Happy Birthday or Whatever

by Annie Choi

  My grandmother refused to install indoor plumbing in her house even though she could afford it. She probably had the last three-bedroom house in Korea without modern conveniences. She preferred to urinate in an oversized brass teakettle; the way Koreans did in a bygone era. When I was younger, she would order me to empty it at inappropriate moments, for example, right before dessert. I think it was a test of obedience, which I always passed. I’d get up from the table and carry the kettle outside and dump it in the empty alley, which reeked like stale urine and hot trash. Then my grandmother would order my mother to pour me a glass of weak barley tea, which looks a lot like urine.

  The only thing more intolerable than my grandmother’s personality was her smell. Ever since I was little, a thick odor came from her mouth. It was as if her tongue were decomposing, and I imagined a mass of flesh-eating maggots in the back of her throat. Her gums were lined with a few brown nubs that posed as teeth but served no real purpose. Her wrinkled mouth always had mysterious crumbs in the corners, though there were no cookies or crackers in sight. Whenever I had to hug her, the stink overpowered me and I could smell it on my own clothes hours later. My grandmother’s smell hung heavily in the house, seeping into the furniture and rugs.

  When my mother and I walked into my grandmother’s house, the odor singed my nose; her stench was exactly as bad as I remembered it. Though I hadn’t seen my grandmother in a decade, she wasn’t exactly excited to see me, which didn’t surprise me, and I wasn’t exactly excited to see her, which didn’t surprise her. My mother and I greeted and bowed to her and she ordered us to sit down for lunch. I glanced at my mother nervously. My mother had reminded me that it was important to eat everything that was served, despite the putrid quality of my grandmother’s food—everything she cooked actually tasted like vomit. My mother and I had argued over this for an hour. I was vegetarian and didn’t want to eat anything with vertebrae, especially if my grandmother had touched it. I suggested going to a restaurant instead, but my mother explained that my grandmother rarely left the house anymore. She was in her eighties and her legs were weak. Wouldn’t it be a shame if she slipped and fell, I said, and my mother pinched me on the arm. She warned me to behave, and I explained that I always did. She rolled her eyes.

  We sat on the floor, hunched over a low table. My grandmother was our only relative who still ate this way—the rest of my family switched to kitchen tables with chairs. I looked at the “feast” my grandmother had prepared: a large bowl of rice; gray, overcooked bean sprouts; kim chee that I knew would be bland because it lacked the bright red spices; a bowl full of something chunky and greasy—turnips, maybe. A whole fried fish, whose gummy, cloudy eyes stared at me despondently. I felt another pair of eyes on me, too. My grandmother was scrutinizing my face. The two dark pebbles underneath her drooping, wrinkled eyelids moved over my forehead and my cheeks. I ducked her stare and looked at the fish again. How could I put that in my mouth? I had been vegetarian for nine years; I had forgotten what fish even tasted like.

  “Her skin is too dry. What is wrong with her? She should wear more make-up.” My grandmother liked to talk about people in the room as if they weren’t there.

  “I guess it’s the Seoul weather. It’s very windy and cold here.” My mother reached into her purse and handed me a jar of cream.

  “Yes, it’s the weather,” I echoed and smiled apologetically at my grandmother. I dabbed the lotion on my face, which I thought felt a little greasy.

  My grandmother’s eyes moved over to my mother’s face. “You’re wearing too much make-up. What are you trying to hide? Wrinkles? You can’t hide them forever.”

  “I’d like to try.” My mother forced a laugh. I did too.

  “Why is she so skinny?” My grandmother gripped her hands around my wrist. Her hands were surprisingly soft and warm. Apparently, the devil moisturizes.

  “She’s not so skinny. She’s fine.”

  “I don’t think you feed her enough. It’s your cooking.”

  “She has a great appetite.” My mother looked at me, glanced at my bowl, and looked at me again. I shoveled a spoonful of rice and some dingy bean sprouts into my mouth. The only bean sprouts I’ve ever liked are my mother’s. She is an amazing cook, and her dishes are the first to go during potlucks.

  “It’s very delicious. Thank you.” I picked up my napkin and wiped my mouth. Normally in front of other relatives, I would say more. But in front of my grandmother, my remedial Korean wrapped around my tongue and choked me. Or maybe that was the food. I studied my bowl of rice. How many bites would it take for me to finish?

  “What is she wearing? What is that?” My grandmother stared at me. I stared at my mother. My mother stared at my grandmother.

  “Pardon me? What do you mean?” My mother spoke for the both of us. She had asked me to wear something conservative, and I had. I wore a maroon sweater and a pair of black pants. She approved and even wore a similar outfit.

  “She shouldn’t wear so much black. Where is she going, to a funeral?”

  I poured my grandmother some tea, and without thinking, filled her cup to the top. This is considered impolite in Korea, and I knew it. I might as well have flung the tea in her face and smashed the cup against the wall.

  “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” I bowed my head and looked blankly at the cup.

  “This is very rude. Is this how they do it in America? Are all children this disrespectful?”

  “Please, I’m sorry.” I kept staring at her cup. Why was I such an idiot?

  My mother laughed nervously. “It’s OK Annie, it’s just an accident. The pitcher is too heavy for you. Why don’t you show Grandmother what you brought for her?”

  My mother had purchased a blue cashmere cardigan for my grandmother before we left for our trip. She shopped for days in order to find the perfect gift, and she had even paid full price. Since my grandmother was always cold, my mother thought the sweater would be appropriate. I presented the gift to my grandmother, using two hands and bowing my head.

  “What’s this?” She tore open the box, looked at the sweater, and threw it aside. “Probably made in China.”

  My mother blinked. “No, it’s made in Italy. It’s cashmere; it’s warm.”

  “It’s not real cashmere.”

  “Please, Annie would never give you a sweater that wasn’t cashmere.”

  I nodded my head in agreement. “If you don’t like it, Grandmother, I can buy a different one for you.”

  “Why would you buy another sweater that I won’t like? I like the sweaters that I have. I don’t need a new one.”

  “I’m sorry, this was my fault. I told Annie that you would like it.” My mother picked up the sweater and started folding it. I sat quietly and simmered. I hoped that when my grandmother finally arrived in hell, she would find indoor plumbing and new, unfamiliar furniture, including a very high kitchen table. I rubbed my lower back; sitting on the floor was giving me scoliosis.

  “Annie’s Korean is shameful. You didn’t teach her.”

  I shoved a spoonful of rice and turnips into my mouth to keep it busy. The self-righteous American fireball in me wanted to come to my mother’s defense; my patchy Korean was my own fault, and it wasn’t that bad—my listening comprehension was far more advanced than my speaking skills. But the obedient Korean girl in me knew to stand back silently. There was no point in arguing; it would only make things worse. I had a vision of my grandmother spontaneously bursting into flames and me coming to her rescue by emptying the brass kettle on her. My grandmother wouldn’t be hurt too badly, just covered in her own piss, her body smoldering. She’d be grateful that she was still alive and finally realize what a horrendous bitch she had been her entire life. She’d probably smell better, too.

  “Annie’s Korean has gotten a lot better. I’m sure by the end of this trip she’ll be writing books in Korean.”

  I tried not to laugh too hard.

  “What would she write about? What does she
know?”

  In 1984, my grandmother turned seventy, which is a milestone in Korea, like turning sweet sixteen or fifty in America. My father and his five siblings organized a traditional Korean feast and family reunion in Seoul in honor of my grandmother. At the time, I was a diminutive eight-year-old with oversized teeth and an unruly perm. My mother had convinced me to get one a few days before flying to Seoul—perms were the hottest trends in both America and Korea. Curls helped limp American hair look fuller and helped straight Korean hair look more American—assuming American hair looked like black cotton candy.

  “No, Anne, you hair so cute! You look like Shirley Temple!”

  “No I don’t, I look like Tina Turner!”

  “You so silly. Everybody like you hair. They tell me, ‘Oh you must be good mommy because you daughter so pretty.’ Even you grandma will like.”

  “No she won’t. Grandma doesn’t like anything.”

  “Anne! Why you say such rude?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  Though I feared her deathly smell and her slashing tongue, I still had to pay my respect to my grandmother when she turned seventy. After all, she was my grandmother. It was the right thing to do, but even my father seemed filled with dread—his jaw tightened and the veins in his neck bulged the entire week before we left for Seoul. He had helped plan his mother’s celebration, playing the part of the dutiful son, but from the look on his face I knew he wanted the party to be over before it even began. When I got older, I figured out that ever since my father had moved to the States, his relationship with his mother had been strained, and when he sponsored three other siblings and their families to immigrate, my grandmother never forgave him.

  Relatives and family friends—some I knew, most I did not—donned their best hanboks, Korean traditional clothing, and packed into a banquet hall. The women wore floor-length, puffy skirts and colorful short jackets with wide sleeves that taper at the wrists. The men wore baggy silk pants with vests and decorated long jackets. Unfamiliar, clammy hands pinched my cheeks, patted my bottom, and stroked my hair, only to get their watches and rings caught in the frizzy black mass that engulfed my head. I spent most of the evening at my mother’s side, smiling and nodding at distant relatives, trying to understand what they were saying to me. Even my mother had problems understanding some of them—a few guests spoke in thick country accents. I tugged at my curls, trying to straighten them, and tugged at the bright red skirt of my hanbok. The skirt, made out of stiff fabric, was too big for me and a good two inches dragged along the floor. The sleeves of the mint green and gold jacket were also two inches too long. The hanbok was a hand-me-down from a cousin and I needed another three years to grow into it. No one had passed down a pair of traditional white slippers, so I wore my Reeboks instead, and my feet were the only comfortable part of my body. My coarse, heavy petticoat irritated my legs. I reached underneath my skirt and furiously scratched them.

  “Anne, stop! Why you so itch?”

  “Because it’s itchy.”

  “Everybody else not itch. Everybody stand still. You make Grandma mad! Stop!”

  My grandmother, whose light blue, elegantly embroidered hanbok did little to soften her scowl, took her place at the long table in front of the crowded banquet hall. As everybody sat down to eat dinner, my mother led my brother and me to an empty dining room.

  “After dinner, all grandkid bow to Grandma. You bow like this.”

  Instead of bending at the waist, with the arms hanging straight at the sides—the bow we used to greet and thank people—my mother raised her arms above her head, slowly went down on her knees, and sat on the backs of her calves. She gently lowered her hands on the floor in front of her and bowed her head solemnly between them. Her forehead lightly touched the ground and she held this position silently for a few seconds. The voluptuous skirt of her pale pink hanbok spread around her magnificently. Then she rose effortlessly and clasped her hands lightly in front of her. She paused dramatically, her eyes gazing piously at the floor. She looked up at my brother and me, her painted lips forming a smile that framed her perfect, white teeth.

  “Remember? This bow we use for special day.”

  My brother and I had performed this bow several times before—it was the same bow we used during ceremonies to commemorate our dead relatives and the same bow we performed in front of our elders on New Year’s Day to wish them prosperity. But I had never executed the bow in a floor-length-plus-two-inches skirt with a cumbersome petticoat underneath.

  “OK, we practice now. Mike, you try.”

  Surprisingly, my brother completed his bow perfectly. Despite the generous layer of fat that insulated his middle and his stubby legs, he bowed rather gracefully, in one fluid motion. The pants of his gray and maroon hanbok offered more maneuverability than the stiff skirt of mine.

  “My only son look so good! I think Grandma like very much! OK, Anne, you try.”

  As I began kneeling, I tried to avoid stumbling over my skirt, but I lost my balance anyway and ended up slamming my rear down to the floor with my feet splayed in front of me. Hoping my mother wouldn’t notice, I swiftly lurched my chest forward and bowed my head. When I stood up, my skirt twisted around me, wringing tightly around my hips. My mother was mortified. She stared blankly at me, her mouth hanging open.

  “Oh my GOD. No, Anne, oh no, go slow. Like this.”

  She demonstrated the bow again, slowly, so I could take in her graceful, calculated movements.

  “Mom, that’s what I did.”

  “No, I not know what you did. You bow look…crazy. Try again.”

  I started to kneel again.

  “Don’t forget arm!”

  I raised my arms above my head and as I lowered down to the floor, my knees wobbled and I fell over on my side. My skirt flipped up to reveal my pasty, skinny legs. I heard my brother snicker. I flashed him the stink-eye.

  “Oh no, no. Why you always fall? Bow not hard. Everyone can bow. Even baby can bow. Very easy, you know? Maybe you think too hard.”

  My brother erupted in laughter.

  “Shut up, Mike!” I clenched my hands into menacing fists of destruction, but they probably looked more like cotton balls.

  “Anne, Mike, be nice!”

  “He’s the one not being nice. He’s making fun of me.”

  My brother mimicked my bow—flopping onto the floor like a beached whale and convulsing on his side.

  ”MOM, TELL HIM TO STOP!”

  “MIKE!”

  My brother looked up innocently. “What? I’m just bowing.”

  My mother pointed her finger to a chair. He gleefully sat down and watched eagerly.

  “Anne, practice more. Think like ballet.”

  “But we don’t kneel in ballet.”

  “No, no I mean you move very slow and very smooth. You see?”

  She demonstrated again and slowly talked me through the process—raise the arms, kneel slowly, touch the hands to the floor, bow forward, count to three, stand up. There were too many steps to remember for my eight-year-old brain.

  “Mom, why can’t I just bow the other way? I keep tripping. The skirt is too long.”

  “That not right. This special bow. You grandma turn seventy. Very important age in Korea, you understand? Everyone bow like this for you grandma.”

  Finally after ten minutes of bowing, I managed to perform a few bows without falling over. I kneeled slowly enough so that I could use my hands to move my skirt out of the way, a cheating tactic I hoped no one would notice. The skirt’s bulk made sitting back on my calves difficult, so instead I raised my rear in the air as I bowed my head forward. Again, a strategy I hoped would go undetected. The important part was that I didn’t fall. I had all the poise of an intoxicated rhino, but at least I didn’t stumble.

  “I’m hungry. I want to eat.”

  My mother looked nervous. Clearly, I needed to practice more. My bow was more of an insult than a sign of reverence. I could sense my mother’s reg
ret for not having me practice bowing in my hanbok earlier. She fidgeted with her rings.

  Though I didn’t realize it at the time, my mother was under a lot of scrutiny because my brother and I were the only children in the entire family who were born in America, the only children with American first names on their birth certificates. My mother wanted my brother and me to make good impressions on the relatives and family friends we were meeting for the first time. Above all, she wanted us to impress my grandmother. As far as I know, my father’s mother is the only person who has ever made my mother feel insecure. My mother wanted to prove that she raised well-behaved, Korean children in America. When we visited Seoul, my mother dressed my brother and me in our finest clothes, had us bear gifts for my grandmother, and coached us on flattering Korean phrases we could say to her (“You look so young” and “I love your house. It’s beautiful.”). Despite our best efforts, my grandmother remained cold and unimpressed. No matter how much my mother talked up my brother and me, we still couldn’t hide our faltering Korean. My grandmother didn’t care that we were both straight-A students at the top of our classes; we hadn’t read the great Korean scholars in the language we were meant to speak. We were not Koreans. We were Americans. Executing a perfect bow in front of my grandmother and all my relatives would prove that even though my brother and I weren’t completely fluent in the language, we were fluent in the culture. Of course, at eight years old, I didn’t understand all of this. I was hungry.