It’s not quite dawn and everyone is working hard. The ancestral rights occur in the early morning hours.
My hanbok is possibly one of the most beautiful creations I’ve ever seen. Mrs. Ji helped me dress. It consists of a diaphanous ombre silk top called a jeogori in deep blue at the top bleeding to light pink almost white at the bottom.
The overskirt, or chima, is that same sheer cream over a multicolored tiered ruffled underskirt that makes the most delicious swishing sound when I walk. On my feet are a pair of cream Miu Miu kitten heels that are so cute it is a crime they’re hidden under the voluminous fabric. My black hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail and secured with a white jade clip. Matching jade earrings dangle from my lobes.
Yujun is dressed in a severe navy hanbok with elaborate navy embroidery outlined in silver. He looks like a historical prince and I feel like I should be kneeling at his feet and waving a palm frond in front of him. His eyes shine when they land on me. “Ippeusi neyo,” he murmurs. You’re beautiful.
When every piece of fruit and rice cake is set on the table and the flowers are positioned precisely and the incense sticks are readied, the staff disappears. Wansu leads me to the entry, and Mrs. Ji opens the door. A line of black cars appears in the driveway and out spills relative after relative.
Wansu and I stand at the doorway, like some kind of reception line. She introduces me. We accept gifts, some wine, some gift sets, some fruit, some envelopes. I tense when Juwon arrives with his wife, Kim Jinae, and their two tots. The girl waves her small hand at me. “Gomo, you’re here,” she says in perfect English, as if she’s been practicing.
“Yes.” I crouch down so we are at eye level. “Are these new earrings?” I playfully touch her earlobe, which sports a small pink plastic flower.
She nods vigorously and reaches out to pat my earrings. “I like yours, too, gomo,” she whispers in quiet Korean.
A hand descends on the little girl’s shoulder and Kim Jinae says something quietly. It must not have been very kind, because Yujun’s head whips around like it was jerked on a string. Wansu puts her hand up to stop him. “Kim Jinae, do your children need more care and attention than normal? In your preoccupation, I believe that you forgot to greet my daughter.”
“You’re looking very pretty today,” I tell Nayeon in Korean before straightening. I give Kim Jinae a cool, brief bow of my head and welcome her to my home.
The other woman’s cheeks are slightly flushed, but she returns the slight bow and moves on to Yujun, who barely dips his head. He unthaws to ruffle Nayeon’s hair.
“Samchon, do you like my hanbok? It’s new.” She holds her pink skirt in her hands and twirls.
“You look beautiful.” She beams.
One of the last to arrive is an older woman. Beside me, Wansu stiffens.
“Eomeo-nim, thank you for coming today.” Wansu gives a deep bow. This must be Choi Yusuk’s mother, Park Kyungsook. “This is my daughter, Hara Wilson.” I fold in half, bowing so far I think she can see the bumps on my spine.
Park Kyungsook flicks her eyes up and down my figure, and she does not like what she sees. She makes a slight movement of her chin, which could be acknowledgment or more likely dismissal, gives Wansu the same cursory treatment, and stops in front of Yujun. He takes one of her hands in his and bows deeply as well.
“Yujun-ah, I have heard that you are moving to Los Angeles. You should rethink this. I don’t think more time in America is good for you. You are forgetting all our customs and traditions,” she accuses loudly.
He straightens, and there’s a tightness to his smile. She’s not getting even a hint of dimple. “Not all traditions are good, Halmeoni. We used to disapprove of single mothers, but that’s outdated thinking, isn’t it? All family structures are good if they provide a good home for the children.”
“Hmmph. As I said, your time away from Korea and your family is making you think strange things. After Chuseok, you will come and spend time with me.” After delivering that command, she moves on before Yujun can argue further with her.
My jaw is tense and my back is tight. The sun has barely risen and I already feel as brittle as a potato chip.
Once the rest of the family arrives, Yujun carries over the food to the low wooden table in front of a large screen and carefully places each dish. The first row—nearest to the screen—is for the chopsticks and spoons, cups and rice cake soup. The second row contains noodles, meat pancakes, fish—with the head pointed toward the east—and rice cakes. The third row is meat, beef, and fish soup. The fourth contains dried meat, vegetables, soy sauce, kimchi, and a sweet rice drink. The last row—or the one closest to us—is the dessert, with the white-colored fruits, the pears and melon, on the east side of the table and the jujubes, apples, and persimmons on the west.
“The apples should be in the center,” orders Park Kyungsook.
Yujun obliges.
“The fish head isn’t pointed in the right direction. It is not straight,” she complains.
Yujun adjusts the fish head a scant centimeter.
“The melon isn’t white enough. Where did you buy it?” she asks, not really addressing Wansu but the room at large. She wants to exert her dominance in Wansu’s own home, put the interloper in her place. “At the banchan market?”
“All of the food is made by Mrs. Ji or Lotte catering,” Wansu replies.
“Made nothing yourself, did you?” Park Kyungsook delivers the insult with a sniff.
“We made songpyeon, Halmeoni, with extra candied walnuts, as you like.” Yujun comes to Wansu’s rescue. “Let me light the candles and you can eat some and see for yourself.”
She might have had more to say, but Yujun starts the ceremony and Park Kyungsook snaps her mouth shut. After the two candles at the uppermost corner are lit, Yujun places a shallow brass bowl next to an incense burner. He kneels before the altar and Kyungsook hands him a cup of rice wine, which he pours in three equal measures into the sand of the incense burner. Kyungsook takes the empty cup and places it on the table before stepping back. Yujun pushes to his feet and then returns to the floor, and behind him, the men line up from oldest to youngest. They all bow to the altar in remembrance of the ancestors. This is not a slight nod or even the ninety-degrees-at-the-waist bow. It’s a full on-your-knees, forehead-to-the-floor bow. It doesn’t escape my notice that Choi Juwon is quite far back from the table. None of the women are bowing either. We are all standing with the girl children in the dining room observing this ritual.
Once the men are done bowing, Kyungsook leads the women. All of them flock into place, but when I step forward Wansu stops me with a hand on my wrist. Her fingers slide down and clasp mine tight. Her fingers are cold and she pulls me down to the floor, in the dining room, not even in the same room as the others, as if the ancestral spirits will rage if we cross some invisible line. Has she done this by herself all these years? Knelt in solitude away from the rest of the family? Anger swells in my chest. She’s run the company for nearly a decade, expanded it, brought wealth to this family, and she doesn’t even get to kneel in the same damned room?