by Annie Choi
My father’s youngest brother, the host of the party, approached me but stopped four feet away. He stared at me, his shiny black eyes looking me over slowly. I greeted and bowed to him. He didn’t even blink.
“Is that Annie? Our Annie. Look at our Annie,” he said to no one in particular.
“Happy New Year, Uncle.”
“How’s New York? Cold?”
“Yes. Very cold.”
“Snow?”
“Not yet, but it’s coming.”
“You look…”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m the same.”
I heard the voices of my cousins in the kitchen and I managed to escape the living room. I always thought Yoon-chong—the artistic one—was the coolest in the entire family. When we were growing up, she drew caricatures of our family members. Naturally, my favorite was the one of my mother, done in colored pencil. She is wearing one of her favorite black dresses and her chest, rear, and hips are exaggerated. One of her hands is placed at her waist, and the other is waving an index finger in the air, as if she’s scolding someone. Her mouth is opened extra-wide, with spit flying out, and her eyes are bulging red in anger. To this day, I’ve never shown the picture to my mother; Yoon-chong had made me promise. Yoon-chong’s little sister Yoonmi is a former classically trained dancer. When she talks, she sounds just like a little girl. Her voice always rises at the end of sentences, making her statements sound more like questions. She got married a few years ago and has a three-year-old daughter whose American name is Stella. She and her husband had wanted to name her Soma because they wanted a name associated with the heavens, but I quickly squashed that idea. “Soma,” I explained, “is a sleeping pill.” I suggested Stella instead. Woo-jay, the youngest in their family, is a mystery to me. We have very little in common, even though we’re three years apart. From what I understand, Woo-jay likes cars and girls and that’s pretty much it.
The kids sat in the kitchen, away from the adults, and entertained little Stella while we waited for dinner. She is adorable, with gigantic pigtails and a winning smile. Several relatives told me that Stella reminded them of me when I was her age. Like Stella, I was chatty and affectionate, and like Stella, I was spoiled. She is currently the only grandchild in the entire Choi family and for twenty-five years, I was the youngest. We both get a lot of attention.
When Tina arrived, I gave her a hug and she sat next to me, as she always does for New Year’s dinner. Over the gigantic Korean feast, my cousins and I stuck to idle chitchat, talking about the weather and our jobs at the most superficial level, often combining both Korean and English into sentences so the other person could understand. Each year, their English gets a little better, but my Korean stays the same. Tina stepped in with translations from time to time. My aunt passed me a plate of vegetarian wontons she prepared just for me. I thought of Mike and wondered if he’d eat vegetarian wontons. He doesn’t consider vegetables food.
My aunt poured everyone a few tablespoons of the finest kosher wine this side of the Dead Sea and we raised our glasses to the New Year. The hosts wished us all good luck, prosperity, and some other stuff I didn’t quite understand. I drained my glass and longed for more. From my spot in the kitchen, my eyes settled on my mother’s full wine glass on the dining room table. Then, something else caught my eye. I noticed my father slowly unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants. They were too tight and his belly was quickly filling up with Korean food. I nearly had a heart attack. I imagined a horrific scene where he stood up and his pants fell down to reveal his underwear with built-in ventilation, all at the dinner table. A preemptive strike was necessary. I walked over to him and stared at him hard. Then I stared at his pants. He was busted. He grinned sheepishly.
“Don’t even think about it. Keep your pants on,” I whispered.
During dinner my father had everyone gather around. I raised my eyebrows at my mother. She shrugged. She didn’t know. My father can be spontaneous.
“I have a riddle for everyone,” he announced.
Half the relatives groaned. The other half perked up at the challenge.
“There once was a man, and he wanted to go to the store. So he did. He went to the corner store. You know, the corner store? A little store? They have candy and chocolate. Cigarettes, stuff like that, not a lot of stuff. It’s not like a grocery store or a supermarket. Not like in America. This was in Seoul, near where we all—well, most of us—grew up. And there was another man in the store. He was behind the counter. An old man, sitting there, or maybe he was standing. And the first man he wanted to buy some cigarettes. Maybe some milk. Or juice. He was thirsty because he was working all day in the fields. He’s a farmer. The farmer wanted some cigarettes, maybe some Marlboros…”
I looked around and saw the faces of my relatives glaze over with a brutal combination of Korean food coma and the longest preamble to a riddle in modern history.
“…and the cigarettes cost…how much are cigarettes now, one thousand won?”
Woo-jay, the smoker, shook his head. “Two thousand won.”
“Wow, two thousand? I remember when they were cheaper. They were practically free and everyone smoked. People still smoke anyway, but two thousand won? That’s too much. Woo-jay, you should really stop smoking…”
“The riddle, get to the riddle,” someone said.
“So the man, the farmer, he wants a pack of cigarettes and some milk, or juice. Maybe some orange juice. Or some fruit, maybe some persimmons. The man behind the counter, he owns the store, he bought it from another man several years ago…”
Everyone was in agony. Yoon-chong and Stella lost interest and left the dining room. My father continued for what seemed like days telling the riddle. From what I could tell, it was more of a math problem than a riddle. Something about getting the correct change for the farmer’s purchases. I wasn’t clear on the details, and neither was anyone else. Yoonmi and her husband asked questions and at one point asked my father to repeat the whole story, to which my mother shook her head in fear.
“No, no, don’t make him tell it again!”
Discussion about the riddle heated up around the dining room table, and unable to keep up with the Korean, I lost interest. People talked and talked, and I listened passively. At the request of my father and an uncle, Woo-jay got out a pen and paper and started writing details down. Yoon-chong approached me, her eyes filled with pain.
“Please, please, make him stop. I’ll do anything. Please, this is horrible. Why is he still talking?” she asked in Korean.
“There’s nothing I can do,” I answered in English.
“But he’s your father. Can’t you turn him off?” She pretended to push a button on a remote.
“It’s not working, let me try.” I took the imaginary remote from her and banged on it to get the batteries to work. She laughed hysterically.
“Is there a mute button?” she wanted to know.
“I think we all can use a mute button.”
Yoon-chong nodded gravely. “You are very wise.” She bowed to me and I laughed. We listened to my father repeat the riddle. I caught my mother’s attention and pretended to fall asleep with my head tilting down to one side. She stifled a giggle and winked at me.
“My husband, please, is there a point?” she asked.
“Yes, there’s a point. It’s a riddle.”
“Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like a riddle.”
The discussion continued. Yoonmi and her father acted out the transactions between the storeowner and the farmer using dollar bills. I started fading. Tina punched me in the arm.
“Hey, you OK?”
“Coffee, “I gasped, “I need coffee. Badly.”
“We have to peel fruit first.”
For the millionth time that day, I groaned. Koreans end their meals with fruit, peeled fruit. Years ago, my mother told me that one sign that a Korean woman will make a good wife is how well she can peel fruit. The other signs include expert sewing and having a lo
ng second toe. ( People have also told me that long second toes are signs of aristocracy, prosperity, intelligence, good luck, laziness, and a short life span. I have very long second toes.) Tina brought over gigantic bowls of Asian pears, apples, and persimmons.
“Oh God, do we have to peel all of that?”
Yoon-chong held Stella on her lap and was excused from peeling. Tina began peeling and cutting the fruit in perfect little pieces. She peeled the skin off the apples in one long strip that curled around, which fascinated both Stella and myself. She handed me a knife.
“I can’t peel fruit. I suck at it. Honestly. Why don’t they just eat it with the peel? That’s where all the vitamins are anyway.”
Tina laughed and translated for Yoon-chong. My hands awkwardly maneuvered over an apple and by the time I finished peeling, it had turned brown. I was hopeless.
“Three hundred and sixty three won!” Woo-jay whooped and clapped his hands, “I got it!”
“Wrong!” my father cried.
Everyone groaned. Aunts began clearing plates and washing dishes. Eventually the riddle was resolved and Yoonmi came into the kitchen to help us peel fruit. She grinned triumphantly.
“I won ten dollars for getting it right.”
The kitchen was bustling with ladies, old and young, and the men moved into the living room to do what they do best—nothing. At least that is what their wives tell each other.
We brought fruit out to the living room where everyone gathered for the traditional bows. Every New Year’s Day, children bow to their elders and wish them good luck and prosperity. The elders dispense advice and then present cash. Sometimes, a lot of it, enough for a nice dinner and a night of irresponsible drinking.
“Now that we have a grandchild in the family,” my uncle announced, “we will not be giving out money.”
“WHAT?”
My jaw dropped. I’m not going to lie, I like money. I like what it can do for me. The kids had a good scam going—bowing for bucks.
“Why? I don’t see how a grandkid changes anything,” I protested in my shaky Korean, “if anything, we should get more money.”
My relatives laughed.
“Why would you get more money?” my mother asked me. Again, she was taking the wrong side.
“I don’t know, but really, we should get some money. It’s tradition.”
I looked around for support from my cousins. Yoon-chong grinned in approval. I motioned for her to help me out. She shook her head in fear. The cause would have to be my own.
“Everyone’s too old to get money,” my father retorted.
“What are you talking about? You’re never too old for money.”
Everyone laughed except my mother, who rolled her eyes. Her daughter, she thought, was being too sassy.
“Our little Annie is smart,” my uncle said, “but she will remain poor. No money, sorry.”
My cousins thanked me for my effort. I shrugged. I fought the good fight.
Normally, the kids bow with their siblings in front of each pair of adults. Since Tina and I were without our brothers, we decided to bow together. This only emphasized how clumsy my bow looked next to hers. In addition to being known as the one in New York and the youngest one, I’m also known as the worst bower.
“Annie, are your legs broken?”
“It’s like her legs just disappear. Pulverized completely.”
“Everything from the waist down just vanishes all the sudden and boom, she’s on the floor.”
“Is she bowing or falling? I don’t understand.”
This year’s advice to all the young girls was marriage. Yoonmi ruined the rest of us by getting married and having a kid. Every pair of adults kept asking us when we were going to get married. Yoon-chong, being in her thirties, simmered. She had to answer this question on a daily basis.
“When are you going to get married? When? How long must we wait?” my aunt wailed melodramatically.
“Right after I get a boyfriend,” Yoon-chong replied.
“When I meet the right person,” Tina replied.
“Never,” I said. “Not with you people in the family.”
“ANNE!”
“I’m joking, I’m joking.”
My aunts and uncles laughed and my mother apologized for my behavior. “I don’t know where she gets her mouth.”
Three-year-old Stella bowed gracefully in front of her grandparents. Everyone clapped for her and showered her with smooches and hugs and praise. She was so cute I wanted to stick her in my pocket.
“Annie, are you watching this? You should bow like Stella. Maybe she can teach you how,” my uncle chided.
“If you give me money, I’ll bow better.”
“ANNE!”
When Stella bowed in front of my parents, my father reached for his wallet.
“No, no, no, don’t give her money, she doesn’t understand it,” Yoonmi cried. She waved her arms to stop my father.
“We don’t want to teach her about money yet,” Yoonmi’s husband said respectfully. He has a deep voice that can fill any room. He explained that they wanted to wait until Stella could understand its value and danger.
My father brushed them aside and started sifting through his wallet. Yoonmi and her husband exchanged furtive glances.
“Dad, they don’t want you to give her money. So don’t. Stop.”
He counted out five one-dollar bills for Stella. I shot him the evil eye, which he ignored. She triumphantly held up the money, not knowing exactly what it was, other than the fact that it was good. Her parents remained stiff. The rest of the aunts and uncles followed in suit and doled out all their singles. Stella grabbed a fistful of dollars and squealed. My aunts and uncles asked what she wanted to buy and she started naming off dolls and toys. She wanted to go to Toys “R” Us immediately and buy everything. In under an hour, the adults unleashed the consumer inside Stella. Yoonmi threw up her hands.
“Sorry,” I whispered, “my dad started it all.”
Suddenly I smelled something glorious from the kitchen. A waft of heaven floated into my nostrils and I felt, for the first time that day, completely relaxed. Coffee. Regular coffee. Real coffee. Not instant. Not with vanilla or hazelnut or fudge or mint raspberry pumpkin spice. Just coffee. Simple, black, mine. My aunt poured me a cup, and I took a few euphoric sips, feeling caffeine slowly trickle through my veins. I stood next to the fireplace silently, with my eyes closed, enjoying a brief moment of bliss, just Juan Valdez and me. Yoon-chong’s hand on my elbow woke me up. She asked me to help prepare the yut board. I set my coffee down on the mantle.
The traditional Korean board game of yut is played on a homemade board. I think back in the day the board was drawn in the dirt. Every board is a little different, and the one at my uncle’s house is drawn with colorful marker on poster board. The spaces form a square and there are two diagonal lines that run across the middle to connect the four corners—a “shortcut.” The board looks like the one used in Sorry! Each player or team has three or four markers, and the goal is to get all the markers to the finish line, either by going around the board or cutting across the middle. Instead of dice to determine the number of spaces each marker can advance, yut uses four sticks. The sticks have Chinese characters on one side, but I don’t know what they mean. A player throws all four sticks into the air and the way they land determines the number of spaces a marker can move. If one stick lands face-down, the player can move one space. This is called do (pig). If two sticks land face-down, the player can move two spaces. This is called gae (dog). If three sticks land face-down, the player can move three spaces. This is called geol (chicken). If all the sticks land face-down, the player can move four spaces. This is called yut (cow). If all sticks land face-up, the player can move a marathon of five spaces. This is called mo (horse). Throwing a mo also allows the player to toss the sticks again. I think the animals are ranked according to speed. The horse is the fastest, so it gets the most spaces attributed to it. But I’ve always thoug
ht a dog was faster than a chicken, so maybe I’m wrong.
There are a few twists to the game. If a player’s marker lands on a space occupied by an opponent’s marker, the opponent has to start over from the beginning of the board, and the player gets to throw again, just like in Sorry! If a player’s marker lands on a space occupied by their own marker, the markers become connected and move as one piece. This is dangerous because if someone else lands on you, you’ll get screwed. On my uncle’s board, there’s a special space that allows the marker that lands on it to move directly to the finish line.
After I helped my cousin set up the board on the floor, I went back to the mantle to retrieve my coffee, only to find it was gone. My aunt had cleared my cup in the five minutes I was gone. She was fluttering around the dining room and living room furiously cleaning up after guests. I poured myself another cup, took a few sips, and set it down on the coffee table. The teams were divided by family and each paid five dollars to the pot. The winning family would receive fifteen dollars. I suggested mixing up the teams—I wanted to play with Tina or Stella, not with my mother. She’s a fiercely competitive person.
“You ready, Anne? You ready for win?”
My mother threw a few warm-up tosses with the sticks. I could see the aggression in her eyes; she was in it to win it. My father watched my mother and laughed. The men in the family, though technically playing the game, sat on the couches and chatted amongst themselves. The rest of us gathered on the floor around the yut board. Tina threw first for her team and got a mo. She advanced her marker five spaces and got to toss again—a terrific way to open the game. Her mother cheered a little too loudly.
“Tina’s going to win this for us! Right Tina?”
They high-fived enthusiastically and passed the sticks onto Yoon-chong’s family. Stella threw for her team first and got a geol, advancing their marker three spaces. Everyone cheered; this was her first yut game. The oldest aunt, the wife of my father’s oldest brother, tossed the sticks and advanced on the board quietly. All of her children were in Seoul, so she played alone with little fanfare. When the sticks came around to us, my mother looked at me intensely. The game had barely begun and she was already feverish.
