While we wait for the salted cabbage to soak in the water, she shows me how to make the paste that flavors the kimchi. Some of the ingredients are obvious, like red pepper flakes, ginger, andgarlic. And some are a surprise to me, like pears, rice flour, and the oysters she mentioned earlier. Making kimchi is actually kind of fun, and surprisingly it’s the one thing I don’t suck at making in the kitchen. It isn’t long before I begin to think of someone else who would appreciate this moment more than me.
“Is it only the women who participate in kimjang?” I ask.
She gives me a knowing look. “Being on a farm was hard, especially for the women. Not only did we labor in the fields alongside the men, but we also had to take care of all the domestic duties. Cooking, cleaning, child-rearing. Men were the only ones who were given recognition, even though they had one job and women had many.” Her face hardens as she describes it. Then she turns to me and softens. “Kimjang was intended for mothers and daughters to bond. Growing up I thought it was special. I can see now that kimjang should be for everyone.”
I nod, agreeing with her.
Mom’s childhood sounds so different from mine. I can’t begin to imagine it. “What was it like in Anbandegi?”
She starts to explain, then stops herself. “Do you really want to know? Shouldn’t we be focusing on you? I may not have been there for you before, but I want to be there for you now.”
“I appreciate that, Mom. But this is important too.” There’s been a lot we missed out on in each other’s lives. And that goes both ways. It’s time we started getting to know each other. So I ask her more questions about what it was like on the farm. She tells me about how even though the farm was successful, it was always susceptible to failure due to weather, the economy, and other things outside of their control. The instability growing up made her and my dad want to move to the United States and make a different path for themselves.
At the mention of Dad, it occurs to me that they had the sameupbringing. I understand better his obsessive devotion to work. Knowing he had to overcome so many hurdles, that he had to work harder to prove himself. It helps to let go of the resentment I built up, thinking he preferred work over me. Still, something about it confuses me.
“Why doesn’t Dad ever talk about his time on the farm?” I ask. “You’d think he’d be proud of his accomplishments, coming from such humble roots.” Even in his autobiography, the story of his life, he doesn’t mention it.
She sighs as if she shares my confusion. “Your father has complicated feelings about his background. Farmers were among the lowest class in Korea. When he came to America to start his own business, he felt that coming from such a low-status family hindered his credibility.”
“But this is America. There’s no class system here. At least not one that prevents people from moving up in society.”
“I know. And it’s not like that anymore in Korea either. At least that’s what I’ve heard. But it’s not easy for him to forget about the past that made him who he is. Even I know that. It’s why we bought this place.” She sighs nostalgically. “It was hard, but after we got married and came to this country, we looked back on so many fond memories. Growing our own food was so rewarding, but we could never enjoy it since our livelihoods depended on it. Once we opened our first shop in the Fashion District and had enough money to live well, we planned on retiring here. We wanted to live a quiet life on a farm without the stress of being dependent on it.” She smiles at the memory. Then it quickly turns into a frown. “At least thatwasthe plan.” She sighs. A flash of hurt appears for the briefest second.
“That was our mistake,” she says, coming to. “We thought as long as we had enough money, we’d never experience loss like we did onthe farm.” She inches closer to me. “Sorry for being so hard on you. I was only trying to teach you to be self-reliant before it’s too late. Because if you’re not careful, you might find yourself dependent on a man.”
It occurs to me that Mom’s warning is a reflection of her feelings about the position she finds herself in now. Dad didn’t consider Mom when he pivoted to joining the co-op, which has changed their future. Not because Dad was uncaring or because Mom didn’t have a voice, but because it’s what they were taught about marital expectations when they got married. And maybe it made sense then, but it doesn’t make sense to me.
“You said it’s not too late for me to learn how to be more self-reliant,” I say, the earlier edge from my tone gone. “Maybe it’s not too late for you too.”
Her head jerks back, and for a second it looks like she’s going to challenge me. Slowly she closes her mouth and doesn’t say anything.
Chapter 24
On Monday the following week, I’m woken up by a call from Mr.Ahn. Through the door I can hear Dad’s side of the conversation. From what I gather, the items for the public auction have been sorted through, and the rest of our belongings have been placed in a storage unit, waiting to be claimed by us.
“We have to leave now if we want to get to LA and back before it gets late,” Mom announces, standing at the door of our room.
“We have to go too?” I ask. Not that I don’t want to go to LA, but to go collect our old things from a public storage unit like we’ve been evicted from the city dulls the appeal.
“Can’t we just leave it there until we get back? It’ll be, what? Like a month or two?” Gavin asks groggily. He was up late again last night, talking to Callie. He always tries to be discreet, taking the phone under the covers, which muffles his words but doesn’t dampen the giggling.Somuch giggling.
Dad frowns. “Until I start working my new role at the company, we have to economize. Paying for the storage unit seems unnecessary since we have the time to take care of it now.”
“And we only packed for two weeks. We should move the rest of our belongings—or what’s left of them—here,” Mom adds.
“How are you going to bring it all back on the tractor?” Gavin asks.
More importantly…“How are we going to all fit in the tractor?” I ask.
“I was thinking we could squeeze into the tractor until Bakersfield. From there, we could rent a car to go to LA and back,” Dad says.
Surprisingly, sharing a seat with Gavin isn’t the worst part of Dad’s proposal. “You want the four of us to ride the two-person tractor to Bakersfield? Why don’t we just wear a sign that says: We’re poor,” I deadpan. “Besides, that seems like a lot of effort to bring our things back. I’m sure someone can lend you a vehicle. One that has doors and windows.” I sit up when I remember something. “Jean has an old truck she uses to deliver flower arrangements. I’m sure she’d lend it to you.”
“That could work.” Dad considers it. “I remember seeing it. It’s a four-seater, so it can fit us comfortably.”
“But I have plans to go to the town council meeting with Callie. They’re going to discuss what they can do with the beautification funds they’ve earned so far. I can’t miss it.” I’m surprised to hear myself say those words and actually mean them.
“And what about the soil?” Gavin says. “If we’re going to plant soon, it needs to be turned.”
