I’d told Ga Jeh what I’d planned to write, and she gave me the green light. “I don’t mind if you have to write about ‘that,’” she said. “I remember reading a memoir that had a similar situation and thought, ‘How can that happen to people?’ but in reality, it had already happened to me. I trust that your book will be an inspiration to others and if they’re going through something similar, they’ll know they’re not alone.”
I’d sent her a story of mine that had gotten published. In the story, I question if I should bring up the subject of abuse with my sister. I want to shelter her from more pain. After Ga Jeh read the story, we sat down over tea and discussed the abuse for the first time at length, perhaps the first time she’s ever been so willing with anyone. A few weeks later, she scheduled an appointment with a therapist.
When we finished the Christmas dinner, it was time for presents. My sister and her husband gave Jordan and Alana multiple gifts, including stocking stuffers, but Jordan was nine and was starting to be a brat. He’d open a present, take a quick peek inside the box, and, if it was clothes, he’d toss the box aside and move on to the next gift. If it wasn’t Legos, it was junk.
The next day, we were at my mother and Willie’s house. Jordan would call Willie “Grandpa,” and probably because of this, I started to see Willie as my, if not father, stepfather. When Jordan was younger, Willie introduced him to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and Jordan would watch it on repeat the whole day. He’d make Willie and me join him for the “Me Ol’ Bamboo” song. He’d give us each a rolled-up sheet of paper, and we’d pretend it was a bamboo stick. The three of us would dance along to the choreographed routine, high-stepping around the living room, making the silliest faces we could while trying to stay in sync with each other. Watching the way Willie was with my brother’s kids—he’d take them out every chance he had—I had to admit we were lucky to have this grandpa in our family.
I called Jordan into the office. “Close the door behind you,” I said. “Grab that chair and bring it here.” I may not have been a parent, but I’d been a high school teacher for seven years, and if I wasn’t taking bullshit anymore from students, I’d be damned if I was gonna let my third-grade nephew get away with his ungrateful attitude.
Jordan sat in the chair, and I didn’t even say anything right away. I wanted him to feel awkward. “Why are we sitting like this, Saam Sook?”
“You’re not a baby, so we’re gonna stop treating you like one. The way you opened Yi Goo Jeh and Uncle Eric’s presents was rude. They had to drive to the store, pick out what they thought you might like, stand in line to buy it, bring it home, and then wrap it up. And they bought you a card. They had to write a message for you. It took hours to do all that, just for you, and you didn’t even look at their gifts. Hey, look me in the eye when I’m talking.”
His eyes shot up.
“Do you know what respect means?” I asked.
“Being nice to people?”
“It’s also what you think of someone. If you respect a person, you think they’re a good human being. I’m not sure—at least from what I saw yesterday—that you’ll grow up to be a person I’ll respect. I’m always going to love you, but respect, that’s different. I don’t have to respect you. I don’t respect rude people.”
His eyes grew watery, but I continued with the lecture. If I could get a student to cry, it was a good day. Progress was made.
“OK,” I said, “now how can you make it up to Yi Goo Jeh and Uncle Eric?”
“Say sorry?”
“That’s a start.”
guayabera
It was summer, and I was staying at my brother’s, visiting from out of state. In the mornings, I’d get my nephew and niece ready for school. Make sure they were fed and dressed in time. When Alana would have a bad hair day, I’d comb and blow-dry her hair. In return, one morning, I let her shave my head with a disposable razor, her little hands wiping shaving cream around my head. Goh Goh would’ve already left for work and Dai So would be asleep, her nocturnal work schedule.
I’d climb on the cable car with the kids to Chinatown where their summer program was held. When the kids in Alana’s class were given nicknames, Alana, who was tall for her age, was named Humongor. My brother didn’t find that as funny as me. I’d also pick them up after school. It was risky—Bah Ba lived blocks away.
When we’d return home, Alana would grab her hammer made out of paper and tape. “Beetle!” she’d say. She’d walk around smashing bugs on the floor. My brother, along with Jordan, sometimes would join in using scraps of tissue, the three of them hunched over searching for an insect to squash.
I’d sleep on the sectional. They’d gotten rid of the old sofa from Bah Ba, but our father’s taste in furniture was still present in my brother’s living room. Goh Goh had made the mistake of allowing Bah Ba to pick out the coffee table. It was an oval lacquered table, cumbersome, too big for the room. I had to squeeze through to sit on the couch. During dinner, everyone else sat on small chairs. I’d broken two of them. One was a tiny plastic one, made for a child. I cracked the seat trying to sit on it. The other chair was a cheap stool, and that flimsy thing fell apart as I was sitting
