Angela E J Koh » Grandma

Stealing Grandma

angelaejkoh — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 08:38:55 +0000

My grandma was born in Korea, raised in Japan so her name: Kumiko. Though, only I knew that. I gave her English lessons, and she made me paper fans or microwaved eel over rice. I slept over her house all the way to the 11th grade. She was my only family in the states, or so worth calling.

Something that stayed with me, unfortunately, was an incident at her funeral. One “family” member, with the backing of many others, accused me of not mourning enough for Grandma. It was a public accusation. I was nineteen. And from it, utter humiliation and ridicule haunted me for years, though the guiltless accuser likely forgot the incident in a minute’s time.

Yesterday, I visited my grandma’s gravesite at Gate of Heaven in Los Gatos. I kneeled in the grass and thought she had the nicest picture on the block. I now have an answer to that accuser (and fellows). I mourned in private because I was afraid. If anyone—even those who knew Grandma—got a glimpse of my pain, they would see into my relationship with Kimiko. They would see our jargon, our stories, and the way we were. I wasn’t ready to share that. At nineteen, bereft and in pieces, I wanted to keep her mine and only mine for a little longer. Even then, you took from me whatever composure I could barely muster.

A Dream from This Morning

angelaejkoh — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 00:10:00 +0000

It was my birthday. Falling asleep at the day’s end, I felt the bed bend on the other side. My grandma, long since dead, seemed completely intact. Her cheeks pinched from a smile. “Eunji, look.” With chalk, she drew a large box across my plaster wall. She made lines in and out the square. The edges of the box sunk into the wall like a window. The lines thickened into bright green panels. I swear I even saw sunlight shine through the blinds with the wind nudging them gently apart.

Grandma said this was when she was the most happy. It was her classroom window in Ueno. The students and teachers hung emerald lines of birthday wishes along the frame. Though it was an arranged tradition for each student, it was still surprising. And comforting. The way they swayed back and forth during a time she felt alone…She pointed to the top of the window, something like calligraphy. I couldn’t tell if it was kanji or hanja. She sounded it out so slowly, I could repeat it now. Eunji, Happy Birthday.

I woke up devastated all the same.

Revisiting Old Wounds

angelaejkoh — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 06:18:00 +0000

In the Seoul morning, when I look out the balcony, I see the clouds getting caught in the dense mountainside. If you blink, it almost looks like smoke escaping the treetops. Like the whole city’s on fire. About two years ago, I fell asleep in my parents’ living room in Korea, on the hard floor with a pink quilt over my face. I had been visiting my distanced parents over the winter. When I awoke, the quilt looked so much like the one in my apartment. For agonizing minutes, I thought I was alone on my spring-less, flat bed in California. To the lone child still selfishly waiting, it felt worse than sitting backstage, watching parents hand their kids plastic roses and head home to real dinners. Worse than when I told a brown coffin why I couldn’t take my grandma to Ueno anymore. I felt the things I’d carefully buried.

I was so accustomed to this ‘alone’ that I became good at it. When I’m surrounded by nothing but four plaster walls, everything’s the way it’s supposed to be and my life is continuing in a way I’d imagined. This was comfortable and all I knew how to handle. So when I wake to an Apple-Vinegar-Onion sandwich (the way I like) with mom’s real hand laying down a cup of warm milk next to me, I can’t breathe. Would I wake up in a meager room back in California. Could I then crawl into the garage as I did when I was too young, thinking about letters that should have read, “Eunji, we’re coming back to get you.” I don’t want to blink. I owe it to myself to try and enjoy being by my family’s side for the summer, however uncomfortable and nerve-wracking it makes me (however instinctively, I want to drive them away from me). Would I survive if I were to see my clouds turn into fire one more time.

Of No Importance

angelaejkoh — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 03:40:00 +0000

I am still heartbroken heart broken hear t.b.r. oke roken
“Critical Condition/Emergency” It was crossed out.
I don’t want to read these anymore meditation exercises routines THEY DON’T HELP! “Hallucinations, Low Serotonin, Somatic Depression, Recurrent Episodes, Insomnia…” I don’t want GABA nor calcium injections, I’m fine.
“Why did you quit DC?”
Stop it.
I dream every single night, I remember being in hell when I was five I remember dreams before I began to talk how could I articulation is it possible Chiampi said to me, just because God knows the future does not mean he’s made the choice for you. It’s like if he’s watching the replay of a football game, he knows what’s going to happen, but He had no role in the freedom of choice the person made. Otherwise, there would be no justice in punishment! in hell! Jeff, looking for me, found me drunk, confused, sitting alone.
“I am holding Grandma’s hand”
She and I talked about Ueno where she would walk by her large, grand flowers blooming in season. It’s next to the mini zoo. The scuba diving instructor walked me there and as he thought we might have been on a sweet date, I would smile to myself as I knew I was with Grandma instead. They really were the size of six-year-olds. I would return to let her know, and call out Kumiko-san! She said it made her feel like she was young in Japan again, and I promised I would return with her, to Ueno.
“Tell me about last night”
I was in my bed with my Grandmother’s rotting corpse next to me.
“Why was she there?”
She was waiting for me to say bye.
“What did she say?”
The most beautiful things my ears could have heard from the goodness of God Himself.