Blue Eyes
Jae Min wanted blue eyes like his teacher at the English academy, so he stopped eating kim chi. You are what you eat, Jae Min figured, so if he went on the pizza-hamburger-spaghetti diet, he would look like a Hollywood movie star.
“You haven’t even touched the kim chi,” his mother said.
The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast.
“I don’t like kim chi,” Jae Min said.
His mother dropped her stainless steel chopsticks and they clanged on the glass table top.
“Eat.”
“I want to have blue eyes. The kim chi makes my eyes not blue.”
“Food doesn’t make foreigner’s eyes blue.”
“Then what does?”
“Foreigners wear colored contact lenses.”
“Can I get colored contact lenses?”
“Those lenses are only for people with trouble seeing. The foreigners all have bad eyes because they don’t eat kim chi.”
“So if I stop eating kim chi, I will get blue eyes.”
“You’ll get a black eye if you don’t make that kim chi disappear.”
Jae Min picked up a piece of kim chi with his chop sticks and set it in his mouth. He chewed up the crunchy cabbage and could feel the horrible delicious spices soaking into his gums, spreading their healthy nutrients up to his eyes.
Now Jae Min would have to pretend his eyes were bad. Then his mother would let him get contact lenses.
That evening, Jae Min lay on the living room floor under the television set, watching the comedy program Mabbagi. He was deliberately too close to the screen. His mother walked into the room and stood over him.
“Your teacher called. She said you can’t see the board and she had to move you up to the front row.”
Jae Min looked up and nodded. It was sad. Childhood blindness.
His mother glared down at him. “Why were you sitting in the back row to begin with? Only troublemakers sit in the back row, throwing paper airplanes and playing rock, paper, scissors for money. From now on you sit in the front row, whether you can see the board or not.”
Then his mother gave him a long lecture on the virtues of kim chi.
The next day, Jae Min’s mother took him downtown. She sat in the waiting room, reading a women’s health magazine while he went into the optometrist’s office.
The office was small and cramped. The walls were covered with photographs of eyeballs sliced open to show what they looked like on the inside. Also, there were several eye charts, even one in English with a large E on the top line. Jae Min sat on the plastic-covered reclining chair.
Dr. Kim was a fat, jolly-looking man with twinkling eyes and a reddish face.
“Try to read that,” he said, pointing to a Korean eye chart.
“I can use the English chart,” Jae Min said. “I go to the English academy.”
“Go ahead then. Start at the top. Get as far as you can.”
The first letter was an E, but he couldn’t tell Dr. Kim or he wouldn’t get colored contact lenses.
“I don’t know,” Jae Min said.
Dr. Kim nodded. “That first letter is very difficult. English is like Chinese. There are thousands of letters. Our Korean writing system is the best in the world. Very simple. I don’t know why you bother at the English academy.”
Dr. Kim was probably just pretending E was difficult so Jae Min wouldn’t lose face. Jae Min didn’t want the doctor thinking he didn’t know English, that he was just some ignorant farm boy who only spoke Korean. He knew all the letters of the English alphabet, even the hard ones like Z and Q.
“It’s an E,” Jae Min said.
“Very good. Now read the bottom line.”
Jae Min looked at the bottom line. The letters were all clear and sharp.
“I can’t read them,” he said. “They’re all fuzzy.”
Dr. Kim pulled down a large metal contraption from above Jae Min’s head. He flicked a couple buttons, making adjustments to the lenses..
“Look through that.”
Jae Min leaned forward and peered through. He could still make out the big E but the bottom line was now nothing but blurry shapes.
“Read the letters on the bottom line,” Dr. Kim said.
“Yes. I can read them.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I already told you I can. Why do I have to prove it?”
“That’s how we do things.”
“Why? Do you think I would lie?”
“Sometimes you think you know what a letter is and you’re wrong. I like to have you read them.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
It became clear that Jae Min wouldn’t be able to throw the eye test. This was one test it was impossible to cheat on. He was only able to read the bottom line when there was no prescription on the lenses, when he was just looking through pure, unbent glass.
They finished the eye exam and Dr. Kim brought Jae Min back out into the waiting room. His mother set down her magazine and stood up.
“I have good news,” Dr Kim said. “His vision is perfect. He doesn’t need a prescription.”
“Did you give him laser eye surgery? I didn’t tell you to and I’m not paying for it.”
“I didn’t need to. There was nothing wrong with his eyes to begin with.”
“Don’t think this means you can go back to the back row,” Jae Min’s mother told him. “I want you sitting up in the front. And you take notes. Do everything your teacher says.”
Jae Min went to the PC room. All the other kids there were playing Starcraft or Maple Story or Kart Rider, but he logged onto the internet and found the English eye chart, the one with a big E at the top of it. He then tried his best to ignore the shouts and loud noises around him and to concentrate on memorizing the eye chart.
Jae Min sat with his nose pressed up against the TV screen, squinting as if he was still having difficulty seeing it. His mother walked into the room. Jae Min peeled his face off the TV screen, leaving a face print on it.
“You’re a good boy. Your teacher says you’ve been sitting in the front row.”
“I can’t see,” he whined.
She took him back to Dr. Kim’s office. This time the test was a success: he failed. He would lose a little vision because of the contacts but it would be worth it to have blue Hollywood movie star eyes. Besides, he didn’t need his vision; he had to sit in the front row of the class now anyway.
Dr. Kim brought Jae Min out into the waiting room. Jae Min’s mother set down her magazine and stood up.
“He has a slight prescription,” Dr. Kim said. “You should pick out some frames.”
Dr. Kim led them over to a wall with hundreds of glasses frames. There was a big mirror to see how the glasses looked.
“These are nice,” his mother said, picking up a pair of horn-rim spectacles.
“I want contact lenses.”
“You can’t even keep your room clean. How will you keep contact lenses clean? You’ll
get an eye infection.”
“I’ll clean my room.”
“That’s what you always say. Anyway, you’re too young to have contact lenses.”
“The kids will call me four-eyes.”
“They’ll think you look like Harry Potter. You just need a scar on your head.”
Jae Min was quiet. He was afraid his mother actually would give him a scar on his head. At least if the other kids did call him Harry Potter, it would be an improvement over his current nickname: Smeagol.
He wasn’t going to get colored contact lenses, but at least he could stop himself from getting glasses. He gasped and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s a miracle! I can see!”
“What are you talking about?” his mother said.
“I don’t need glasses anymore. My vision’s better.”
His mother’s jaw dropped in amazement.
“How can a person’s eyesight keep getting better and worse all the time?” she asked.
“He might have a brain tumor,” Dr. Kim said.
Jae Min’s mother gasped and her hand fluttered to her chest.
“I knew it. This is because you didn’t eat kim chi. It stops cancer.”
She started to sob.
Jae Min felt his throat growing thick. He felt dirty and selfish. He had only thought about how he would look, not about how his mother would feel if he got brain cancer and died. Jae Min started to cry too.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I was cunning. I cheated. I memorized the eye chart when you thought I was playing Star Craft. I wanted blue eyes like a foreigner.”
His mother’s tears stopped instantly and a cold look swept across her face.
“You’re the boy who cried wolf,” she said. “Some day, you really will need glasses and I won’t believe you. Then you’ll just stumble around and bump into things. I should make you get laser eye surgery just to teach you a lesson.”
Jae Min cried harder.
“Well, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll think of a suitable punishment.”
February 3, 2007
“You haven’t even touched the kim chi,” his mother said.
The two of them were sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast.
“I don’t like kim chi,” Jae Min said.
His mother dropped her stainless steel chopsticks and they clanged on the glass table top.
“Eat.”
“I want to have blue eyes. The kim chi makes my eyes not blue.”
“Food doesn’t make foreigner’s eyes blue.”
“Then what does?”
“Foreigners wear colored contact lenses.”
“Can I get colored contact lenses?”
“Those lenses are only for people with trouble seeing. The foreigners all have bad eyes because they don’t eat kim chi.”
“So if I stop eating kim chi, I will get blue eyes.”
“You’ll get a black eye if you don’t make that kim chi disappear.”
Jae Min picked up a piece of kim chi with his chop sticks and set it in his mouth. He chewed up the crunchy cabbage and could feel the horrible delicious spices soaking into his gums, spreading their healthy nutrients up to his eyes.
Now Jae Min would have to pretend his eyes were bad. Then his mother would let him get contact lenses.
That evening, Jae Min lay on the living room floor under the television set, watching the comedy program Mabbagi. He was deliberately too close to the screen. His mother walked into the room and stood over him.
“Your teacher called. She said you can’t see the board and she had to move you up to the front row.”
Jae Min looked up and nodded. It was sad. Childhood blindness.
His mother glared down at him. “Why were you sitting in the back row to begin with? Only troublemakers sit in the back row, throwing paper airplanes and playing rock, paper, scissors for money. From now on you sit in the front row, whether you can see the board or not.”
Then his mother gave him a long lecture on the virtues of kim chi.
The next day, Jae Min’s mother took him downtown. She sat in the waiting room, reading a women’s health magazine while he went into the optometrist’s office.
The office was small and cramped. The walls were covered with photographs of eyeballs sliced open to show what they looked like on the inside. Also, there were several eye charts, even one in English with a large E on the top line. Jae Min sat on the plastic-covered reclining chair.
Dr. Kim was a fat, jolly-looking man with twinkling eyes and a reddish face.
“Try to read that,” he said, pointing to a Korean eye chart.
“I can use the English chart,” Jae Min said. “I go to the English academy.”
“Go ahead then. Start at the top. Get as far as you can.”
The first letter was an E, but he couldn’t tell Dr. Kim or he wouldn’t get colored contact lenses.
“I don’t know,” Jae Min said.
Dr. Kim nodded. “That first letter is very difficult. English is like Chinese. There are thousands of letters. Our Korean writing system is the best in the world. Very simple. I don’t know why you bother at the English academy.”
Dr. Kim was probably just pretending E was difficult so Jae Min wouldn’t lose face. Jae Min didn’t want the doctor thinking he didn’t know English, that he was just some ignorant farm boy who only spoke Korean. He knew all the letters of the English alphabet, even the hard ones like Z and Q.
“It’s an E,” Jae Min said.
“Very good. Now read the bottom line.”
Jae Min looked at the bottom line. The letters were all clear and sharp.
“I can’t read them,” he said. “They’re all fuzzy.”
Dr. Kim pulled down a large metal contraption from above Jae Min’s head. He flicked a couple buttons, making adjustments to the lenses..
“Look through that.”
Jae Min leaned forward and peered through. He could still make out the big E but the bottom line was now nothing but blurry shapes.
“Read the letters on the bottom line,” Dr. Kim said.
“Yes. I can read them.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I already told you I can. Why do I have to prove it?”
“That’s how we do things.”
“Why? Do you think I would lie?”
“Sometimes you think you know what a letter is and you’re wrong. I like to have you read them.”
“You’re calling me a liar?”
It became clear that Jae Min wouldn’t be able to throw the eye test. This was one test it was impossible to cheat on. He was only able to read the bottom line when there was no prescription on the lenses, when he was just looking through pure, unbent glass.
They finished the eye exam and Dr. Kim brought Jae Min back out into the waiting room. His mother set down her magazine and stood up.
“I have good news,” Dr Kim said. “His vision is perfect. He doesn’t need a prescription.”
“Did you give him laser eye surgery? I didn’t tell you to and I’m not paying for it.”
“I didn’t need to. There was nothing wrong with his eyes to begin with.”
“Don’t think this means you can go back to the back row,” Jae Min’s mother told him. “I want you sitting up in the front. And you take notes. Do everything your teacher says.”
Jae Min went to the PC room. All the other kids there were playing Starcraft or Maple Story or Kart Rider, but he logged onto the internet and found the English eye chart, the one with a big E at the top of it. He then tried his best to ignore the shouts and loud noises around him and to concentrate on memorizing the eye chart.
Jae Min sat with his nose pressed up against the TV screen, squinting as if he was still having difficulty seeing it. His mother walked into the room. Jae Min peeled his face off the TV screen, leaving a face print on it.
“You’re a good boy. Your teacher says you’ve been sitting in the front row.”
“I can’t see,” he whined.
She took him back to Dr. Kim’s office. This time the test was a success: he failed. He would lose a little vision because of the contacts but it would be worth it to have blue Hollywood movie star eyes. Besides, he didn’t need his vision; he had to sit in the front row of the class now anyway.
Dr. Kim brought Jae Min out into the waiting room. Jae Min’s mother set down her magazine and stood up.
“He has a slight prescription,” Dr. Kim said. “You should pick out some frames.”
Dr. Kim led them over to a wall with hundreds of glasses frames. There was a big mirror to see how the glasses looked.
“These are nice,” his mother said, picking up a pair of horn-rim spectacles.
“I want contact lenses.”
“You can’t even keep your room clean. How will you keep contact lenses clean? You’ll
get an eye infection.”
“I’ll clean my room.”
“That’s what you always say. Anyway, you’re too young to have contact lenses.”
“The kids will call me four-eyes.”
“They’ll think you look like Harry Potter. You just need a scar on your head.”
Jae Min was quiet. He was afraid his mother actually would give him a scar on his head. At least if the other kids did call him Harry Potter, it would be an improvement over his current nickname: Smeagol.
He wasn’t going to get colored contact lenses, but at least he could stop himself from getting glasses. He gasped and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s a miracle! I can see!”
“What are you talking about?” his mother said.
“I don’t need glasses anymore. My vision’s better.”
His mother’s jaw dropped in amazement.
“How can a person’s eyesight keep getting better and worse all the time?” she asked.
“He might have a brain tumor,” Dr. Kim said.
Jae Min’s mother gasped and her hand fluttered to her chest.
“I knew it. This is because you didn’t eat kim chi. It stops cancer.”
She started to sob.
Jae Min felt his throat growing thick. He felt dirty and selfish. He had only thought about how he would look, not about how his mother would feel if he got brain cancer and died. Jae Min started to cry too.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffled. “I was cunning. I cheated. I memorized the eye chart when you thought I was playing Star Craft. I wanted blue eyes like a foreigner.”
His mother’s tears stopped instantly and a cold look swept across her face.
“You’re the boy who cried wolf,” she said. “Some day, you really will need glasses and I won’t believe you. Then you’ll just stumble around and bump into things. I should make you get laser eye surgery just to teach you a lesson.”
Jae Min cried harder.
“Well, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll think of a suitable punishment.”
February 3, 2007
posted by Benjamin Fishbein at Saturday, February 03, 2007
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