My Old Ladies have become my inheritance.
On Classon Avenue
As a youngster I didn’t think about how I was on the road to old ladyhood the minute I came out of my mother’s uterus.
Still on Classon
The “good night” that Dylan Thomas was writing about is some serious shit. I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because I am afraid of dying. I know I am dying.
Three Hats on the go
What the fuck.
Another summer gone, the hills burned to burdock and
thistle, I hold you a moment in the cup of my voice,
you flutter in the frail cave of the finch, you lean to speak
in my ear and the first rains blow you away.
I can barely go a day without having noodles. Can you?
Make mine noodle
I am full of noodles as I write this post. I had somen noodles for breakfast. I whooped it up with sesame oil, sesame leaf and kombu broth. And yesterday I had fettucini with artichokes and pine nuts at Quartino, a sweet little spot on Bleecker Street.
And more noodle
And the evening before we had a spot on spaghetti with meat sauce at home.
But I am an equal opportunity eater of noodles as I will consume instant noodles with just as much verve and pleasure. Treasure.
Dried kimchi flakes
I got this instant ramen bowl at a local bodega and was beguiled by the promise of kimchi. Well, it’s really kimchi “flakes” for what it’s worth. But I slurped that shit up like there was no tomorrow.
My DNA is noodle.
Noodles with Sesame Leaf
1 bunch somen noodles
3 sesame leaves, julienned
2 cups broth (dashi or anchovy)
- Fix noodles as directed, al dente.
- When noodles are done, pour hot broth over the noodles.
- Add sesame leaves and add soy sauce, sesame oil and sesame seeds to taste.
How badass my grandmother had to be to live her life.
Jiwon and Grandma, 1972
There were so many goodbyes in her lifetime: Loss of children, husband, and home.
My father’s mother
She had grit galore. The notion of “grit” has become trendy in these recent years, but really it’s what we’ve had to have in order to live through shit. Like a war. Sorry, you don’t get to claim you have grit until you’ve had to overcome bad shit.
What grit looks like
If you are claiming you have grit because you got over breaking up with your lover, losing your favorite shirt or not getting invited to brunch, let’s find another word for you: Oh I know, how’s about “pettifogging”?
and please not another sob story
about your dog, pony or wife…
it’s time you learned to grin
and bear it
-––excerpted from “Koreans in Proverbs: Expect a Petulant God” by Jiwon Choi
Louise Glück wrote that the “woman’s body is a grave.”
The Animal of Truth
You’ll get no arguments from me.
I’ve been watching my aunt sink ever more into it.
In this light
I can see the animal of truth
unleashing equal parts delirium
What can Time take
that you have not already
let go? Sight, sound, taste
returned to the next in line.
How expert you have become
in looking into the space
behind your eyes.
— “Animal of Truth” by Jiwon Choi
For some seasons now, I’ve been saving zinnia seeds to sow the next year. I can’t believe how a tiny seed can hold this wealth of beauty and grace.
Always looking ahead
Though I am a just one gardener growing on a very small scale, I claim my right to collect and save seeds so that I can play a part in crop biodiversity, and to keep the seed free. I don’t mean “free” in terms of I’m giving them away, but free from corporate control, free from copyrighting and patenting like how Monsanto does.
Mother of zinnias
And the question of seed sovereignty and control is one that we urban gardeners can answer. The practice of seed collecting has been around ever since humans could identify what a seed was, and for the agribusiness goliaths to make it a crime for small farmers to keep their own seed is criminal.
The life force of the seed is the life force of the people, and when big companies take that away from us, they are essentially killing us.
In 1995, Indian Agriculture was reoriented from being focused on National Food Security, which rests on the livelihood and ecological security of our small farmers, to being focussed on corporate control and corporate profits, which are made possible by the corporate written rules of “free” trade, trade liberalization, and globalization. Enabled by these rules, agrichemical giants entered India and started to control the seed sector. Where once farmers grew, saved, and replanted seeds, they were now forced to buy seed-chemical packages that allowed companies to extract super-profits from farmers through royalty collection.
–Dr. Vandana Shiva, April, 24, 1995
And since 1995, almost 300,000 farmers in India have committed suicide.
Live seed or die.
I was on the subway platform last week when I overheard a woman who was eating an egg sandwich ask the man who was with her if eggs came from chickens.
These is eggs
It didn’t occur to me until that moment that such a thing wasn’t common knowledge. And then the notion of “common knowledge” just went out the window.
The yolk’s on you
Luckily, her companion was able to answer in the affirmative with confidence. Yet, I felt bad for her––not knowing what most of society knows. Why was she not in on this already established truth? Like she got on the wrong bus the day we were all learning about chickens and eggs.
As it turned out, I only felt a little bit bad and mostly judgey about the fact she couldn’t stop flailing her sandwich around or keep it in her mouth. And that she didn’t bother to find out where her food came from. Oy vey.
I need food
and you walk away reading the paper.
––excerpted from “Food” by Anne Sexton
It’s not like I miss it that much, but it’s the only home I know.
Up on 107th Street
Our block had a catholic church on it with a statue of the Virgin out front. I went to the adjacent catholic school for a year. Could have been first grade. My uniform was burgundy and white, I think. I remember knee-high socks were involved. Not to mention the nuns and their rulers.
It wasn’t the hairiest block by far––ghetto light vs. ghetto heavy? One time there was a fire across the street in my friend’s building. The orange fire seemed to go all the way up to the night sky.
Years later I would read a NY Times article listing my block as one of the worst. That’s according to the police. I guess they would know.
Homes where children live exude a pleasant rumpledness,
like a bed made by a child, or a yard littered with balloons.
To be a child again one would need to shed details
till the heart found itself dressed in the coat with a hood.
Now the heart has taken on gloves and mufflers,
the heart never goes outside to find something to “do.”
And the house takes on a new face, dignified.
––excperted from “Where Children Live” by Naomi Shihab Nye