Happy Birthday or Whatever (2 page)

She was en route to her Koreatown hair salon, which has frenetic Korean pop music, slick black furniture, and mirrors on every surface. My mother's stylist is a wispy young Korean woman with thick fake eyelashes that look a lot like pubic hair. My mother's salon is supposedly geared toward young Korean hipsters, but it is usually occupied by scheming Korean ladies who sit under heat lamps and discuss their perfect, expensively educated, doctor/ lawyer children. It is here my mother believes she will find me a loving husband who will buy me a German luxury sedan.

“Mom, today is September ninth. Do you know what that means?”

“You birthday?”

“WHAT? My birthday was—”

“—August twenty-sixth, Mommy know. I kidding, Annie. Joke. Oh, you so serious.”

“MOM, August twenty-sixth is your anniversary. I'm the twenty-fifth. You are totally hopeless.”

“Annie, I say August twenty-fifth.”

“That's a lie—you're lying, you liar. You said August twenty-sixth. I heard you.”

She laughed, and I heard her golf clubs jostle violently in the back of her S.U.V. My mother refuses to pay attention to lane lines in parking lots. She likes to cut across the entire thing, honking and swerving around people and shopping carts that get in her way.

“No, no, I know what I say, Anne. You so silly!”

“Mom, today is September ninth.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Think, what happens on September ninth?

“I told you, Mommy get haircut.”

“No. Something important.”

“I have golf lesson.”

“Uh, not quite. Here is a hint. It starts with a ‘D' and ends in ‘ad's birthday.'”

I imagine an MRI of her brain, with a huge black blob taking over everything, except for the sections that control golf and hair care. Surely medical professionals will be puzzled by her gross memory loss, but impressed by her powerful backswing and her lustrous bob.

“I not understand. What you mean?”

“Today is Dad's birthday. Remember birthdays? They come once a year for each person in our family. His happens to be today.
We wouldn't want to forget his birthday, would we? That'd be horrible. So horrible. I can't even imagine anything worse.”

She was unresponsive.

“OK, Anne, don't forget call you daddy and say happy birthday.”

I groaned. I called my father at his lab. “Hi, Dad. Happy birthday!”

“Annie, thank you.”

“See, I remembered. Look how well you raised me, look how thoughtful I am. I hope you're proud. How old are you?”

“Too old—sixty-one.”

“Hey, you can retire soon.”

“I'll never retire. Someone has to pay for Mommy golf.” He laughed because he knew it was true.

“Are you doing anything special? El Torito? A parade?”

“What? Who get a parade for birthday? Only Santa Claus get a parade. I want nothing. I want to do nothing. I go home early, watch TV, fall asleep.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“I'm sixty-two. I'm getting old.”

“I thought you said you were sixty-one”

“Oh, Annie, sixty-one or sixty-two. Makes no difference to me.”

One week after my father's birthday is my mother's. We'd celebrate her birth the only way we knew how—by going to El Torito, Sizzler, or Black Angus. She never had a preference, as long as she didn't have to cook anything. On September 16th I called my mother. This afternoon she was at home, which surprised me. I assumed she'd be out with her church friends, getting their hair done (again) or playing golf or returning shoes at Nordstrom's.

“Happy birthday, Mom! You're fifty-five!”

“More young than fifty-six, but more old than fifty-four.”

“Well, that's generally how it works. What are you up to today?”

“I got car wash.”

“Whoa, take it easy there. Did you get drunk?”

“Anne, is that what you do in New York? Go party? Get drunk? You think fun? Do drug?”

“No, no, Mom, I'm kidding.”

“I get so worry. You know Mrs. Lee son in trouble because he buy drug. Very bad. I read in newspaper Korean kid do drug and kill his mommy and daddy. So crazy. And one Korean girl she go to Princeton but she die because someone drink and hit with car. Big car.”

My mother is a devoted reader of the
Korea Times,
which is the largest Korean-language newspaper published in America and has regional editions that mostly focus on local stories. A few weeks ago she mentioned that the front page lauded a Torrance-area fourteen-year-old Korean who won the Academic Decathlon and went on tour with the L.A. Philharmonic as a solo violinist. “Why you not in newspaper?” she asked sullenly. I explained that the
Korea Times
would never write a story about a Korean girl from the San Fernando Valley who quit piano in eighth grade and left every light on in the house, costing her family hundreds of thousands of dollars in electricity.

“MOM
,
this is about you. Happy birthday. Why aren't you with your friends? What about Grandma?”

“She so old. Today I visit her and ask for one dollar for parking, she give me twenty.”

“I don't see a problem there. Twenty is better than one. They teach you that in math.”

“She so old, she can't hear.”

“Well she wouldn't listen to you anyway. So what are you doing now?”

She sighed loudly. A little too loudly. “Mommy eat lunch alone. Rice with water…alone…by myself. Only little rice. Not even full bowl. All Mommy friend busy today.”

I rolled my eyes. What a drama queen. Drama-rama. Dramamine. Andramada. Draman noodles. “Why don't you go out to eat?”

“I use all my money for gas.”

This was the gas she needed to fuel her car to sit in traffic to get to the salon, where she got a $110 haircut and blow-dry.

“What about Dad?”

“You daddy not even give me present.”

“Well, did you give him a present for his birthday?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the daddy supposed give gift to the mommy.” She laughed, tickled by her own joke.

“No, I thought the mommy and the daddy were supposed to give gifts to the kids. No one gave me a gift.”

“No, kid give gift to the mommy and daddy.”

“Actually, we're supposed to give gifts to one another. That's what other families do.”

“Maybe you right. But we not other family.”

“Don't you think we should try?”

I remembered the birthday dinners when my mother made spaghetti in my honor. My father would eat it with chopsticks and
kim chee,
spicy pickled cabbage. After we polished off the ice cream cake, there was a mad dash to the bathrooms because we are all lactose intolerant.

I
was twenty-three when I met Arnold. It was at Dongdaemun, a congested flea market in Seoul where merchants peddle products of dubious quality and taste: fatigued radishes and cabbage, paper-thin underwear and socks, telephones shaped like high-heeled shoes, knock-off “Prado” handbags, couches upholstered with floral fabric that feels like sandpaper. Merchants bellow promises of low prices and large selections and search for the slightest sign of interest from passing shoppers. Having an unflappable poker
face is necessary whenever I walk through Dongdaemun; with one wayward glance I can end up listening to a relentless sales pitch for a rooster-shaped clock that cock-a-doodle-doos every hour. I locked eyes with Arnold in one of the booths, where he sat comfortably between a scruffy dog wearing a red and white striped shirt and a parrot that looked a little constipated.

“Oh my God! Look at him!”

I stopped in mid-step and stared. I grinned broadly and let out a toe-curling squeal. I might as well have pulled out my wallet and waved my cash around. My mother, sensing trouble, tugged at my arm and tried to usher me past the booth, but it was too late. The
ajuma
quickly put down her bowl of rice and jumped off her stool. She wiped her hands on her apron and patted her pockets. One contained money and the other a wooden abacus.

“Anne, why you stop? Now ajuma come talk to us. You make Mommy so tire.
Ayoo
…”

Ayoo
is what Koreans say when they experience chronic pain or annoyance. My mother says it with an exaggerated crescendo that instinctively causes me to scrunch up my shoulders and wince, just as I do when I see someone get kicked in the crotch: “
Ayoo
, Anne, why you hair so mess?” “
Ayoo,
why you not call Mommy?” “
Ayoo,
why you not go church? You make God mad.” As I get older, I find myself ayooing my mother's ayoos.

The ajuma
,
with dollar, or rather,
won
signs in her eyes, readjusted the apron strings around her generous waist and waddled over to my mother and me. Seeing my mother's scowl, the merchant decided I was the easier target.

“Well, look at this beautiful young woman! You look like a smart girl—the smartest. You must know that I have the best selection, better than anyone else here—the largest. Which one would you like? I'll give you a good price—the best.”

She followed my gaze and reached for the constipated parrot.

“No, no, I don't want the…”

I realized I didn't know how to say “parrot” in Korean. Or “constipated” for that matter. My listening skills have always been better than my verbal skills. I pointed to Arnold.

“Ah, that one? What a good choice, this is a fine animal—the best.” The ajuma handed him to me.

My mother balked at my selection. “What it is?”

“It's a pig.”

“No, I think maybe bear?”

“No way, it's pink. It's a pig. I think.”

“
Ayoo,
Anne, it not pig. It ugly!”

My mother was right. It ugly. Everything about Arnold was lopsided. One arm was higher than the other. One ear was twisted and faced slightly backward. One leg was longer than the other, but both were too short for his lumpy torso. The seam running down his round belly was puckered and crooked. His head wobbled on a weak neck. His fur was soft but threadbare.

“Why you like this? I think maybe blind man make this!” She pointed to the feet, which were mismatched, misshapen blobs.

I looked at the tag attached to his crooked ear. His name written in Korean and I sounded out the letters slowly—
ah-nol-duh.
I hugged Arnold and tried to remember the last time I had bought a stuffed animal for myself.

“Oh, Anne, not this again. Why you do this? Do you want give Mommy ulcer?”

 

I was spoiled as a child. I was the youngest, the smallest, and therefore the cutest. Once at a party when I was six, my father's second oldest brother gave me a small shaggy dog with floppy ears. I was
so pleased I told him that the dog was my favorite toy and he was my favorite uncle. He beamed proudly and swaggered around the apartment boasting about his title to the rest of the family.

“Did you hear? I'm Annie's favorite. I'm the best. She loves me the most. That means she loves you less!”

A few hours later, my father's younger brother brought me a polar bear so massive that I had difficulty wrapping my arms around it. Its fur was gleaming white and it had gigantic paws with black leather pads that squeaked when they were squeezed. My uncle had left the party just to go to a toy store and outshine his older brother. I jumped up and down and swung my new friend around by its squeaking paws, and I told my uncle he was now my favorite relative, unless someone else brought me something better. I looked around the room expecting another furry surprise. My mother tugged on my ponytail.

“Please, everyone,” my mother announced in Korean, “don't buy our little Annie any more gifts. She's too spoiled and she's turning into a brat. And no one likes brats, isn't that right, Annie?”

I grimaced and buried my head into the polar bear's chest. My relatives laughed and an aunt winked at me. She handed me a box of Yan-Yans, which have pretzel sticks on one side and a cup of chocolate frosting on the other—my favorite treat.

Of all the toys I received, I responded most to stuffed animals. Barbies and Legos remained mostly untouched, and I shunned board games and sports equipment. As a five-year-old, I liked making up a history for the animals; some were saved from starvation in the desert, others were runaways from the circus. Most had neurotic tendencies—one animal didn't like the color orange, another was allergic to wool. They didn't even have to be animals. At an arcade, my cousin Woo-jay played one of those machines filled with cheap toys and a moveable claw. About one hour and
ten bucks later he brought me a fuzzy striped ball that probably cost a dime to manufacture. It was blue and pink and I wrapped it in a blanket and carried it wherever I went. I dressed it up in a bonnet and put one of my sweaters on it. This embarrassed my mother, who feared that people would think she couldn't afford a real doll for her daughter. I named the ball Blink, a combination of “blue” and “pink.” Weeks later, Woo-jay, who wanted to defend his title as my favorite cousin, brought me another fuzzy ball. This one was red and green, and I named it Reen. The two balls were long-lost friends and Reen was happy to be reunited after doing hard time in a glass booth at Chuck E. Cheese. When my brother tried to juggle them, I burst into tears.

“Stop it! Stop it! They don't like being thrown!”

“They're balls, stupid.”

“They're afraid of heights.”

“No they're not. They like it. See?” Mike tossed Blink and Reen high in the air and they hit the ceiling. Little pieces of cottage-cheese plaster came drifting down.

“STOP! You're going to make them throw up!”

As I collected more and more animals, I became anxious. They all sat on my bed but there were too many to put under the blankets with me, so I worried that they would get cold. I collected handkerchiefs and scarves and fabric samples—anything that could keep my animals warm. At first, each animal (or ball) had its own blanket. As the numbers increased, the animals shared: two to a blanket, then three, depending on size. I felt that four animals sharing a blanket would be cruel, so I moved on to the fancy cloth napkins I found in the china cabinet.

“Anne, this napkin for people. Not you doll!”

“But they're gonna get cold. They're gonna get sick.”

“Why they get sick? They not live!”

My mother didn't seem to care that my animals were freezing, especially during August in Southern California, where temperatures could plummet to a paw-chilling 110 degrees. Shortly after, I discovered hand towels and my mother scolded me. So then I moved on to Kleenex (I liked the scented pink ones) and my t-shirts. Every morning while I was at kindergarten my mother would go into my bedroom and refold my shirts and stuff the tissues back in the box. Every afternoon when I returned, I got them out and tucked everyone in again.

Once during the middle of the night, my mother came and removed all the blankets on my animals. I woke up and immediately burst into tears. I was upset that the animals had gotten cold and felt like a horrible mother.

“Mom, you're mean. Say sorry to everyone!”

“Anne, I not say sorry. They only toy. Not real, you understand? Mommy think you crazy!”

“Why do you hate them? How come you don't love them?”

My mother gave up. She asked my relatives to pass on their hankies and my grandmother sewed little blankets. She even knitted an overalls and jacket set for a bear to keep him warm. He wore it, but still needed a blanket anyway.

On the bed, I lined up all my animals against the wall, and there was a specific order. Most were carefully organized by size. A larger animal sat to the left of a slightly smaller animal: The giant sheepdog with unruly hair, which I brushed until he went bald, sat to the left of the pudgy brown walrus my uncle bought me at Sea World, which sat next to a smaller hot pink lion. Animals that came into my possession together had to stay together. The two striped balls, for example, sat next to each other, and were later joined by a rainbow-colored one (named Rainball). When a new animal joined the group, I introduced him or her to everyone and
then found the proper spot in the lineup. Often blankets had to be reorganized so everyone could get coverage.

At one point I realized some animals might get jealous if I spent too much time with one. I had to make sure I loved each one equally. I considered the spot closest to my head as the preferred spot; the animal there would receive the most attention and the most warmth. So each night, the animals rotated. The first animal in line would sleep with me and then move to the back of the line the next day. It was a simple, efficient system no adult, especially my mother, could understand.

Whenever my mother changed my sheets, the animals would wind up on the floor in a chaotic pile of matted tails and paws and ears. This sent me into a fit of tears and pounding fists, followed by a lecture from my mother, and a few more minutes of crying.

“You sick, Annie, very sick. This not good for you.”

I would spend the rest of the afternoon organizing the bedroom zoo and apologizing to each animal, asking for forgiveness and admonishing myself for being a bad mother.

By the time I was seven years old, I had collected so many animals my bed was getting full. I reorganized them into several rows, which significantly decreased my sleeping space. I slept as close to the edge of the bed as possible so my animals would have more room. I rarely tossed and turned through the night for fear of squishing and suffocating them.

“Anne you sleep in small side of bed. You doll get too much room. Why you do this? Not good for you. Move doll to floor!”

“Animals do not belong on the floor. I don't sleep on the floor, so the animals shouldn't sleep on the floor.”

“You know, in Korea everyone sleep on floor. You grandma sleep on floor.”

“But they're Korean. These are animals. They're special.”

When I was eight years old, my mother, brother, and I spent two weeks in Seoul with my aunt's family. My mother told me I could only take one small animal, one that could fit in my suitcase. It was horrible, this idea that I could only take one animal and leave over a dozen behind, and that this one “lucky” animal would have to travel in a suitcase where clearly there would not be enough air or light or even a buddy to keep it company. I spent an agonizing amount of time standing in front of the lineup, trying to make my choice, hoping the others wouldn't hate me the way I hated my mother for making me abandon everyone. Eventually I selected the koala bear in the Los Angeles Dodgers jersey. He had a baseball hat, with white hair exploding from his little tan ears and a tuft of white on his rear. I didn't particularly appreciate, or even understand, baseball, but I probably chose the koala because my father bought him for me—I wouldn't see my father for two weeks. The koala fit nicely between my clothes and a gigantic bag of banana chips. My mother always brought random American foodstuffs to Seoul, and I would've forgone the ten packs of beef jerky and the institutional-sized canister of Skippy peanut butter for another animal.

After two weeks in Seoul, it was time to leave my family and reunite with my loved ones. As we were packing to leave, my cousin Eun-hee, three years my senior, slyly mentioned she really liked my koala.

This is a problem in Korean families. When a relative says she “really likes” something that is a mere indulgence to you, perhaps a jacket or a pair of shoes or maybe a koala in an adorable baseball jersey, you are forced to hand it over. A few years ago I brought from London a silk scarf for my mother and a hat for my grandmother. After opening the gifts, my grandmother mentioned she “really liked” the scarf, and my mother suggested a trade. Then my
grandmother mentioned she “really liked” the hat, too. So my grandmother walked away with both. Just like that. My mother was disappointed.

“Don't worry, Mom. You'll get both back next year when Grandma dies.”

“ANNE! Sometime I think how I raise such devil?”

When Eun-hee mentioned she “really liked” my koala, I didn't yet know the way of the cunning Korean. My cousin told her mother, who told my mother, who told me that I would have to give up the koala. I did not understand this. Eun-hee was eleven years old. She did not need a koala; she needed a boyfriend. Koalas were for eight-year-olds like me. My mother had forced me to pick one animal and now I had to leave it in Korea, thousands of miles away from home, from his friends? To strand him in a country that didn't even speak his language? She was nuts. So I did what I could; I squirmed and cried wildly on the floor, my long hair streaked with snot and tears. And then I hid him deep in my suitcase.