Story Gold

I've been busy wanting. Something gold, to be exact. Something simple. Something small and delicate. Something light and loose to limply lace around my neck. Yes. That would be lovely.

Soeur's gold rings in a bowl Monday

My mother has the only gold necklace I've ever owned, an unexpected gesture of gratitude from the young bride to whom my parents had lent their oldest daughter to serve as her bridal party's flower girl. The dangling gold charm was beautifully slight, flat and paper thin with "Flowergirl" inscribed in cursive across the front plate. When a pretty bridesmaid leaned down to lock the delicate chain around my neck, I didn't realize the necklace was to be mine. I remember taking in her face so that I could direct uhmmah to which lady she should return the necklace at the end of the evening. In our house, we rarely received trinkets of commemoration like this. If you can imagine it, I had just been introduced to the graces of gift-receiving. It was so new. I must have been six.

I remember feeling surprised and puzzled when the to-be bride's sister asked for me and not my sister. As is common in Korean families, Soeur's and my Korean names are similar in that only the second syllables of our two-syllable Korean names differed. There was a little confusion as uhmmah stressed the second half of my name. Julia? You mean the older one?  The woman looked at me and then looked at Soeur and then turned back to me.  Yes, her.  Look at her face.

Of the two daughters, I was not the smiley one or the dainty delightful one. The innate charms bred in little girls were not fated to me. In the photos bound in old albums at my parents', every picture of me after my toddler years shows expressions far more serious and weepy than any little girl's I've met. Nary an inkling of carefree wit or little girl spirit is evident. I slouched terribly. My gaze, while pensive, was lost. My eyes looked tired. As an adult now, I look back and see how my small body and psyche had been absorbing the heaviness that swallowed our home. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the very reason why every Korean guest that passed through our home would bluntly observe out loud, Julia is so mature.

And this is why I thought it was a mistake, that someone had misinterpreted which daughter they wanted to walk down the aisle. Maybe they had mixed up our names by accident. Soeur wasn't a particularly bubbly or extroverted child, but she was much more likely to show her vibrancy and smiles in true kid form. I, on the other hand, was more reserved and stingy with my delightfulness. But no, they insisted they had the right daughter.

I wore that necklace more off than on again throughout middle school. I lost the original charm somewhere between college and now but had kept the chain hoping that I'd wear it again some day. I forgot all about it until I saw it on my mother during one of her rare visits last year. It took a while to register: first, the history and the existence of this necklace that I had saved for so long and yet managed to forget about; and second, that my mom had it.

Is that mine? No eye contact. How did you get my necklace? Still no eye contact but, yes, there it was, a small awkward smile. I do that too when I'm uncomfortable.  I thought, Did I give it to her?  I must have given it to her.  But why wouldn't I remember that?  So I asked.  Did I give that to you? Silence followed by a change in topic.

And so it was.  This.  From the most honest woman I know.  My mother.

By virtue of her entering her early sixties, she has made it her hobby to test the limits of her belief that everything her kids own is also hers. A collective bucket, if you will. It's a little bit remarkable, these polarities that govern her interactions with her children and the outside world.  One side is exactly why anybody in my life who has ever met my mother thinks she is the sweetest lady alive.  And she absolutely is.  She treats them kindly with respect, patience, and concern. But there is this other side that is shocking and exasperating.  Appalling, almost.  Witnessing and tolerating this strangeness, this ugly in her conduct around her children, it's so hard.  It's really really hard.  It's probably the single biggest challenge that shapes the unconditional love this daughter has for her mother.  Time and time again, her behavior leaves me not just irked, but exhausted.  That exhaustion in turn reminds me of all the resentments that I so desperately want to ignore.

Now I feel spent, just writing this down.  But this kind of mindful effort, this deliberate exercise of getting it out in words, it is necessary for me.  You understand.  How remarkably simple it could be, to wear new gold to leave this gold behind.