I AM KOREAN AMERICAN

Own Words

It’s early spring. During an otherwise ordinary day, I meet an elderly Korean woman at work. My coworkers turn to look at me, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

I don’t know how to say “inflamed gallbladder” in Korean. I can manage to say, “Does it hurt here?” which earns me more gratitude from her than I deserve. I’ve done nothing.

The next day I meet her family. I explain her condition, and again I hear thanks. They tell me about their son, who is an orthopedic surgeon. “You must be very proud,” I say.

For a brief moment, I wonder how my grandmother is doing. She seems smaller and more frail every time I see her. Occasionally I hear from my parents about her being in the hospital. She always seems to recover from these bouts of … old age? I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in months.

But it only takes a face, and a few words, and I’m back sitting in her home, bop and ban chan spread in front of me, and her hand squeezing mine with a $20 bill, keeping me from letting go.

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