“Heyo,” my sister, Isla, calls back from the kitchen. “We’re in here.”
I round the corner and find my mom with Kayla at the dining room table as Jules sits in the chair next to her, while Isla and my dad are standing in the kitchen eating donuts from a big Dunks box while observing the scene.
“I thought you were taking the girls to the diner.”
Dad shrugs. “We wanted donuts.”
Guess I didn’t need to rush after all. Thanks for letting me know, guys.
There are dozens of bundled nylon cords in a variety of colors covering the table. My mom is holding up a recently completedmaedeupas she explains to the girls how she tied it. “I’ve been teaching myself how to make these, and I thought it would be fun to teach you.”
She gets to her feet when she sees me and offers me a half hug, which isn’t so much a hug as it is a shoulder squeeze, then a pat. We aren’t overly affectionate with each other, not like she and Isla are. I’ve stopped taking that personally. Well, I’ve been trying to stop. It’s an ongoing process.
My sister and I got two completely different moms in the same woman, and that’s just how it is. I got the terrified mom who got pregnant younger than expected, whose professional dreams were dashed upon seeing the results of her pregnancy test, who had no support system once I was born, and wasn’t encouraged to seek help when she was clearly suffering with postpartum depression. Isla got the mom nine years later, who was halfway through getting her law degree, who was regularly seeing a therapist, and eager to get the whole mom thing right the second time around.
Setting that aside, Mom and I have always clashed. She’s quick to tell me I need to “calm down” and “not let my temper take over,” while Isla is her eternally serene princess.
“Maedeups, huh?” I ask, surveying the table.
“Yes, they needed something for cultural heritage day, and I thought this would be perfect.”
“Hm.” I pick up the one she made, going over the intricate loops with my fingers. “Wish I knew how to make these at their age. What else is on the agenda?Bibimbapfor lunch?”
I hear my dad let out a warning grunt from the kitchen, where Isla is shaking her head disapprovingly at me.
“Easy, Lindsay,” Mom says quietly. “This is supposed to be a nice weekend.”
Oh, and another pain point between me and Mom is the lack of Korean culture she exposed us to as kids. It’s not entirely her fault, given that she was an army brat and only child to Korean immigrants, making assimilation priority one whenever they moved around the U.S., but she’s very much the kind of person to obsess about a new hobby one week, and lose interest in it the next since she retired, and I don’t like thinking of the preservation of our roots being treated like learning the harmonica, breadmaking, calligraphy, or that month she wanted to become a reiki healer.
Growing up in Boston, I was around other Korean kids, but with my Italian last name and inability to speak the language, to them, I was an outsider. Too white to be accepted by them, not white enough to avoid being the butt of racist jokes by the white kids.
Since Dad was the cook in the family, we were always eating American or Italian food. It wasn’t until I went to college that I started going to Korean restaurants. Isla and I got really into K-pop a few years ago and couldn’t stop watchingKPop Demon Hunterswhen it came out, then we started bingeing K-dramas, but whenever we’d invite Mom to join us, there was an odd reluctance about her. Almost as if she felt offended to be introduced to her own culture by her daughters.
It’s a loaded subject to broach, to say the least.
Dad clears his throat. “The traffic looks decent right now,” he says jovially as he approaches. “What route are you taking?”
I always take 93 North to 89 North, and he knows this, but I appreciate his very dad-like attempt to change the subject.
“We’re supposed to get a few inches on Monday afternoon, so make sure you leave in the morning, okay?”
“Okay, Dad,” I tell him, giving him a hug.
“Jules,” I say as I brush the loose pieces from her braid off her forehead. “Call or text me any hour, okay? If you need me to come home, say the word and I’ll be on my way.”
“Yeah,” she mumbles, her focus entirely on the nylon cord in her hands.
I wave to the group over my shoulder. “Okay, have fun. See you on Monday.”
I’m comforted to know that visits between Jules and her grandparents are completely free of tension and awkwardness, but it wasn’t always this way. As soon as Jules started dressing herself, I knew she was different, and I encouraged her to explore that in whatever form it took.
My parents––Mom, in particular––weren’t as open-minded. Leading up to the day Jules came out, I had already had many difficult discussions with Mom and Dad about supporting Jules on her journey with her identity. There were countless emails exchanged with links to medical resources on what gender affirming care actually entails, and news about bigoted anti-trans laws to help them understand the reality of what living authentically would look like for her.
Ultimately, they knew I wouldn’t tolerate any lack of support, and if they wanted to remain in her life, they’d have to accept herjust as she is. It helped that around the same time, Kayla started talking about having crushes on a boy and a girl in her class, which led to my dad throwing up his hands and saying, “Kids today. I don’t know. Whatever, as long as they’re happy.” Since then, we haven’t had any issues.
My drive to Mapletown is long and peaceful, thanks to The Cranberries and Dolores’s stellar pipes. The iced hazelnut latte the size of my forearm didn’t hurt either, though it did make me stop twice along the way to pee. As soon as I pass the sign that says “Mapletown Welcomes You,” my heart does this gleeful skip while my shoulders lower with ease. I know it’s not a perfect utopia, and I’m sure it’s got its problems, but this little town is becoming very sacred to me.
A bubbly minotaur named Quinn gets me checked into my room at Pebblebrook Inn, and I can’t look away from her…everything. From her pink hair to her orange platform sneakers, she looks like she was styled by Lisa Frank herself. None of what she’s wearing seems to match, yet it somehow makes sense together as an ensemble. She’s very chatty, but in a way that makes you feel like she’s your best friend. As she sets my bag in my room, she offers me a free turkey sandwich on rye bread with a bag of chips and a soda, and my stomach growls so loudly that I can’t bring myself to refuse. I mindlessly eat my lunch as I putter around, putting clothes on hangers, setting up my beauty products in the right order, and once I’m done eating, I give my makeup a little touchup before I get back in the car.
