Kimchi & Calamari(14)

“I suppose,” Mom said, nodding, although she looked doubtful.

Through the window I watched Dad reel the hose in. I better wrap this up.

“Do you know anything else? I mean, about me before America?”

Mom closed her eyes as if she were thinking hard.

“Your birth mother had tucked a note under your blanket. We never got it—and I’m sure it was written in Korean—but the adoption agency told us about it. She asked that you be raised Christian. That’s part of the reason you came to us.”

“What about my Korean name, Duk-kee?” I asked, just as Dad opened the sliding glass door.

“Just what I’ve told you already, honey. Your birth mother named you Duk-kee. It’s a common name in Korea.”

Dad came inside and washed his hands. “What are you two talking about?”

“Joseph was asking about the day he was born and his name. His Korean name,” she said.

Dad nodded and looked at me. “Your mom was set on naming you Joseph after the saint when you arrived safely, but I was partial to Antonio.”

“Yeah, Dad, I sure look like an Antonio.” I was teasing, but I wasn’t, too.

“We could’ve picked worse. You could’ve been baptized…Luigi!” He shouted it loud, intentionally exaggerating an Italian accent.

“Luigi?” I made my ultra-disgusted face.

“Don’t pay any attention to your father. He wanted Gina to be named Philomena. I put my foot down on that one.” She was unscrewing the cork from a bottle of merlot, Dad’s favorite.

“Thanks for talking, Mom,” I said. I felt bad inside. Like I should have said, “None of this matters. You’re my real mom, after all.”

“Anytime you wanna talk, Joseph, we talk.”

I couldn’t talk anymore, even if I wanted to. My head hurt from all this heavy info. I would call Nash and tell him everything after dinner, but for now I didn’t want to think about it.

“Gina, you’re messing up the whole puzzle!” Sophie shouted. “The camel’s hump doesn’t go behind the zebra’s tail.”

“Don’t blame me. Noah brought too many animals on this ark,” Gina whined. “Can you help us, Joseph?”

I sat on the carpet next to my sisters and picked up a puzzle piece—an orange striped tail. “Let’s get this ark built so these fur balls don’t drown. Besides, chow’s on the table and my stomach is growling like this tiger.”





Starstruck




“Go away,” I shouted, knowing the Lilliputian knocking on the other side of the door was one of my sisters.

Who wouldn’t be grouchy? I was trapped in my bedroom dungeon, slaving away on my essay. My doomed essay. Even with all the details I had given him, Nash still couldn’t find anything. And his computer crashed. He said it had some sort of virus—probably caused by the malocchio since I wasn’t wearing my goat horn.

It was still sunny out, and the sound of kids playing in the distance was dogging me.

I picked up one of the library books. It had a map of North and South Korea on the cover and a photo of Mount Hallasan, the tallest mountain in South Korea.

I reread the assignment sheet for the twentieth time: “Your essay must fully explore your ancestry and reflect on its impact on your life.”

Why did Mrs. Peroutka have to turn social studies into soul searching?

“Guess what, Joseph!” Gina squeaked from the hallway.

“What?”

“We’re making chocolate chip milkshakes!”

“Bring one up to me. I’m busy.”

I heard Gina run downstairs and then back upstairs again. “Mommy says no food out of the kitchen. You know the rule. Come down,” she pleaded again.

“Maybe later.”

After scanning a hundred pages in the book, my yellow notepad was still wordless. The “I’ve Got Nothing to Say Korean Heritage Tale” by Joseph Calderaro.

Dozens and dozens of Korean faces stared up at me from the pages. People from the Yi Dynasty all the way to the Korean War, and yet I couldn’t find a way to get started. To stick me in the story.

A couple of pictures showed Koreans who led this surprise counterattack when Japan invaded in 1910. I never knew that Japan invaded Korea. Or that these scrappy Korean nationalists waged such a fight against the odds to resist. They reminded me of minutemen from the Revolutionary War, except with black hair, buttonhole eyes, and swords instead of rifles.

A few pages later I saw this faded photo of a short, muscular Korean runner. He wore a medal around his neck and he looked serious, like most people in old pictures. Yet there was something bold about him, with his defiant eyes, spiky hair, and puckered lips, ready to take on the world. He had something to prove.