A mile east of where the 5 merges with the San Bernardino freeway is Duke’s Sportsman Liquor store. Duke and Sunny, my middle aged parents from South Korea, owned the small liquor store in the city of Terrace for nearly a decade. Sitting on a stool behind the hanging rolls of scratchers, I watched my parents work. My dad, with his toes exposed in his velcro sandals, greeted customers while talking with the Budweiser courier about the day’s shipment. My mother stood at the counter behind the bullet proof glass for hours on end, shifting her weight from one leg to the other to spare her aching muscles. Occasionally, a regular customer walked in and greeted me. “Duke Junior” is the title I was given as I had some of my father’s strong Korean features: monolids and pronounced cheekbones. Around sunset, my mother and I left the store. As we reversed out of the parking lot, my father stood and waved goodbye. On the radio was 50 cent’s “In da Club” and my mother left the windows of the Chevy wide open almost as if she was letting the wind evaporate the day’s sweat.
“Why can’t you be like white parents?” As a seventh grader who just spent the weekend at Jacob’s house, I heard a constant flow of “I love you” and “I love you too” throughout the day. I bicycled back home just in time for my mom’s signature spaghetti and meatballs, and I sat fiddling with my chopsticks until I asked, “Do you love me?” My mother stayed quiet until she said, “Don’t ask me those kinds of questions”.
My parents placed Korean culture at the top of the priority list for my siblings and me. We went to the cemetery several times a year to bow to our ancestors and pour rice wine around their tombstones. We celebrated the lunar new year with a morning full of incense and open doors to welcome ancestral spirits to feast on the food that my mom and grandma prepared over the span of several nights. We made a family pilgrimage to Korea to celebrate the death anniversary of my grandpa. Even though my family practiced traditional Korean culture, there was always a disconnect since I was not a native Korean. During my family’s pilgrimage, I wandered onto the soccer field in front of the hotel, and quickly began playing with the kids, until I was ousted for my accent. “Yankee” is what the Korean kids called me for being born in America and was no longer welcomed to play with them.
There was no secret that I was my grandma’s favorite. Somehow, we always managed to be by each other’s side with her hand in mine. She made whatever food that my tiny soul desired including my favorite Korean dessert; sweet rice punch. It seemed as though she devoted much of her existence to my siblings and me(mostly me). In the mornings, we walked across the street into the neighboring cul de sac where we enjoyed the roses lined along the sidewalk. We sat and talked to one another about what I wanted for lunch. After lunch, it was time for practice. With grandma as my only spectator, I practiced my chip shot until my hands were blistered. We watched Wheels of Fortune together on channel 7, and the occasional telemarketer called and disturbed our peace. She picked up and said, “bankruptcy” and quickly hung up. There was no question that grandma was my best friend.
고구려(高句麗; Goguryeo) existed in the korean peninsula from the first to seventh century. In an overly patriotic fashion, my father named his kids after the dynasty. Ko(brother), Rea(sister), Narang(sister), and me. The name “Narang” is a combination of the words “Nara Sarang” which directly translates to “love the land(nation)”. For most of my life, I grew up with Narang. We were born a year and a half apart from one another and Ko and Rea are my half siblings who are 7 and 8 years older respectively. Narang and I often traveled to Diamond bar with my father to visit Ko and Rea and without fail, we always visited chuck e cheese's. When I was in the second grade, Ko and Rea’s mother had passed away and they moved in with our father, my mother, narang, and me.
My family always collected and recycled bottles. Visiting home from UCSD, I scrunched water bottles and packed them into my duffel bag since I did not have a car to go to a recycling center near campus. Once I got home, I drove my family’s decade old Hyundai to pick up several bags that contained green soju bottles from my father’s restaurant along with a basket full of bottles that piled up at my mother’s house. I collected on average 20-30 dollars that covered the train cost to visit home. It was a strange moment at UCSD since my two closest friends did not possess the same mindset. Hannam and Justin were both from well off families that did not have recycling in their repertoire. Walking back to the apartment from the on campus market, we passed by a crushed Starbucks Mocha Can. Even whilst being with my best friends, I feared that if I were to pick up the crushed can, I would be labeled as a person who was less fortunate. Cans reap the most money at a recycling center at a whopping 10 cents, so I picked up the can the next morning while there was no one around to see. Much of my sophomore year was wasted in attempt to blend in with my peers who wore expensive clothes and followed Hypebeast trends. Now I see the irony in recycling bottles and cans to fund a $120 shoe purchase.
