Free Under the Same Sky by Joseph Kim

if we were all choking on these unsaid words. The next day, my uncle came to me and said, “What is your mother’s plan?”
    “Uncle, I don’t know.”
    “What is she going to do? Is your father getting money together while you’re away? Kwang Jin, what is their plan?”
    Why was he speaking to me? My parents had barely told me we were getting on the train to Grandmother’s the day before we left! Did he think we were all in cahoots?
    “I really don’t understand,” he said, his eyes bulging. “I feel I am suffocating.”
    Finally Mother couldn’t take it anymore. She went out and found a job. It wasn’t a real job; it was another of her crazy schemes to feed us. She would go out and buy corn powder at the factory and then sell it on the street—not even making it into noodles—hoping to make one
won
for every sale. When she’d made enough money, she would buy corn noodles and bring them home to us.
    But there were very few people in the market who could afford corn powder, and many days she would come home with nothing. When this happened, her face was like a clay mask, frozen in the expression of a hopeful person. She was trying hard to convey confidence in our future. But she needn’t have bothered; I felt the strain growing within her. She talked to Bong Sook about her troubles, and then both of them would wear the clay face. I felt sad that they couldn’t tell me what was happening, but part of me didn’t want to know.
     
    There was one day when we felt the sting of our poverty especially deeply. My mom had four sisters and three brothers. Her second-oldest sister, whom we called Great-Aunt, was doing well even in the famine. Her son had joined the police department, and the police always found a way to survive—either through bribery or corruption. One day my mom and my small aunt (my mother’s younger sister) were invited to a birthday party for Great-Aunt’s son, the policeman. They were excited to go; they hadn’t seen my great-aunt in many months, and it would be a day they didn’t need to worry about feeding their children. The party givers would provide plenty of food.
    When you go to someone’s house, even a relative’s, you can’t go with empty hands. So my mom worked hard to make my favorite meal: a single corn pancake. She went to the market with her last few
won
and bargained until she got the most corn powder for the money, then brought it home and pounded it into a pancake shape and steamed it. A single pancake was all she could afford. She wrapped it up in waxy paper and we headed to the birthday party, an hour away.
    When we got there, I was dazzled by the large crowd. So many people, so nicely dressed! Police officials wore suits of rich wool with sharp creases down the legs. The wives of government managers wore lipstick and beautiful light clothing. We walked into the house, me in my stained white shirt and dark pants, and my mother and Small Aunt in their scuffed shoes and country clothes.
    When my mother handed the corn cake to my great-aunt, our hostess wouldn’t so much as look at it. Usually the host smiles and thanks you for whatever you bring, but Great-Aunt didn’t even open the waxy paper to see what we’d brought. Her face never changed—she gave us a look of frozen indifference—as she handed the pancake to one of her children. I saw in her face that she was embarrassed by us, embarrassed to have such poorly dressed relatives in their drab work clothes among this glittering array of local government officials. We watched as they put our pancake in the kitchen, apart from the other gifts and dishes brought by the other guests. I saw the back of my mother’s neck flush red. She turned quickly away, her eyes on the floor.
    One part of the party lived up to expectations: there was plenty to eat. We found a corner of the room to sit in and tried not to make a spectacle of ourselves as we tasted things we hadn’t eaten in months, if not years. Tasty,