Free Under the Same Sky by Joseph Kim Page A

well-marinated kimchi with spices and fish! Fried pork! Beef ribs! We cleaned our plates and waited for a few minutes before going back for more, so as to look like we were perfectly capable of stopping at any time.
    My small aunt sat with us, watching the guests. She was on the verge of tears. “How could you treat us like this?” she whispered, addressing her older sister across the room, more in sorrow than in anger. No one came to our corner to ask us how we were and if we were enjoying the food. Great-Aunt and her family carefully avoided us, though we saw them circulating and chatting with the more glamorous people. I was mostly unfazed—the food and its enticing aromas had given me a jolt of happiness, and I didn’t care what people thought of us—but my mother and my small aunt were inconsolable. Awkwardly, I chewed on spare-rib bones and waited for the next dish to be served. To make my mother’s misery complete, as we left the party, Great-Aunt handed us back the single corn pancake we’d brought, along with some leftovers.
    My mother accepted it, bowed, and turned wordlessly toward the door. On the way home, Small Aunt’s sorrow had turned to rage. “How dare they!” she cried. By now, Bong Sook and I were embarrassed, too.
    The night was cold and I didn’t have a warm enough jacket. My mother put me on her back and Bong Sook walked beside us. I could feel my mother crying, her throat working to stifle the sobs, my head resting on the back of her neck.
    Years later, Small Aunt’s family grew quite rich. Her husband had relatives in China, and after many attempts, he got a visa to see them. This allowed him to bring back Chinese goods, which he sold at a large markup. Their income shot up. Soon Great-Aunt went to their house looking for handouts, saying nothing of the time she’d humiliated us.
    Great-Aunt was a shameless person. She wouldn’t be the last one I’d meet.

Chapter

Twelve
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    A S MY SEVENTH birthday approached, I saw my mother grow more depressed. I was still a boy and hoped for nice things on my special day: a small gift, perhaps, or something good to eat. I dreamed of boiled eggs, fluffy rice, sizzling pork dishes. Surely my mother would find something.
    But when the day came, it was just like any other. There was the usual watery gruel for breakfast and no hint that something better was on the way. My mother didn’t cry out “Save some room!” Nothing to let me know a treat had been stashed away for me. I tried to hide it, but I was disappointed that there wasn’t the tiniest gift to celebrate my day. I laid my head on the sleeping mat and tried to sink into sleep.
    Bong Sook was upset, I could see; her face was troubled and she spent long periods staring at the tile floor. Finally, without saying a word, she got up and ran out the door. I thought she’d gone for a walk, though there wasn’t much to see around Grandma’s, just fields echoing with the sound of peasants chopping wood. But an hour and a half later, the door opened and Bong Sook rushed in, holding something behind her back.
    I sat up cross-legged on my sleeping mat as she approached, bringing her hands forward. In each hand Bong Sook had a rice cake. My mouth began to water.
    Bong Sook thrust the cakes into my hand. “Happy birthday, Kwang Jin!”
    I delayed devouring the cakes long enough to ask her one question.
    “But how?”
    Bong Sook shook her head happily, her black hair swinging. “Don’t worry about that.”
    Did I offer Bong Sook a bite of the cakes? I’m not sure; my memory is filled only with the joyful, drug-like recall of the sweetened rice hitting my taste buds. I was so happy. The taste, for me, literally equaled love. It meant that my birthday was still special to someone besides me. I gobbled up those cakes and pressed my fingers on the crumbs that had fallen into my lap and ate them too.
    I had two or three moments of happiness before the storm broke over Bong Sook’s head. When you