You Are Here, page 4
We make our way to Jamba, passing a bunch of travelers, including a father carrying a little boy on his shoulders. Daddy Pat used to carry me that way when I was little. I felt like I was on top of the world. Right now . . . not so much.
When we get to the stand, I order my usual, a Strawberries Gone Bananas smoothie and an oatmeal bowl, but this time I go for extra honey and extra brown sugar crumbles. Maybe the sugar will help.
Dentist Daddy Pat side-eyes me, though. “Extra brown sugar?”
Daddy Brian elbows him before I can respond. “It’s a travel day. Live a little.”
They smile at each other, and Daddy Pat leans into Daddy Brian. They won’t do that once we land, and I don’t know why they’re not more bothered by it. I am. I’m bothered by all of it.
I try to work up the courage to say something. I straighten my spine and push my shoulders back, but really, what’s the point? It’s way too late. We’re literally in an airport. Our suitcases are somewhere waiting to be loaded on a Korea-bound plane.
I slouch. I had really hoped I’d change my mind. That with Duolingo lessons or time, I’d want to “reconnect” with Korea. Or feel any connection to it at all. Instead, I feel like I did when I was standing behind takeout on Ms. Segman’s Food Heritage Day—like I’m faking it.
I should tell them.
I’m midthought when guards rush past us. Blue-on-blue uniforms blur by as they head for the security checkpoint.
My dads and I turn. Something is going on at TSA. I stand on my tiptoes, but I’m barely five feet tall. I can’t see anything from here. My dads are both six feet and move a few steps closer. And then a few more. Daddy Brian is a reporter for the New York Times and “inquisitive”—which is a nice-people word for nosy.
Someone shouts at the security screening, and even the Jamba employees look and whisper.
Eventually everything dies down, and people come through the checkpoint again. Daddy Brian, inquisitive as ever, waves over the first family.
“Hey, what happened back there?” he asks. “Was there some kind of threat?”
A blond woman in a pink sweater stops, looking totally frazzled. “Yes, it was foreigners—Asians. Trying to smuggle something through. Hopefully they go back to their own country and stay there.”
I stand like a statue, totally frozen as each word hits me.
Asians. Own country. Stay there.
Or, well, I freeze until Daddy Brian physically pulls me into their conversation with his hand on my back pushing me forward.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to say in front of our daughter. But I hope I didn’t hear you correctly.”
Oh no. I want to melt into the earth as the woman gives us a confused look.
“What?” she barks.
People rarely understand we’re a family, and this woman definitely won’t. Heat floods into my cheeks, and I’d really, really like to be . . . anywhere else.
I look to Daddy Pat for help, but he takes out his phone to record her.
“Yeah, do you want to repeat that?” he asks.
I wince. This is how they are. Confront hate! Don’t let people feel safe saying bigoted things! Silence is violence! Stand up for what’s right even when it makes everyone uncomfortable at Thanksgiving! They nearly got into a fight one Pride with some people who’d come to spoil it. But this is different. This isn’t about them. It’s about . . . me.
“Ugh, we’re just late,” the woman says. “We don’t have time for this.”
She holds up her hand to block Daddy Pat’s phone. Then she grabs her son’s hand and drags him away, but not before he quickly pulls his eyes at me.
“Kung Flu,” he whispers.
My face tingles as blood drains out of it. I yank away from Daddy Brian, but my dads barely notice. They didn’t see or hear the boy. Instead, they’re talking to each other about that woman, patting themselves on the back for calling her out.
I wish they hadn’t.
If they had just let it go, and the woman had left, I wouldn’t feel like this. My heart is racing, and I want to scream and throw things, but I know I’ll probably just cry. Which is so much worse.
Sure, I’ve heard things said about Asian people in passing in the city, on TV, etc. I know the stereotypes, like how we’re always thought of as foreign even when we’ve been here for generations, but all my life I’ve also heard: “Well, you’re not really Asian.” And normally I kinda believe that. Lewis and Ann are. I’m kinda not. That’s how it goes.
So even though I knew people called COVID-19 the “China virus” and there was violence toward Asian Americans during the pandemic, I never felt like it was aimed at me. I’d never had anyone say something like that to my face.
Until now.
Because my dads had dragged me into their confrontation with no thought to how I feel or what I want.
When I look to the side, there’s a girl around my age also waiting for her order. I think she’s white, but she looks concerned as she stares at me. She must’ve noticed the kid the same way I did.
I turn away. She has a kind face, but there’s no way she can understand how I feel.
“You okay, Min? People like that . . . they’re just garbage,” Daddy Brian says. He shakes his head with disgust.
“It’s ignorance and hate, and it’s dying out,” Daddy Pat adds.
They always say that. They talk about how attitudes have changed toward the gay community since they were young. But is hate dying out? That woman was teaching her son to be just like her.
My eyes sting, and it’s all too much.
“I . . . I’m going to go find a bathroom,” I say.
“Oh, okay,” Daddy Pat says. But he purses his lips, his blue eyes looking troubled.
“We’ll grab a table once the orders are ready,” Daddy Brian says. “Just leave your bag and meet us there.”
Same skeptical look in his brown eyes.
I give them my backpack and take off in whatever direction is away from them, away from the kid and the racist mom and confrontations I didn’t ask for. I walk for a while, and then it’s hard to see, because tears blur my vision.
Why hadn’t I been able to say something like my dads? Why didn’t I even want to? A bunch of super-late responses flood my head—things I should’ve said and done. But the truth is I’m not an in-your-face person. I’m not like my dads.
I continue until I find myself in a crowd of Asian travelers going the opposite way from me. They must be from the flight that just arrived from Beijing.
I accidentally bump into a man pulling a roller bag.
He stops and says something in . . . Mandarin maybe? I’m not sure. I apologize in English, and when he says something else, I give him a wide-eyed stare and shake my head. I hope this is universal for I don’t understand you. A woman leans down and says something as well. She looks friendly, but I still can’t understand her. She might be speaking Korean. I really don’t know.
Ann would’ve. She speaks both Mandarin and Cantonese and goes to Chinese classes after school. She would’ve known what they were saying. She would’ve been able to apologize for running into them. She would’ve been happy to go to Asia to visit extended family. I’m not like her.
I turn around but stop, the blond lady’s “What?” ringing in my ears. I’m not white like my dads, either.
So, am I just . . . nothing?
My vision blurs again, and now I’m knocking into people like a sad little pinball, tripping over rolling bags and bumping into more travelers. I don’t know where I’m going, because I have nowhere to go.
I catch a sign that says Charging Station. It’s a little space between two walls. I dive out of the busy corridor and duck into a seat. I wipe my face with my hands, glad to be free of the crowd, but I know I’m literally hiding.
Ugh. I am not the stand-up-to-things type. I can’t even tell my own dads how I feel. I’m just . . . a coward.
My insides twist, and disappointment makes my lungs heavy.
I go to plug in my phone, but then I remember it’s in my backpack—with my dads.
I groan and sit, staring at nothing. I don’t want to move, but I can’t hide out here forever. Dads will get worried, and I can’t message them.
With the deepest sigh, I get up and peek out. The mess I caused has cleared.
I walk out as though I hadn’t gone through the corridor like a human wrecking ball. This time, I move with the crowd as I head back to Jamba.
I’m barely ten feet from the charging station when I see an elderly Asian couple pointing in opposite directions from each other. I think they’re Filipino. They look like my friend from camp, Pamela. But unlike Pamela, who never worried about anything, this couple looks concerned. They keep gesturing around and looking at their watches. When I start past them, they stop me and say something in what I think is Tagalog.
I shake my head. I can’t understand or respond to them, because, once again, I’m useless. I don’t even have my phone, so it’s not like I can ask the aggressive owl or Google Translate. I’m about to turn away when the old lady reaches out and rests a hand on my arm. Her eyes plead with me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t understand you.” I point to myself and then gesture up in the air and, ugh, please say that’s not me talking louder and slower like that’ll break a language barrier.
My shoulders slump, and I hang my head. She gently lifts my chin and smiles.
Something in her expression tells me she knows I can’t understand, but she thinks I can help anyhow. She points at their boarding passes, tapping the paper multiple times. I take a look. They’re heading to Saigon. Gate E37. We’re at E37, and no one else is here. There must’ve been a gate change with the weather.
And then I realize I can help. I, at least, understand English. I wave them along to the departures board. I scan down with my finger and find Saigon. It’s now Gate E2, and it’s boarding.
“Two,” I say, holding up two fingers. “Your gate is now E2, and you need to get there quick.”
The old man knits his eyebrows, and the woman shakes her head. They have no idea what I’m saying.
What am I going to do now? This calls for someone who can actually communicate with them.
I wait for a second, but unsurprisingly no translator comes diving at us.
I take a deep breath. Okay, think. They need to get down to their gate. There will probably be someone there who can help, but how can I get them there? The man has a walker, and I can’t exactly give him a piggyback ride. But maybe if I take the woman with me, I can show her tickets to a gate agent and explain that they need assistance. Maybe find someone who speaks Tagalog.
Yes. That might work.
I point to the old man and then at a chair by the board. Then I gesture for the woman to go down the hall with me. The old man moves to follow us, and I point at the seat again and put my hand up like a stop sign. I’m not sure any of this miming is working, but the next thing I know, they say something to each other, the man sits, and the woman points down the corridor.
Wow. They did understand me.
We hustle along the hallway, and I feel bad about making an old lady race-walk, but I don’t want her to miss her flight.
When we finally get near the gate, I run up ahead. And it’s busy. Really busy. Of course it is. The plane is boarding.
I scan around, looking for someone who can help, but all the gate agents are occupied. Oh no. I’m going to have to draw people’s attention. I swallow hard. Then I look at the old lady. She nods at me, and I know what I have to do.
“Hey,” I say. Two people turn. Not loud enough. I sigh and then draw all the air into my lungs that I can. “Hey!”
That makes a dozen people turn around.
“Sorry, but does anyone speak Tagalog?” I ask. I seriously don’t know how my dads handle being loud and proud all the time when people stare at them. There’s awkward quiet as people continue to gawk. And I kind of want to be anywhere else again, but I keep looking around.
Then, “I speak Tagalog,” a boy says. He’s around my age, I think.
Relief floods through me. “Thanks,” I say.
I wave over the old woman. “I’m pretty sure she speaks Tagalog. Her husband has a walker and is waiting down at their old gate—E37. Can you tell her this is her new gate?”
“Oh. Um, yeah. Yeah, I will,” he says. Then he starts speaking to the woman in Tagalog. And she smiles widely.
I stand there staring at the two of them. Happiness bubbles in my chest.
“I’ll go ask someone to send a cart down to get her husband,” the kid says to me.
The old lady pats my cheek gently and smiles. I smile back, then gesture that I’m going to go. She nods and smiles once more.
I take two steps, then turn back and see the boy talking to a gate attendant. They’ll go pick up the old man, and the couple will make their flight.
And I’m glad. Really glad.
As I walk, I realize: I did it. I mean, I didn’t suddenly become fluent in another language or start fist-fighting racists, but I managed to communicate, to help that couple.
And if I could get them to understand me even with a language barrier, maybe I could get my dads to understand, too.
Maybe.
When I reach Jamba, I stride up to Dads’ table before I can lose my nerve and stand across from them.
“There you are,” Daddy Brian says.
“You okay, Min? You were gone forever,” Daddy Pat says.
“I’m okay.” I sit down and stir my oatmeal, my nerve dissolving like brown sugar in hot oats. I made it like thirty seconds. I sigh at myself. I guess it’s different standing up to my dads instead of standing up for other people.
“So . . .” Daddy Brian clears his throat. “How are you, really?”
I stop stirring. Put the spoon down and talk to them, Mindy.
“Worried,” I say.
“We’ve noticed. Is it about going back home?” Daddy Pat asks.
“No, it’s . . .”
The words form inside me: It’s not going back home. Home is a two-bedroom condo in Chelsea, Manhattan.
I may never be the kind of person who knows how to respond in the moment, but I was wrong before—that doesn’t mean I’m a coward. I managed to help that couple. To speak up and ask for attention despite really, really not wanting to. My dads love me. They want to know what I’m thinking. I just need to tell them.
Even if it’s not going to be what they want to hear.
I open my mouth.
“I don’t like when you guys say things like that. Korea isn’t home. I’m home here, even if I was born there.”
I’m kind of shocked all of that came out of me. Dads look equally surprised.
Daddy Pat’s blue eyes fill with concern, and he looks from Daddy Brian to me. “Oh, Min, I didn’t mean to say that you’re not home here. It’s just that you were from there. I wasn’t even born in Ireland, but I consider it my home in a way. I guess it’s different for you, huh?”
I nod.
“Mindy, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re not a part of us or from here, like that woman did. I’d never want to do that. But . . . I did. I’ll do better.”
He reaches his hand across, and I take it. With our fingers touching, I find the courage to say the rest of it.
“I just . . . I don’t want to go. And I feel like you’re both pushing too hard.”
Daddy Brian tilts his head. “You don’t want to go to Korea?”
“I don’t know the culture, or have family there, or even speak the language. I don’t have a connection to Korea—not really. I . . . I don’t think I’m ready.”
We all sit in the silence of that truth. They seem kind of stunned. Probably the whole I-didn’t-say-anything-and-went-along-with-this-for-months-and-we’re-in-an-airport-on-the-way thing.
“I kind of wish you’d brought this up earlier,” Daddy Pat says.
“I . . . I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“We don’t have to go if you really don’t want to—if you’re not ready, Min,” Daddy Brian says.
I stare at both of them, my eyes feeling bulgy.
“What?” I yelp.
“You didn’t hear the announcement?” Daddy Pat asks. “They just canceled the flight.”
It must’ve happened when I was knocking people down in the other concourse. I lean back, stunned, but still holding on to Daddy Pat’s hand.
“But what about all the other reservations?” I ask.
“We’ll take care of it,” Daddy Pat says. “That’s what travel insurance is for.”
Daddy Brian nods and extends his hand, too. “We wanted to do something good, but we should’ve asked. We would never want to force this trip on you.”
I take his hand as my whole body relaxes. As we sit quietly, more cancellations are announced because of the storm. It all sinks in: we’re not going. Not today, anyhow. “Maybe I’ll feel different next year?” I say.
Daddy Pat shrugs. “You may. But it’s okay if you don’t. This time you tell us when you’re feeling ready.”
“After you finish eating, Min, we’ll go to the ticket counter and arrange to go home,” Daddy Pat says.
“Okay,” I say.
I dig in. The oatmeal is a little cold, and the smoothie is a little warm, but it’s the best meal I’ve had with my dads in a while.
Once I’m done, we stand and throw out our garbage. We pass where the woman and her son had gone by. I wish it hadn’t taken all that for me to be able to talk to my dads. I wish I’d thought they’d understand before. But, as I take their hands again and we leave, I know that in the future I can. That I can stand up for me and sometimes even mime enough to stand up for other people, too.
4
Lee
Uncle Jack started every video call the same way. “Hey, it’s the best Asian guitarist in the world. And the only Asian guitarist in the world.”
And every time, Lee would respond the same way.
First he would bite down on his lip to stop himself from rolling his eyes.
But then he’d laugh.
Because it was both funny and true. Maybe he wasn’t the best in the world, but at least at the Berkeley School of Rock. He’d won the recent shred contest, a challenge among all the students to see who could play scales as fast as possible without a single wrong note. At twelve years old, he’d even beaten students older than him. That earned the title of “best.” As for “only,” well, “Lee Chang” was the only Asian name on the roster, so of course he won there.
