34. My mom is deep.

what's this? a second blogpost in just 24 hours?

huzzah!

i've recently received some good news, so i'm in a giving mood.

this post is inspired by a new find of mine, Tiger Mom Says, so it features some pretty impressive tidbits of advice my mother's graced my sisters and me with over the course of our lives.

here we go:

1. "You will not play the flute. You will play the saxophone like my favorite artist, Kenny G."

2. "What is Swarthmore? I know what Harvard is. Not Swarthmore!"

3. "You don't need a boyfriend. You need to become a well-rounded person. Special in everything so that you can host Saturday Night Live someday."

4. "Why are you going to social work school? Why does everything have to be the hard way with you?!"

5. "Why are you going to be a teacher? Why does everything have to be the poor way with you? Don't you want to own a boat someday?"

6. "You won't sing. You play instrument and learn real skill."

7. "University of Chicago? Why you going so far away for state school not even as good as UVA?"

8. "You think B+ is okay? B going to take you to community college!"

9. "You want to join drama club? You make enough drama at home with your grades!"

10. "Japan? I can't talk to you anymore."

11. "Don't cry; it makes you look guilty."

12. "Speak up; shy people weird everyone else out."

13. "I knew you were gonna grow out of the lesbian thing like your grandma grew out of the lesbian thing."

14. "Nobody puts my baby in the corner."

15. "You wanna go to college to get job being funny? I'm funny, why don't you pay me? You can't? Exactly."

32. Coming Out means you go through a second phase of adolescence. or my parents are just overcompensating.

before i Came Out, i seldom said a word about crushes.

or myself.

nobody - my parents, in particular - knew a thing about my taste in...anything.

i kept to myself, opted to impersonate my mother rather than offer up my own thoughts and feelings.

as such - that is, after shipping off to college and the island of Lesbos - after practicing trial-and-error for as long as i have (emphasis on the error), i'm realizing that these feelings of uncertainty and dumbassness and self-absorption in the context of relationships and self must be akin to those my hetero peers mucked around in several years ago.

after you Come Out of the Closet you Dive Blindly Into a Dark, Complicated, Terrifying Bedroom.

and, well, world, i guess.

if i was the kind to tap into that level of sappiness.

which i'm not.

aloud.

anywho.

my understanding of Involved Parenthood of Hetero Teenagers is that mom and dad are so nosy they can't help but say and do embarrassing things in the pursuit of buried, angsty feelings and preferences.

at least, that's how it goes in movies.

with the parents constantly making assumptions and causing their spawn to blush or throw unnecessarily emotional fits.

being that my parents were under the impression that they managed to raise three of the most a-sexual, pure young women imaginable, none of the Toro girls faced much interrogation growing up.

it was only when one of my sisters accidentally let some key piece of information slip that my parents became curious.

for me, that curiosity or concern for my love life didn't come about until i Came Out, and my parents were suddenly aware of the fact that, contrary to 18 some odd years of denial and silence, i actually DID have some kind of "drive."

so those cringeworthy conversations came about.

but instead of being completely agonizing, looking back i'm pretty sure it was all hilarious.

1. just months after i Came Out, my dad and i were at Borders partaking in some Daddy-Daughter Bonding Time [as he called it].

at one point, he called me over to the calendar rack - a crazy look in his eye.

"Pssst, Vickie! Hey, Vickie!"

"...Yes?"

"Come over here!"

"What is it?"

he pointed.

right at a Sports Illustrated calendar.

i blushed.

"Oh...um...great, dad. Awesome."

"You know what I JUST realized?" he asked, in one of those non-whispers-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-whisper.

"What?"

"When I say things about women, you could be thinking the SAME THING."

afterward, when i tried to change the conversation, my dad was determined to uncover my taste in women.

and was excited to find that i was, in fact, my father's daughter.

i was nauseous.

2. at Bath and Body Works, during yet another Daddy-Daughter outing, my dad caught me looking through some scents.

"Whacha got there?"

"Hm? I dunno. Nothing. Just looking."

he grabbed another bottle of the same scent and sprayed it.

sniffed it.

"Hm...Maybe not that one."

"Okay."

"'Cos you know, women like scents. If you wanna get girls, you have to have your own scent. So make it a really good one."

i stared.

"Here! This one's pretty good. I'll go pay for it."

3. my mother doesn't like too many people.

actually, for the longest time, i wasn't even sure if she liked me all that much.

but i digress.

one day, my oldest sister brought her boyfriend over for the holidays.

after, while my mom and i were in a car together, i asked her what she thought of him.

"Eh, I don't like him."

"Really?" i asked, "He's so nice, though! And Olivia likes him a lot."

"I know. But ugh. Beside, I'm yoh mommy. I'm gonna hate any boy you bring home."

"Ha! Well, that's lucky for me!"

at the red light, she stopped, looked me square in the eye.

"Girls, too."

and i knew that she was finally okay with my gayness.

4. i was lamenting the fact that i was single and clueless and hopeless.

my mother's words of comfort were a little uncouth.

"You know, iss actually kinda lucky you're a lesbian."

"...Why?"

"Women tend to like awkward, nerdy people better. Eben the pretty ones. Look at me and yoh daddy."

5. i told my dad that i'd drunkenly gotten a girl's number, but that i wasn't sure about giving her a call.

he was pumped that i shared this with him.

"Ha! You and I ARE alike!" he exclaimed, "When I was your age, and I'd get home from some party, I'd find girls' phone numbers IN MY CLOTHES. It was crazy, but I didn't know what it meant. My friends were like, 'Man, you should totally call her.' And I'd be like, '...Why?' It was hopeless. Ha! It's nice at least ONE of you girls took after me. Nice for me, not for you."

6. my mom told me she was a little surprised by my first girlfriend.

because she had always hoped i wouldn't pick someone like my mother.

i didn't see the resemblance til after that conversation.

and then it was all i saw.

7. the usual talks about how i'm a "wonderful girl, of whom no one is deserving."

gross.

and this is all i've got for now.

30. Korean grandmas are a dying breed. Relish those visors and animal print shirts while you can.

i love Korean Grandmas.

especially my own, but generally i find that Korean Grandmas are the kick-ass sort who flip society the bird from behind their too-large shades with their animal print shirts and permanently sour-puss looks.

as if to say, "Epp you, modahn day nohms, I habuh my own agenda. And dis is my regime's uniporm."

the other day, though, it hit me: after the current generation of wise-cracking, battle-scarred grandmas...disappear...they'll be gone forever.

at least in the US.

think about it.

all that sass came from decades of walking through war-torn streets, learning not to give a damn, and perfecting the art of practical "fashion."

the socks in sandals for comfort, warmth, and full range of motion for those toes.

the animal print, for urban camouflage.

the visors, so the sun won't blind them as they get up to their shenanigans.

like scowling at passersby.

muttering Korean obscenities about them.

haggling.

speed-walking.

nowadays, the up and coming generations of Koreans in the US have become way too trendy.

at least, too trendy to even consider tossing away their - i-don't-even-know-what-their-chosen-articles-of-clothing-are-called-because-i'm-so-frumptastic - in exchange for the Korean grandma fad.

it makes me sad to think that my own grandkids (if they're to exist) will never know what it's like to go Ajimah-spotting.

being waved at in that little way only those grandmas can do, where the hand and forearm almost spasm in unison, and the lady responsible purses her lips in what's supposed to be a friendly smile.

no old ladies to reach out, uninhibited, and pat them on the head.

no little 'fros.

they'll all - mostly - speak English fluently.

i feel like i have a responsibility to future children.

like when i'm old, i have to take on the challenge of keeping the Korean grandma phenomenon going.

learn to speedwalk with my hands clasped behind my back.

purse my lips.

wag my finger at questionable strangers.

overfeed my grandchildren.

clap my hands whenever i laugh.

examine things a little too closely, disregarding the concept of "personal space."

i owe it to my grandkids.

no one should have to miss out on the Korean grandma.

this is a call to short, stubby arms.

the kind that are generally stiff, even and especially when they randomly reach out and yoink you into a hug.

Grandma - Halmony - even though you can't read English, this one's for you.

for all those little slaps you gave my mom whenever she slapped me.

for being the only adult blood relative i had to tell me from the get-go that i should, "Grow up. Go to collegey. Be comedian."

for being you.

i salute you.

love you.

teach me your ways.

17. i come from a long line of terrifying women. and i take after my dad.

long time, no talk.

but excuses are like butts, and right now mine's hidden because of its recent descent into flabby unawesomeness, so i'll spare you.

anywho.

lately, i've been learning all sorts of fun facts about my family's history.

my Dominican side has ties to the assassination of Trujillo, and my Korean grandma broke all of the rules.

ALL of the rules.

apart from successfully escaping the clutches of her North Korean captors during the Korean War, she also managed to do much of the same from her adulterous husband.

apparently, my Korean grandpa was anything but faithful to her during their marriage.

he had affairs - Jeebus knows how many - and eventually, he managed to get a woman pregnant.

pissed, my grandmother had him and his mistress arrested - because adultery was against the law in those days - which was unheard of, as it was usually men who turned their adulterous wives in, while enjoying the company of as many women as they chose.

but my grandmother had him put into prison, divorced him, and bent his entire family to her will as she was the one with the money and the power.

"When he's released," she told him and his family, "I will help support him, but only because he can't support himself."

the family had no choice but to do whatever she asked.

so she was a war survivor and a divorcee.

and, on top of everything else, a successful Black Market saleswoman.

we still don't know the details.

all we know is that she also managed to raise my mother: a woman whose nickname in high school was Barracuda.

according to our aunt, my mother was the type who actively disliked just about every boy in school, which in turn only increased her appeal and made said boys want her love all the more.

nothing changed when she graduated and took a job at the US military base near her hometown.

indeed, she had been proposed to several times, and even found herself occasionally serenaded in the Officers Club and bars and the like.

she was the shit.

and, according to her, she knew it.

the only person who didn't seem to know it was, of course, my clueless dad.

"Uh, dat's where YOU get it from," she told me, mid-story.

anywho.

apparently, my mother was confused as to why this one man just didn't seem to like her as much as all the other men she met.

What's wrong with him? she wondered, and, What's wrong with me?

she had to get to the bottom of it and make him notice her.

she tried flirting.

"But he was stupid and didn't notice."

"...I really didn't..."

"So I had to try eben hahdah."

"Yep. She did."

and so she resorted to spreading rumors about how she had a crush on Andy Toro - a rumor she hoped would reach him.

and it did.

"But I didn't really believe it," my dad interjected, "The guys would say things like, 'Hey, man, I heard Ms. Kim wants to have a tour of your tank.' And I'd be like, '...So?'"

and my mom shook her head.

"Useless."

finally, my mom took a more direct approach.

"Andy?" she asked one day, when they ran into each other, "Would you mind teaching me Englishy? My Englishy is uh berry bad."

"Huh?" was all my dad could say, clearly confused, "Um...I guess..."

and after just a couple of sessions, my dad finally came to his senses.

finally, he asked her out.

"Okay," she told him, "But I just hab to uh tell my boypriend I can't see him anymoh."

"...Boyfriend?!" my dad exclaimed.

"...Boyfriend?!!!" i exclaimed, years later.

"Uh huh," my mom went on, "Foh a while I was dating dis man wis biiig glasses, berry tall, berry white, but berry nice. He wanted to get married, but he couldn't marry me while in his kind obah job, so he quit and said we could stay in uh Korea for a few moh years so I could learn better English befoh we go to dah States."

i stared.

"Yeah. I felt so bad when I broke up wis him. I couldn't eben look him in the face when I did it. But aptahword, when we left dah restaurant, I finally looked up at him, and his glasses were so foggy, and I felt so bad, so I just reached out my hand and gabe him a handshake and said, 'Okay! Bye!' And dat was it. Huh. I wondah where he is now?'"

my dad shook his head.

"Yep. And I bet you regretted it ever since."

"...Maybe. hahahaha."

knowing this doesn't make the fact that both of my parents are sure that i take after my dad at all comforting.

"But look at it dis way," my mother tried to console me, "It's actually lucky you're a lesbian."

"...Why?"

"Girls like nerdy, awkward, shy people moh. Look at me and yoh daddy."

15. Listen to Your Mother. Even If It Hurts.

sometimes i get the feeling that my mother is so supersaturated with advice that she can't help but occasionally explode with too much information.

and when you have to explode with too much information, very little attention is paid to how said information is shared.

or even what.

sometimes, it doesn't make sense at all.

other times, it's surprising just how much it actually does make sense.

and my mother tends to use any excuse to release some of her tension.

like awkward lulls in conversation.

or when you're already down.

in this case, it was after watching The Notebook.

as she and i were the only two at home for a weekend, we decided to have a movie night.

when the saptastic movie was done, i looked over and was surprised to see just how much my mother obviously secretly enjoyed it.

she sighed.

"So," she said, "what did you sink obah dah moobie?"

"...I dunno," i answered, "It was pretty cheesy and predictable."

"WHAAA?!"

i'd touched a nerve.

"Whaddyou mean, 'predeeeectaball?!' What to predeeect? Dey old!"

i shrank into my corner.

"DEY OLD!" she repeated, "What to predeect? Dey lib-uh, dey lub-uh, dey DIE!"

i was 15.

and, until that moment, full of hope.

11-12. Put Down That Donut. And Don't Answer the Door.

moving to Mexico City midway through my high school career was hard.

so hard, in fact, that in what felt like no time at all, i started to get...soft.

not in an emotional way.

...or just in an emotional way.

but in an, "Oh, my Jeebus...what happened to my biceps/abs/single chin?!" kind of way.

my inability to speak and make friends in the beginning was probably furthered by the fact that my mouth was perpetually full of raw teenaged angst: angst which took the form of many a donut.

soon enough, i was carrying the flabby weight of my emotions everywhere i went.

most people were tactful enough to let me quietly wallow in my own misery.

no one seemed to think it was necessary to fan the flames of my Juggernaut-esque spiral into heftiness and anger.

except my mother.

of course.

when we moved to Mexico City, it was because of my dad's new job as a defense attache for the US Embassy.

as such, he and my mother had to regularly attend fancy dinners and events, where they'd have to dress up in fancy tuxes and gowns.

him the tuxes, her the gowns.

but my mother, being the cheap-o Korean that she is, was reluctant to go out and spend thousands of dollars on new dresses.

she found a solution.

one night, as i was laying in my bed, recounting all of the miserable facets of my life (which was bound to meet a premature end, either by my own doing, or by that of my cholesterol), a knock came at my door.

i sighed and stayed still.

another knock.

"Beekieeeeee."

the sweetness in her voice made me suspicious.

i didn't move.

"Beekieeeeeeeee."

a little more urgency this time.

i sighed again.

got up.

slowly opened the door.

and immediately regretted doing it.

standing in the doorway, a big smile on her face, was my mother...wearing my 10th grade homecoming dress - the likes of which would've, at this point, only fit around one of my thighs.

my jaw dropped.

eyes widened.

stomach growled.

"I need to borrow yoh mirroh," she said in her playful, "innocent" voice.

"...Huh?" was all i managed to say.

"You hab-uh dah biggest mirroh in dah house, and I need to see eep-uh dis dress look good."

silence.

"What do you sink?" she asked, as she slowly turned on the spot, lifting her arms above her head and striking a pose.

i tried to ignore the sudden hunger pangs.

"Do you sink dis make me look goooood?" she said, posing with every syllable, "Huh? How about dis?"

i closed the door.

"Hey!" my mother shouted from the hallway, this time in a more familiar tone, "I need to borrow yoh mirroh!"

i stood and continued to stare blankly at the door.

my stomach growled again.

she knocked.

and kept knocking.

finally, i sucked it up and reopened the door.

and walked out.

and downstairs.

into the pantry.

---

*note: my mother is actually South Korean...*

7. Nobody Likes Shy People.

my mom likes to give advice.

but she's crazy and Korean and mean.

sometimes not all three.

but always at least two.

from as far back as i can remember, the things that i've learned about myself and of the world came from the very skewed and altogether tainted perceptions of my mother.

for instance, the fact that i'm weird and awkward has been mentioned several times a year, by her, since i was the age of 4.

[more recently, she told me that, "It's lucky you're a lesbian becuzzah girl tend to like awkward people. Look at me and yoh Daddy."]

and i remember the first time.

as the youngest of three girls, my quietness was kind of a blessing.

i never cried when i was a baby, and if i did, it was easy to console me.

i hardly ever spoke.

i never really got into fights with my sisters.

and, unlike the older two, i wasn't nosy or hyperactive or overwhelmingly curious.

i just...was.

when the oldest, Olivia, was in kindergarten, her teacher would occasionally call home and complain about how much over-sharing Olivia would do.

...Olivia was the kid who would tell the other kids how babies were made.

or about abortion.

Annie would get calls home, too, because, being one of the smartest kids in class, she would finish her work early and prevent the others from doing their work by being too chatty.

when it was my turn to start kindergarten, my parents were sure they'd finally get a break.

5 or 6 months of bliss: not a peep from my teacher.

until one night, when they found out why.

i was sitting in my room, playing with my action figures, when my mother slowly and cautiously walked in.

she quietly watched me for several moments, like she was waiting for me to come clean or break into a fit of hysterics.

"Beekie?" she finally said.

i put my toys down and looked up at her.

"Ah you unhappy?"

"...Huh?"

"Yoh teachah just call. She asked ip you were unhappy."

i stared.

i didn't know what she was getting at, especially since she didn't seem angry.

i'd never seen her look just politely confused before.

"She says you habn't said a word to anyone in 5 months..."

i kept staring.

is that weird? i thought.

she took a seat next to me.

"Ah you unhappy?" she repeated.

as always, i just didn't know what to say.

i shrugged.

"I don't think so."

"Beekie-yah," she started, seriously, putting a hand on each of my shoulders. she sighed.

i was confused and worried.

her level of concern was new to me.

"Beekie-yah," she started again, "Nobody likes shy people."

i felt my eyes go wide.

my pulse quickened.

i panicked.

she read my face.

"No, really. Shy and quiet people make odah people peel uncomportable."

i thought back to all those times i didn't say anything.

unanswered waves.

awkward smiles.

how many people have i made uncomfortable?!

"So try to pix dat, okay? Odahwise, people gonna sink yoh weird."

she patted me on the head.

"Nobody likes shy people, okay?"

she left.

and i was scarred.

and i'm pretty sure i'm weirder than ever.

3. Don't Cry. It Makes You Look Guilty.

i hate stereotypes.

just about the only thing i hate more than stereotypes is realizing that i fit some of them.

...i'm an Asian woman driver.

that being said, you might find it hard to believe that, throughout my entire driving career, i've only ever gotten 1 ticket (for parking) and i've only been in 1 accident.

granted, the accident was a stupid one.

but i learned a lot from it.

back in high school i was still under the impression that a.) stereotypes count for nil, and b.) yes, i can in fact use some sort of Jedi/Martial Arts/Yoga extra-sensory perception that allows me simultaneously drive and operate a cell phone.

and one morning, i was proved wrong.

we were stopped in traffic.

the car in front of me - a brand-new Mercedes - inched forward.

as i was looking down, trying to figure out how to work my poor-man's version of the iTrip, all i saw out of the corner of my eye was the sudden movement of the red brake lights ahead of me.

i accelerated.

and heard a crunch.

and, immediately, started to cry.

not because i was in pain.

or because i might have damaged the car.

and not because i was embarrassed.

but because images of my angry, Korean mother flooded my mind and i could already feel the raw sting of a bare hand on my stupid ass.

...or a flyswatter...

... and i could already hear the foreign obscenities ringing in my ears.

but i had to call her.

she was the only one at home.

so, sobbing, i pulled over to the side of the road, got out, walked up to the other car to make sure they were alright, and pushed "Call."

"Mommy?" i said, pitifully.

"...Yes?" she already sounded suspicious.

"I...got into a accident."

a long pause.

"What KIND obah acceedent?"

i tried to choke back some snot before replying, "...Car..."

a long, angry sigh.

"Where. Ah. You."

i told her.

she yelled through the phone and assured me she'd be there soon.

i waited.

after about 10 minutes, i saw her car pull up behind mine.

the door opened slowly.

she got out.

slammed the door shut.

her feet crunched loudly on the pavement as she made her way toward the passenger side of my car.

still sobbing, trembling, i opened the window and looked up.

her hand was raised and pointed, and she looked ready to scream.

i'd never seen her so pissed in my entire life.

she had Angry/Non-inebriated Asian Glow.

but she hesitated.

considered me a moment, in my most pathetic state: puffy-eyed, shaking, not a dry spot on my face.

spring and fear-induced snot dripping down to my chin.

...a crease between her eyebrows relaxed a little.

she sighed again:

and sure enough, i was "at fault."

lesson: learned.

and she never mentioned the accident ever again.