The Queen of Late-to-Chapel stands in the back, by a column in this cave. Tardy. Too many tardy marks gets study hall. Early in the school year Carla’s starting her yearly bad-girl accumulation. The bad girl with bad curls.
Rev. Moose sermonizing, already? The cartoons Kim and I watched as kids when we first got to this country, they pop in my head. Charlie Brown, the teacher in the classroom talking, “wah-wah-wah-wah.” Can’t help it. But today, Moose’s words break through.
“In an age in which shuttles carry the first Afro American into space, humans triumph over bigotry and oppression, send our dreams of equality into space, for all cultures everywhere to see and replicate. Guy Bluford Jr., a young man from Philadelphia, went to public high school, received a B.A. from Penn State, then served meritoriously in the Air Force in Vietnam. A month ago, he launched into orbit and history with the Challenger. With this vision, this drive, you, too, can harness your education for the benefit of America and the good of mankind.” Rev. Moose looks out over the Tim-Tim blazers and skirts.
“In this age,” he continues, “there is also evil. When science is used to create missiles, ones launched by our enemy at innocent Koreans flying home, when the jetliner is struck out of the sky, that, ladies and gentlemen, is a blow to mankind, to progress and pluralism. It is your moral imperative to work for peace, to intervene on behalf of innocents, and to invent for the betterment of men. Use your education for good. Use science to propel men into new realms, where no man has gone before.”
Students explode. They giggle, poke each other. A couple flash Spock’s “live-long-and-prosper” sign, the fingers split two and two, a V in the middle. Rev. Moose is not usually au courant. Popular culture, a good device to hook students. His equation: science + democracy = peace is flawed but plausible. Another equation: science + evil = destruction is right on. Here is a chapel talk for me. Episcopalians always connect to politics. Not so with Catholics. No so with Buddhists.
Our family was very practical. We chose the practices suiting each situation. Church on Sunday, rice and banana offerings on Lunar New Year and Autumn Moon Festival, prayers of healing from our priest, fortune-telling from the shaman. No need to hire wailers when Kim died. As the oldest son, the only son, my wail started the ceremony. The wail came loud, the right opening for the right amount of air. Before the ceremony, many ceremonies. The Korean funeral home in San Diego gave us three days to wash, prepare, dress, collect, and bury her. Not anywhere near our grandfather’s fields in Korea, but in a tomb looking east.
Three years ago. Year one I kept picking up the phone to call her. Year two I expected her to call. Year three is this year. Every good boy does not do fine. Bad boy with a girl’s bad curls.
In church sometimes Kim and I mixed American games. Rock-paper-scissors for the daily bulletin. Fist-on-palm, fist-on-palm, paper. Fist-on-palm, fist-on-palm, rock. Whoever won got to use the paper for origami. Not very pretty, but practical. I usually won. Give me a piece of paper and twenty minutes, and I can make about anything. Kim sat back on the pew and watched. The priest would wah-wah-wah, and I’d face the opposite direction, kneel on the floor, and lean on the pew, use it as a desk. Squash folds are cake. Each week I won I’d try to fold squash different ways. Start with a waterbomb base. Bring the top flap over, pry open the paper, and flatten to make the squash fold. Before the “This is the Word of the Lord,” I’d hold the squash in my hand for Kim to see. She clapped. Every time. Our mother looked down on the pew at the two of us, Prince and Princess of Distraction, and she’d shush us, but I could see something else in her tired eyes. Pride is more than light reflected.
No fortune-teller told us what cells would unfold in Kim’s veins. And when she was sick we made offerings to our ancestors, to the sun and moon and Newton. Nothing helped. My father, the chemist in Korea, me in physics, science was in our blood. Mom insisted on candles and incense, on offerings and tithing. There are things that can’t be explained. Einstein knew that. How about the exact size of the moon to fit the sun perfectly for eclipses? How about the perfect way that rays of the sun bend in our atmosphere so they do not sear our flesh? Something designed the universe so that we can exist. No amount of science can explain everything. No amount of religion can, either.
How can I explain what exists between Carla and me?