by Diane Farr
Seung can think of one that has something to do with me giving gifts to his family and him bowing to mine. Then there are other bows to him and at some point he also has to carry me on his back. For the ceremony, there has to be tea and there has to be fruit. Then he thinks there are some other cakes and offerings present, specific foods that are made only for a wedding. Oh, and his relatives get to tell me what to do and I have to put my head to the floor before them.
Stop! So in the middle of our actual wedding ceremony—the one we’re planning for midway up Mammoth Mountain that’s supposed to last only thirty minutes—I have to do a wardrobe change and then serve food and tea and fully prostrate myself? And, oh wait, at some point my future in-laws throw food at me and I have to catch it. With my mouth? Like a dog?
Is there a hidden camera in this car? ’Cause this is a joke, right?
From what I am learning now, there is no video rolling on me and I am actually supposed to catch the food with my dress, not my mouth. Which doesn’t sound all that much less degrading.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I’m just gonna let this lie for a minute because there will be cousins at this dinner who are fun and cool guys—and we’re almost there. I will save all of my questions about this until dinner—especially since I have a feeling that Seung has only a minor grasp on this event I’m to star in, which has no script yet.
ONCE WE GET TO THE restaurant and to our private room, I can’t help but laugh out loud. The Khun Ama (wife of the older brother of Seung’s father, who lives locally) is in charge of this shindig and has set up a kids’ table for Seung and his cousins. No one at the kids’ table is under age twenty-eight, but still we are off in Siberia. For a brief moment I wonder if this table was set up to keep me away so the family could talk freely, but then I remember that the elders speak to each other in Korean whether I’m present or not. So the banishment can’t have anything to do with me.
The super-fancy daughters of the visiting aunt and uncle are home in Korea with their families, so it’s just me and the male cousins tonight. And I must say, for all my misgivings about the Chung aunts, their kids are kind, polite, and fun to hang out with, and they dote on one another the way you imagine cousins should. No matter what fault I find in Seung’s relatives, there is no getting around the A+ they deserve on the outcome of their children. Children who are currently treating me like the princess bride.
All of the boys are so excited for Seung’s wedding. When I begin probing for details on Korean weddings, I’m shocked that none of them knows a single thing. They are all unmarried males, yes, but not a single one of them can remember a single thing from any of the Korean weddings they’ve ever attended. When I ask them how this can be, the answer is that no one under age fifty has ever been to a Korean wedding.
So I’m required to plan and participate in a cultural milestone that your family never even included all of you in?
I want to ask this but I know the answer is yes and I know why. Because it’s one thing for two Korean or Korean American people not to have a traditional Korean wedding, but it’s much more important for Seung to participate in a Korean wedding now, since he is not marrying a Korean. And in truth, I kind of agree with this. This ceremony is an indication that we plan to include his family’s culture in our family. So rather than ask any more questions of “the kids,” I turn my head to the “grown-up” table, because these people are the other reason I am going to do this ceremony. Truth be told, I’m not really sure what the hell it is I’m wanting to do as a promise for my future and a statement to them. And whatever it is, I certainly don’t want to do it wrong, because this table full of people before me—they will judge. They may even heckle me on the day if I get anything wrong. Really, they might.
These elders have all the information I need, but how will I get it from them? If I just flat-out ask, it would be like my saying, “Could you just give me a quick hit list of your wedding ceremony so Seung and I can do a dog-and-pony show at an otherwise American event and then get on with our very American life?”
Maybe not. Let me follow in the footsteps of Jennifer and not take my own insecurities and project them onto others. Instead, like her, I should give these family members the benefit of the doubt and see what comes. Because why would they, who have a vested interest in Seung’s life, want to shoot me down when I’m trying to make an homage to their traditions? I’m about to take a big breath in, sit up straighter, and muster up the courage to address the aunt closest to me, when suddenly one of the uncles calls out my name.
Hearing him call me in his very strict tone immediately takes me to a flashback of Catholic school. My eyes widen in fear as I look to this man, who is the husband of the aunt who jabbed me about my parents’ failed marriage. While waiting for his command, I realize this is the first time I’ve ever seen him in person. He is the Khun Apa (older brother of Seung’s father), who lives in Asia most of the year, making as much money as possible for his family (from the rules we reviewed earlier). As does my future father-in-law in Korea, and so many of this generation. The room goes silent because an elder is about to speak to a wee one. I have to pinch my leg to snap myself out of my fear. The 1970s are over and no one is going to hit me with a ruler! I’m a grown woman and these people are not my parents. They are not even Seung’s parents. What is this white-haired man going to do to me with his words across a crowded restaurant that could really harm me, anyway?
But the guest of honor, Seung’s visiting aunt, has just cut Khun Apa off. The visiting aunt is saying in perfect, cordial English: “Diane, we saw you in a magazine on the plane on the way here.”
Holy God, have I done any half-naked thing in Maxim in the past year? Or Esquire?
“It was a picture of you and Seung Yong in a tabloid, announcing your engagement and showing your ring.”
Praise be to somebody. Everyone laughs and tells their story of having seen it and the cousins add how hard they laughed at Seung. Then there is a polite pause, and I get the feeling this is my turn to speak back. I share an innocuous story of my mother leaving me a voice mail that she saw Seung in a magazine and how excited she was, never even mentioning that the story was about me—just that it was so fun to see Seung. The cousins giggle, but when they realize the parents are not laughing they stop.
It takes me a moment to realize I have just called my fiancé “Sing,” which is what everyone including his cousins and his sister call him—but not his elders. Either they didn’t understand my story because they have no idea who I’m talking about or they are condemning the Americanization of his name. And this silence is so embarrassing that I will never ever forget to say his name in the correct Korean pronunciation in front of his relatives for the rest of my life. Or as close as I can get to it, as it’s a mouthful. Seung Yong Chung sounds something like sung-young-chung. Yes, they all do rhyme. Which not only invites teasing but it makes it really hard to say them all together. So hard, in fact, that when Seung was five years old the kids on his block in Maryland started to call him “Sing,” and he has been deemed so ever since. Except, of course, at this table.
But I am also a performer and this is not the first bomb of a joke I’ve ever told, so I am perfectly equipped to smile and invite everyone to move on. I now tell the visiting aunt and uncle how excited I am to meet their daughters and that I hope to see them at our wedding. And now the whole table laughs. At what? I’m not really sure because then there is a quick discussion in Korean while everyone stares at me. And finally, Khun Apa, who originally ordered me to attention, speaks.
“Why are you getting married in Mammoth? It’s so inconvenient for everyone but you.”
This is the first mention of Seung’s and my impending wedding. No one has actually congratulated either one of us. Nor inquired about our plans. Nor asked if my family is excited.
“It’s actually not all that convenient for us, either,” I offer.
I stop at that because it’s clear no answer would
bring a kind response. I continue to look my soon-to-be uncle in the eye with a smile. This goes on for quite some time, until his wife, perhaps not liking the silence at her dinner party, says, “Okay, children, go back to talking amongst yourselves.” I turn back to the kiddie table—and that’s that.
So, in fact, nothing is different now that we’re engaged. Same self-centered focus from Seung’s family and same rudeness in their delivery.
Did I mention that I’m not changing my last name?
* WE ARE WALKING BACK TO OUR CARS ACROSS a giant hotel lobby, when I find myself in stride next to the visiting aunt. She, like all the other Chung wives, is very beautiful. She also carries herself like old-fashioned royalty. I’m not sure if it’s her amazing posture that makes me stare at her, or the fact that she honestly seems interested to talk to me. She asks me sweet questions about my postwedding trip to Korea and about Seung’s sister and shares her hopes to introduce me to her children. I’m so flabbergasted by this show of warmth that I mark it in my head to ask Seung if she is “allowed” to be kinder because she is the wife of the eldest and has no need to jockey for power.
Maybe it’s because of my girl-crush on this new aunt that I just blurt out to her—with the Khun Ama present and Chagun Ama (wife of the younger brother of Seung’s father), who are now waiting for their cars—the question I’ve been dying to ask all night.
“Thank you all for this lovely dinner. And I was so excited to see you all tonight because Seung has just told me that we will be having a Korean ceremony at our wedding. (They nod. They are with me.) And I’m very confused about it because there are so many parts. Is there anything that you could tell me about your ceremonies that would be particularly important to know?”
The new aunt just smiles, and the two I know laugh out loud.
Funny how there was no laughter at my one actual joke tonight, but everything else I say is hilarious. Well, before I condemn, let me see if maybe this is just a language barrier. I will ask for help on a smaller scale.
“Or perhaps you could tell me about the food? Specifically, the cakes? I understand there are particular desserts we should have present at the wedding ceremony?”
I’m losing them. They are giggling and talking amongst themselves in Korean. I turn to the new aunt, looking for a life raft because now I just feel like a fool. The tone she displayed earlier makes me feel cautiously optimistic again, that she will at least help me to save face while the others are treating me like an underclassman whom they are just too cool to speak to directly. “Is there a name or a phrase for the kind of cake I am meant to buy that you could share with me? I speak a few languages myself, and I could probably remember the words or at least tell them to Seung. Or maybe ...”
The visiting aunt is just smiling at me now. She is no longer listening. As an actor, I have become very attuned to when my costars are listening and when they are just waiting to say their parts. And in this moment, I can see this aunt has her answer in her mouth already and is just waiting for the opportunity to set it free.
“You’re not going to be able to just buy cake. This is a complicated ceremony. And very important to our culture. I’m afraid you won’t be able to do it.”
Then this woman—who was so kind just moments earlier—turns and walks off to her car with her sisters-in-law, leaving me kicked to the curb in a way I don’t think I will ever forget.
I AM MANY THINGS, but a competitor is somewhere near the top of this list. And Seung’s aunt’s misinterpreting my need for information and using it to underestimate me gives me an incredible upper hand at this war (did I say war? I think I meant wedding, but you get my drift) on which I’m about to embark.
I’m smiling and waving as the relatives pull away because their condemnation is only a slap in my face if I let it end here. My hand is raised because I intend to swing it now also—when I knock my Korean ceremony out of the park. Not only will I be able to “do it,” but it will no longer be a little skit in the midst of my actual wedding. I will throw a full-scale Korean event for my Friday night rehearsal dinner at my wedding weekend—and silence these narrow-minded people once and for all. And their ceremony will then be dwarfed by my bigger, better American ceremony the next day.
I am trying not to storm off into Seung’s sports car, or slam the door, to give away how incensed I’m feeling, but Seung is racing out of the parking lot anyway because he can see my face is bright red. I refuse to discuss this with him because then that woman would win. Rather, I’m dialing my phone. Because I am now officially done hiding behind the anonymity and advice of strangers. Now I’m calling my people with whom I can be frank and candid, and maybe even show a little of my newfound rage. My first call is to my friend Natalia because I want a goddamned New Yorker in my corner who is going to tell me exactly how to beat these people at their own exclusionary game.
’Cause it’s on.
CHAPTER 9.
NUBIAN FASHIONISTA LOVES WHITE BROTHER IN NEW YORK
“I always knew Jake and I would make it;
I just wasn’t sure if his mother would.
I still think she might drop dead from a
heart attack on her way to our wedding.”
—NATALIA
NATALIA AND JAKE are a lot like Seung and me. He’s an easygoing, understanding man who may be the only person on Earth who can handle the intensity of his smart, capable, funny, yet “deadly as a weapon with her words” woman. And, in truth, Natalia makes me look timid. So hang on ...
When I met her, Natalia was being interviewed on the evening news over a sparring match she’d just had with Princess Michael of Kent, the Queen of England’s cousin through marriage. A mutual friend of both of ours introduced me to Natalia to witness the fireworks she was about to set off. I stood on a soundstage and watched this fantastic force of a woman with my jaw on the floor—knowing I wanted her as a friend of mine.
Over the course of this news conference I’d come to learn that Natalia had been eating with friends in a downtown New York eatery, Da Silvano, the day before. Her party of six was composed of all well-connected media people, including two on-air entertainment reporters, who had all been asked to form a board to save a fledgling African American magazine—because all six of them also happen to be black. “Even as a black woman, never do I find myself at a table of all black people, because New York is such a melting pot. But there we were—six of us. And yes, we were having a good time,” she tells the newscaster currently interviewing her.
The patron next to Natalia and her friends was huffing and puffing at the noise from Natalia’s table. She gave looks, she made audible sighs, and when the laughter at this table of six hit a fever pitch, the not-so-neighborly woman reached over, slammed her hand down on Natalia’s table, and hollered, “EEEEnough already!” When the entire restaurant stopped to look at this demonstration, the woman told Natalia and friends that they had better quiet down. “All of you!”
“It was like the entire restaurant gasped in unison.” This woman then asked the owner to move Natalia’s party away from her. It’s doubtful that Silvano even entertained moving six press-savvy regulars on the orders of an entitled, visiting snob. Even after another patron recognized her as Princess Michael of Kent, a member of the British royal family, and another added, “She gives the trophy at Wimbledon,” moving the party of six still wasn’t a consideration. Rather, the snobby princess was moved.
As she got up to move to her new table, however, the princess just had to add one more thing. Princess Michael wedged herself between two people at Natalia’s table to say, “Back to the colonies with all of you!”
Oh yes, she did. In New York City, in this millennium, a member of the British royal family “banished” six Americans due to their skin color. The whole front room of the restaurant heard it, just before Natalia’s whole table screamed as if someone had been murdered, while the restaurant staff stood by, frozen in horror, and other tables started yelling, “No, she did not!” But
, again, oh yes, she did.
Natalia, seriously fearing she was going to have a heart attack, stepped outside to call her parents. Her mom could do little more than listen because it wasn’t long before Natalia was talking herself back to the reality of who was wrong and what needed to be done to make this right. Mom gave Natalia permission to address the woman directly, so she wouldn’t lie awake in bed for days going over and over the details of how the exchange could have or should have gone down.
Surrounded by friends and the waitstaff, Natalia approached the princess and asked what she meant when she told her and her colleagues to go back to the colonies. Princess Michael looked Natalia in the face and told her there were rules in the colonies. And that they were good rules. And that Natalia should think about that.
And God bless Natalia, because I would have smacked the bitch upside her head, but Natalia regally told this princess she was not in Kent anymore. That rather, “This is New York and it’s the twenty-first century, and you are rude and your behavior is unacceptable.” Natalia then leaned in close to say, “Now, you take a good look at my face because I want you to remember it when I make you regret this.”
The story didn’t just make the gossip column on Page Six; it was on the cover of the New York Post the next day. The day after that it ran in many newspapers of note in America and every news outlet in Britain, as well as news and print periodicals throughout Europe and all the way into China. By the time I met Natalia, she was giving interviews via satellite to British chat shows. Some of them even invited her back the following year to rehash this tale of a racist royal and a New Yorker who wanted to make sure that at least this behavior would never happen again.
Thattagirl, Natalia.
