Happy Birthday or Whatever (12 page)

“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 com
memorate 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 regret 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.

“I'm tired of practicing. I want to eat!”

“Anne, you have practice more. You bow not look so good.”

“I'll practice after dinner.”

“No, after dinner you have bow for Grandma.”

“Don't worry. I can do it. If Mike can do it, I can do it.”

I heard my brother scoff. My mother was not convinced. “No keep practice.”

“But I'm hungry. Aren't we gonna eat with everyone? Shouldn't we be in there with Grandma?”

She sighed and led us back to our table. I sat with my parents and listened to my relatives give speeches. My father's speech was filled with big words and complicated sentence structures. I could make out the words “luck” and “grandchildren” and “happiness.” During our week-long trip, my father had remained tense and silent. Though I never heard an argument between my parents, I could sense that their relationship was strained by my grandmother's presence. Their playful sarcastic banter was subdued and my father smoked more cigarettes than usual. I think my father wanted to go back home. We all did.

While I ate my dinner, my mother kept arranging large napkins on my lap so I wouldn't spill on my hanbok. Finally, an uncle announced that all the grandchildren would come up and bow to their grandmother. When my oldest cousin approached my grandmother's table and bowed before her in front of nearly a hundred relatives and friends and waiters, I froze. It hadn't occurred to me that I'd be bowing in front of everyone. My heart tried to jackhammer its way out of my chest. I felt nauseous and the knotted curls near my temples became matted from cold sweat. I turned to my mother with panic in my eyes.

“I have to bow in front of everybody?”

“Shh, yes.”

“I don't want to do it. I can't.”

“No, Anne, you have to. Watch how everybody bow. You told me not worry. You can do it, yes.”

Immediately I regretted not practicing my bow more. For the next fifteen minutes, I watched eleven cousins perform textbook-perfect bows. The grandchildren in each family came up and bowed at the same time, side by side. My grandmother returned their bows with a grave nod—not exactly a sign of approval, but not a sign of disapproval either. I watched as my cousins Yoon-chong, Yoonmi, and Woo-jay approached my grandmother. Yoon-chong was one of the oldest cousins, and her bow looked experienced. Yoonmi was an accomplished ballet dancer, and she bowed deeply and elegantly like a swan, with a perfect curve in her back. Woo-jay was majestic in his hanbok and his confidence came through in his bow. I glanced at my brother. His hanbok was a little tight around his doughy figure. But he seemed calm. He sat watching my cousins, lost in thought or boredom. His fingers pulled mindlessly at a string on his vest.

In my mind, I raced through the movements: raise arms, kneel, bow forward, count to three, stand up, don't forget to go slowly, and watch out for the skirt! I looked down at my lap and realized I had twisted my skirt around my hands and wrinkled it. I tried to smooth it out and wondered if anyone would notice me and my bow and my wrinkled skirt. Surveying the banquet room, I discovered that every single pair of eyes was locked on my cousins. Yes, everyone would notice. I started sweating and scratching my arms, a nervous habit further intensified by the stiff sleeves of my hanbok.

Finally, my parents pushed Mike and me toward my grandmother. I took a deep breath and started the 200-mile journey
toward the front of the room. My throat was parched and I felt a nest of curls stick to my damp neck. We walked slowly toward our grandmother, who watched our every move, taking a tally of what we were doing wrong. My skirt rustled around me and I picked it up so I wouldn't trip. I looked over at Mike; he seemed comfortable and poised and maybe a little nonchalant, the way eleven-year-old boys often look. We approached my grandmother's table and I looked fearfully into her sunken eyes. Liver spots were sprinkled all over her cheeks and I could see her flaky scalp through her thinning, gray hair. My heart was beating so loudly I was sure everyone in Seoul could hear it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my brother lower himself to the floor, and I began my bow too. I raised my arms and began to kneel slowly. My entire body shook nervously as I lowered my arms and knees. I tried to sneak my hand down to push my skirt out of the way, but suddenly, my sneaker got caught in the jungle of ruffles in my petticoat, and I pitched forward. My body twisted to the side and my shoulder came slamming down to the floor. My skirt was wrapped around my legs and in a panic, I tried to shake them loose. I felt like a fish out of water, squirming and flopping in the final throes of death. Gut-busting laughter shook the entire room and my face flooded with humiliation, making me feel even more conspicuous in my bright hanbok. From the floor, I glanced over at my brother and realized I only saw his feet. He had finished his bow and was already standing up and absorbing the mayhem I had caused in the banquet room. I scrambled to my feet, but stepped on my skirt again and stumbled forward.

My grandmother's eyes stabbed me right through the heart. She did not nod. She remained silent while everyone else in the room slapped their knees and wiped their eyes. As my eyes filled
with tears, I turned around and walked quickly toward my parents. I didn't stop; I continued passed them, toward the bathroom. My mother got up and followed me.

“Anne, what happen?”

“I don't know. I fell.”

With trembling hands, I started taking off my hanbok, grabbing the petticoat and the skirt and throwing them on the floor. I wiped my eyes and nose with the back of my hand.

“What you do now? Put on hanbok!”

She grabbed my clothes and tried to put them on me. I went limp in her arms. She gave me a hug and rubbed my back. She handed me a tissue, chuckled gently, and tried to untangle my curls.

“Everyone laughed, everyone hates me.”

“Who hate? Why they hate? It OK, Anne. It accident. The skirt too big on you. I should sew up shorter.”

“But everyone laughed at me.”

“Don't embarrass, Anne. It OK. Everyone still love you.”

“Not Grandma. She's mad. She doesn't like me.”

“Oh Anne, remember? Grandma not like anything.”

She winked and led me out to the banquet room and my relatives grinned as I walked by them. They pinched me and told me how cute I was and that one day, I'd be able to bow like my cousins. I sat down between my father and my brother. I could tell Mike was holding back a barrage of witty comments; his pudgy face was ready to explode. But he showed remarkable restraint. My guess is that my father had told him to be nice. I searched for disappointment in my father's face, but there was none. It was blank. He passed me a sticky rice cake.

“It OK, Annie. Eat dessert and then we go. I think everybody very tired.”

My grandmother never said anything about the incident, but I'm sure she blamed my parents for raising such an ungraceful American girl.

 

I looked across at my grandmother, who ate her lunch quietly. Our conversation, as upbeat as it was, came to an awkward silence. My mother, shifting uncomfortably on the floor, offered information about our family in the States: My aunt opened up another laundromat. A cousin got a job as a costume designer. My father's lab work was going well. My grandmother didn't seem interested. Then my mother talked about me: I graduated from Berkeley. I wrote and edited textbooks. I was interested in photography. My grandmother yawned, her warm breath practically melting my face. I tried to think of things to say that wouldn't offend her.