"Thanksgiving" from Eyes of Awakening

James’s family had a set of rituals they followed every Thanksgiving. His father gathered with other Korean fathers to go golfing, his mother took advantage of his father’s absence to watch more Korean dramas, his grandmother joined his mother in the living room to watch whatever she was watching, and his grandfather slept on the couch. James sauntered into the house only toward dinnertime after rolling around in bed all day. He loved staring at the strips of autumnal light highlighting the walls and staying warm under his blanket as the November winds shook the windowpanes.

This year, though, all of these rituals had been sabotaged by his sister. She had driven down from L.A. for Thanksgiving break and somehow convinced his parents to spend the entire day cooking a turkey dinner in the name of “bonding.” James had tried employing his usual excuses and a handful of other tried-and-true evasion tactics, but his mother had sided with his sister and forced him, under threat of rescinding his rent money, to participate. He’d had no choice but to abandon his Thanksgiving tradition of staying burrowed under his blanket and now sat in his car, shivering in the cold of the morning just outside his parents’ home. He untied his black bracelet and threw it against the glove compartment.

Of all the years his sister could have chosen to herd them together, it had to be this year! The nights leading up to Thanksgiving had been the very definition of the phrase “living nightmare.” He’d found himself with a pierced watch and woken up two hours prematurely not only once but twice, and he had yet to catch up on the sleep he had missed. His grades were plummeting. Projects lay unfinished. He leapt up from his mattress every morning in a frenzy and ran out the door as memories from the night and to-do lists from the day collided in his head. His sister’s stupid Thanksgiving bonding mission was destroying what little time he had left to raise his grades, salvage his job, and most importantly, ensure that he’d live long enough to make it to next year’s Thanksgiving. What was so important about cooking together anyway? No one in his family even knew how to cook American food.

Rolling away the crust in his eyes with one hand and gripping his textbooks with the other, he hurried through the morning chill and into his parents’ home. As he took off his shoes, his grandfather gave him a swift greeting and disappeared into the spare bedroom for a nap. James wandered into the living room and hugged his grandmother, who patted his hand and continued watching dramas. His mother and sister were arguing in the kitchen. Apparently, his mother believed apples to be the miracle food that would cure the pimples sprinkled across his sister’s chin. His sister, of course, had disagreed.

Knowing better than to intervene, James joined his father in mashing the potatoes until his father groaned, stretched out his back, and sank into the couch next to his grandmother. James abandoned the potatoes and switched places with his grandfather in the spare room. As eight hours had yet to pass since his last sojourn into the Flowering, he tossed aside the option of sleeping and plowed through his textbooks instead. He ignored his sister’s pleas to return to the kitchen and lost himself in his studies.

Several hours later, he found himself at the dinner table, eating what he had always known they’d end up eating: a normal, Korean meal, which had been prepared almost solely by his mother. The meal consisted of white rice mixed with brown rice, hot doenjang jjigae loaded with potatoes and squash, his mother’s hand-made kimchi, a fried fish, and a variety of vegetable-based banchan to supplement the whole meal. The only deviants were chicken, which his mother had bought as a substitute for turkey, packets of ketchup saved from various fast-food restaurants to go along with the chicken, and James’s mashed potatoes, which remained abandoned on a corner of the table. Nothing disturbed the silence of their meal except for the clicking of chopsticks. He glared at his sister as she smiled hopefully around at everyone. He could practically feel the awkward conversation just brimming at her mouth.

“This spinach is really tasty, Heri,” his mother said in Korean.

“Really? You like it, Mom?” his sister said. Her heavy American accent softened and blurred what should have been the hard edges of her Korean. She sat up straighter in her chair as her face lit up at the prospect of breaking the cold silence.

“Yes,” his mother said. “You made it well. You can make it like this when you get married too.”

His sister deflated. James was glad that she didn’t reply. Engaging their mother at this point would only trigger an infinite amount of questions regarding why they both weren’t out in a crowd of strangers at this very moment, wooing a significant other with every chance that came their way.

“This is really good too, James,” his grandmother said. She pointed her chopsticks at the untouched bowl of mashed potatoes.

“Thank you,” he said as he shoved rice into his mouth. His grandmother thought anything he did was brilliant. He was the precious first-born son, after all.

“Is school going well?” his father asked Heri.

“Yeah! My professor just hired me to help her with a project next quarter,” she replied in a mixture of Korean and English.

James didn’t know why she even bothered trying to use any Korean when it sucked even more than his.

“Just you?” his mother asked Heri.

“Yeah,” Heri said as pride made her sit straighter still.

“Why just you? Why not choose some of the other kids?”

“Because my professor thought I was talented, Mom!” said Heri. She drummed her feet lightly on the floor in frustration.

“Oh, so only you were chosen,” his mother said, her eyes growing wide with genuine understanding. “Because your professor thinks you’re smart.”

“Yes, Mom. I have potential. I’ve been working really hard!”

“That sounds like a good opportunity. You thanked your professor, right? If you haven’t already, buy a nice thank-you gift for your professor. If you need money, I’ll give you some.”

“No! That’s weird.”

James set down his spoon and tried to convey to Heri through his bulging eyes that she was an idiot.

“Heri,” his mother began, “you need to show respect to your professors. When someone of a higher ranking favors you, you have to show them gratitude. If you do, all of it will come back to you twofold. Buy your professor a gift. I’ll give you some money, don’t worry. I’m saying all of this for your own good.”

His father carved the chicken as Heri launched into an impassioned defense. His grandfather crept away into the spare room again. His father placed a juicy leg on Heri’s plate then eyed James’s pudge before placing a bit of dry breast on James’s plate. His grandmother chuckled, patted him on the hand, then retired to the couch.

By the time the first episode of his grandmother’s drama had ended, Heri had thrown in the towel and mollified their mother with a false promise that she would buy an expensive gift for her professor. His mother bustled away into the kitchen with a satisfied smile then brought back a tray of apples for dessert.

“Aigoo,” his mother groaned as she sat down. “It’s too troublesome to get the other knife.” She proceeded to peel the apples with a meat cleaver.

The apple skins swirled onto the plastic serving tray like long trails of pencil shavings under his mother’s experienced hand. James didn’t know why she had to use a meat cleaver to cut something like fruit. It looked so strange, not to mention dangerous. She used that cleaver to chop through meat–bones and all–for stews. He understood that she didn’t want more things to wash after dinner, but still. Couldn’t she use a butter knife or a paring knife or any kind of knife, really, that was actually designed for smaller things like fruit?

“Dad! After dinner. It’s Thanksgiving,” Heri admonished as his father straightened out the Korean newspaper with a good shake.

He sighed, folded up the paper, and tossed it onto the floor.

“Heri, eat apples,” his mother said, stabbing a large slice with a small dessert fork. She waved it in front of Heri’s mouth as she squirmed.

“Leave the child alone,” his father said.

Another squabble ensued, culminating this time in a victory for Heri. His mother commented loudly on Heri’s anal stubbornness then bustled toward the dirty dishes while grumbling to herself about her disobedient daughter. His father handed Heri the apple slice and nodded gently. She rolled her eyes before cramming the slice into her mouth and crunching away. James waited until most of the slices had disappeared.

“I’ll be on my way, then. I still have some homework to do,” he said, rising from the table.

“Wait, already?” Heri said.

“Oh, really? Okay, go study and drive safely,” his mother said. She hurried out of the kitchen and hugged him with soapy gloves.

He bowed to his father and bid him goodbye. His father nodded and opened up the newspaper. James rushed to the door and stuffed his feet into his shoes. He was stepping off of the porch when his sister opened the door.

“Wait!”

He groaned and turned around.

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