Almond(6)

One time I asked Mom what I should feel when somebody gave me bad food. The question caught her by surprise. She puzzled over it for a long time and responded that at first, I could feel “angry” at the bad taste (I remembered a couple times when Mom criticized a restaurant for its awful taste). But she said people could still feel “happy” or “grateful,” depending on their personality. (I also remembered that every time Mom complained, Granny would scold Mom to just appreciate having food at all).

By the time my age hit double digits, there were more instances when Mom needed time to tell me how I should react or when her answers were vague. As if to suspend all additional questions, she told me to just memorize the basic concepts of the main emotions.

“You don’t need to get into the details, just nail the basics. At least it’ll make you seem like a ‘normal person,’ even if you might seem cold.”

To be honest, I couldn’t have cared less. Whether I was normal or not made little to no difference. To me, it was as subtle as the differences in the nuance of the words.





10


Thanks to Mom’s persistent efforts and my mandatory daily training, I slowly learned to get along at school without too much trouble. By the time I was in fourth grade, I had managed to blend in, making Mom’s dream come true. Most of the time, it was enough to stay silent. I had discovered that if I kept quiet when I was expected to get angry, it made me look patient. If I kept silent when I was supposed to laugh, it made me look more serious. And if I kept silent when I was expected to cry, it made me look strong. Silence was definitely golden. I still habitually said, “Thank you” and “I’m sorry.” They were the magic words that helped me get through most tricky situations. That was the easy part. As easy as being handed a thousand won and giving back a couple hundred won in change.

The hard part was when I had to hand someone a thousand won first. That is, to express what I wanted and what I liked. It was hard because to do it, I’d need extra energy. It was like paying first when there was nothing I wanted to buy and when I had no idea what anything cost. It was as overwhelming as trying to make big waves on a serene lake.

For example, if I happened to look at a Choco-Pie I didn’t actually want, I had to force myself to say, “That looks good.” And then ask, “Can I have one?” with a smile. Or, if somebody bumped into me or broke a promise, I had to shoot back, “How could you do this to me!” Then cry and clench my fists.

Those were the hardest tasks for me. I would rather not have been involved in them at all. But if I seemed too calm, like a serene lake, Mom said I could also be labeled as a weirdo. She added that I should act out these emotions once in a while.

“Human beings are a product of their education, after all. You can do it.”

Mom said everything was for my sake, calling it love. But to me, it seemed more like we were doing this out of her own desperation not to have a child that was different. Love, according to Mom’s actions, was nothing more than nagging about every little thing, with teary eyes, about how one should act such and such in this and that situation. If that was love, I’d rather neither give nor receive any. But of course, I didn’t say that out loud. That was all thanks to one of Mom’s codes of conduct—Too much honesty hurts others—which I had memorized over and over so that it was stuck in my brain.





11


To use Granny’s own words, I was more “on the same wavelength” with her than with Mom. Actually, Mom and Granny didn’t share any similar physical or personality traits. They didn’t even like the same things—aside from the fact they both loved plum-flavored candy.

Granny said that when Mom was little, the first thing Mom ever stole at a store was a piece of plum-flavored candy. Right after Granny said, “The first,” Mom quickly shouted, “and the last!” and Granny simply added with a chuckle, “Good thing she stopped at stealing candy.”

The two had a special reason for loving the plum candy. Because it has both sweet and blood taste. The candy was white with a mysterious sheen and a red stripe across its surface. Rolling it inside their mouths was one of their precious little joys. The red stripe would often cut their tongues as it melted away first.

“I know this sounds funny, but the salty blood taste actually goes well with the sweetness,” Granny would say with a wide smile, a bag of plum candies in her arms, while Mom looked for ointment. It’s strange, but I was never bored with anything Granny said, no matter how many times I heard her say it.

*

Granny came into my life out of nowhere. Before Mom became tired of life on her own and reached out for help, they hadn’t talked for nearly seven years. Their sole reason for cutting family ties was because of someone not in the family, who later became my dad.

Granny lost Grandpa to cancer when she was pregnant with Mom. From then on, she had dedicated her life to making sure her daughter wouldn’t be picked on for being a fatherless child. She basically sacrificed herself for Mom. Fortunately, Mom—though not exceptional—did pretty well in school and made it to one of the women’s universities in Seoul. All these years Granny had worked hard to raise her precious child, only to have her fall for some punk (that’s what she called Dad) who sold accessories at a street stall in front of her college. The punk declared his eternal love to Mom, putting a ring (quite possibly from his cheap accessory stand) on her finger. Granny vowed that the marriage would take place over her dead body, to which Mom retorted that love is not for some nobody to sign off on for approval. Mom got a slap on the cheek as a result.