So very awkward.
I don’t know why I’m here today, what we possibly have to cover. Everything about being in this room is confusing and foreign, even though I’ve been seated at this table for hundreds of breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. For thousands of study sessions and Physics Olympics preps and class projects. For dozens of platters of chocolate chip pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice, served in those short glasses adorned with red cherries.
Every visit to this table has been some version of the same, with Mrs. Cho steamrolling over us about one thing or another. Nipping at us like she was a sheepdog and we were the little lambs who kept trying to escape the pasture. We could set our clocks to Mrs. Cho’s monologues. Stephen and I would smile and nod while we’d kick each other under the table and roll our eyes.
But today? This feels like the first time I’ve ever been here.
Largely because I have no clue as to what’s going to happen next.
Mrs. Cho finally says, “I got a letter. Well, no. Stephen got a letter. He was admitted.” She unfolds a dog-eared envelope emblazoned with the MIT crest. She passes it to me, gesturing for me to see the letter inside. The heavy paper stock has been softened by frequent handling. The edges are smudged.
I take and scan his acceptance letter, unsure of what to do.
I don’t know how to respond.
No, that’s a lie. I feel like I want to ball up the letter. Like I want to throw it. Like I want to stand on this table and shout, What a waste, what a fucking waste! I feel rage, my blood hot and angry, making my face burn. I feel like I want to throw open the cabinets and find those stupid cherry-print juice glasses, smash them against the wall, tell her no, terrible things actually wouldn’t happen if we ever drank OJ from concentrate.
Before I can open my mouth, I feel Mallory wrap her fingers firmly around my wrist. I imagine this is her way of restraining me, of keeping me from springing up. Instead of channeling my pain and loss at Mrs. Cho, I concentrate on the warmth of Mallory’s palm. I like her hands better when she’s not using them to poke me with her bony fingers.
“Kent is glad you emailed,” Mallory says, ever the politician. “He’s really been missing Stephen. He talks about him so much. I wish I’d known him better.”
She’s trying to prompt Mrs. Cho to talk, to move this thing along, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
Mrs. Cho wraps her arms around herself and rocks back and forth. Dude...who is this person wearing a Mrs. Cho suit? This woman that’s all calm and nice and gentle? And where was she for eighteen years? What happened to the Tiger Mom who had an opinion about anything and everything, up to and including what’s an appropriate amount of toilet paper to use?
“I just wanted him to be safe,” she says, more to herself than us.
Mallory squeezes my wrist.
Mrs. Cho’s voice goes soft. “That’s all I wanted. Him to be safe. That’s why we moved here from Los Angeles. We thought, ‘We should raise our family in this wonderful place. This is where our children will be safe.’ And I kept him safe from every element. Every element but himself.”
I start to say something but Mallory gives my wrist a yank. I glance at her and she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. “Shh,” she says, too quiet for Mrs. Cho to hear.
“You’ve heard about the LA riots. I don’t know if Stephen ever told you, but I was there.”
Mallory raises an eyebrow as if to verify with me. I nod my head to indicate yes.
Stephen always speculated that his mom’s family was targeted because they were immigrants. He thought that this experience was why his parents had essentially rejected all the Asian parts of themselves, why there were so few nods to anything South Korean in his life. Being different made them stand out and standing out was dangerous.
She explains, “Los Angeles was a powder keg, primed for a spark back then. Relations were terrible between Koreans and African Americans after shopkeeper Soon Ja Du received no jail time for killing a fifteen-year-old girl named Latasha Harlins. Soon Ja Du thought the girl was stealing orange juice, but video showed she had money, wanted to pay.”
Mallory and I glance at each other, puzzled as to why she’s telling us this.
“My parents owned a small grocery store. I worked for them, helped them keep their books. Rioting began in our neighborhood when white police officers were found not guilty for beating a man, even though everyone had seen the videotape.”
“Rodney King?” Mallory asks.
Mrs. Cho nods. “Our store was burned to the ground. Stephen knew that. I almost never spoke of the experience, so there are details he never knew. Important details. I was waiting until he was old enough to understand.” She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment. “I waited too long.”
Then she begins to fold and unfold Stephen’s letter, likely for something to do with her hands. The new cat jumps up on the table and settles in next to her, but she doesn’t notice.
“Sixty-two people died during the riots. My brother Seutibeun was one of them.”
Mallory and I exchange glances. She has no idea that this is new information to me.
“My brother wanted to be called by the American version of his name—Stephen. He loved this country and everyone in it. He was friends with our customers, went to school with them, played basketball with them, listened to their music. The African Americans in the community hated us, though. They thought we Koreans were colluding against them, thought we were exploiting their communities. In turn, my parents distrusted the locals, assumed they were all gang members. Believed they were always trying to steal from us. Stephen wasn’t swayed. He was the common ground between the two worlds. He’d explain himself by saying he liked who he liked and every color was the same to him. After the riots started, we all had to protect our businesses. Owners stood on the roof with rifles to prevent looters. Stephen was furious, said no matter what happened, we could rebuild. Said inventory wasn’t more valuable than life.”
Mrs. Cho stops to dab at her eyes with the sleeve of her son Stephen’s T-shirt.
“The gangs left us alone at first because Stephen treated them with respect. But on the third night of the riots, he was speaking to a friend out front. Another shopkeeper thought he was a looter because he wore American clothes—he dressed just like everyone in the neighborhood. He and his friend were gunned down right there on the sidewalk. Our store was blamed for his friend’s death. We were targeted and that’s when the looters retaliated.”
“Did Stephen know any of this?” I ask. I can’t imagine that he did.
She shakes her head. “I kept it from him. I didn’t want him to know how ugly the world could be. I wanted him to be safe.”