark, a racist joke, a racist incident happens. The question is, what did you do about it at that moment? I admit that I’m one of the people who is usually silent when racism happens to me. Because I’m afraid. But my grandfather told me that silence can be a weapon. When we are silent in the face of racism, we give racism the power to continue to hurt Black people and people of color. Only by speaking up against racism can we take away that power. Our voice becomes a shield, just as our silence has always been a weapon. So I’m not going to be silent anymore. I’m going to speak up and be part of the solution, no matter how hard it might be.”
The next screen is a series of students saying, “Don’t be a bystander. Speak up against racism.”
