By Joann Kweon

My grandmother was a woman of few English words. She would smile and politely say hello, but not much else. A God-fearing woman with a Korean heart, she was proud of her children and never ran out of Korean words. When her favorite son married, she already had plenty to say to her unborn grandchildren. When the first baby girl was born, she happily conversed with her in Korean. Then another little girl was born, and she continued to chatter away. When they moved to the United States, she followed them.

Her Korean heart was not big enough to keep the daughters together; no matter how far she reached her arms out, they walked farther and farther away from her every day. They stopped listening to her Korean until she became a woman of just a few words. She watched angrily as they chased after American strength and good looks. She knew these things would fade, but they did not understand yet. Her granddaughters were throwing away the careful Korean understanding and intuition she had tried to impart to them. And after years of silent watching, her anger was replaced by sadness.

When my grandmother grew old and clumsy, I went to visit her. I was the second daughter, and I had seen her only nine times. I had learned about the frivolous nature of American men. I was disappointed and ashamed, and my parents had no words to guide me. My older sister found a good man; either that or her heart transformed to fit his. On this tenth time, I went to visit her because I missed her words. I didn’t understand Korean very well but I missed her voice and those familiar words.

I listened as she spoke to me in Korean. Her eyes were heavy and tired, but she took my hand as I sat next to her. She touched my face, my shoulder, my chest, and my arm as she talked. The language was so beautiful, a current of flowing syllables. It was nothing like English, which stops and starts again intermittently with happiness and agitation. She continued on slowly about love and children.

Love is all about the children. She was reminiscing about the past, when her children were born, when her grandchildren were born. She looked so happy and grateful. She didn’t even ask me why I came to visit her, but told me these stories where I found my answer anyway. My grandmother always put her family first and never needed what I endlessly chased after. I didn’t say anything back to her in English, and she smiled. She forgot about her years of sadness and smiled at me. She died later that night, and I woke up the next day thinking about her and her words from beyond. That day, I barely spoke to my family and instead watched the parents love their children and the children love them back.

About the author: Joann Kweon graduated from UCLA with a B.A. in Asian American Studies and a minor in Geography/Environmental Studies. She advocates for more diverse representations of minorities and women in entertainment media.