Husband Hunting Part IV

Chye nudged me and whispered, “Stand.”

The sermon had ended, a song had concluded, the offering had come and gone, and a prayer uttered over the full, bounty of gifts.

I realized we were at that part of the service. The minister had announced us as guests, not that I’d recognized my name, but apparently it was our job to stand and present ourselves to the Korean Presbyterian congregation. Our covert position in the back  insured that the entire gathering had to twist themselves around to gawk at us. I popped up, gazed at their upturned faces, nodded acknowledgement, and plopped back down in the pew. A gasp of horror from the onlookers told me I had made a mistake. Chye flapped her hand at me, frantically motioning at me to stand back up.

I rose.

The organ burst into a full, bright chord and I jumped. I patted my hair back into place, and hung on to the pew back as the gathering opened their mouths wide and sang, “Welcome, dear guest,” or something to that effect. I’m likely making it up at this point, if only due to the complete, unnerving experience. That and I don’t speak Korean, so honestly, they could have sang anything, for example, “No sweet girls, there are no husbands here.... at least none as old as you, unless you want to consider... Never mind.”

They sang a full verse. They sang a chorus.

They sang a second verse.

They repeated the dang chorus.

I pulled my face into a wide, sloppy grin. My knees began to creak and bend toward the pew, but straightened suddenly at the start of the third verse. I felt trapped behind the smile plastered on my face and my lips began to dry on my teeth. At the final stanza, their arms rose in unison, palms open, then pointed our direction as the final chorus catapulted out.

My knees were a little weak but I lowered myself and settled softly into the upholstered pew. I pulled my head down and prayed for the announcements to end so we could scoot out of there. The minister joined me in prayer, except his wasn’t silent.

“Ah-min,” the congregation heaved loudly.

His robe flapped in a self-created breeze as he strode past. 

Chye and I rushed for the aisle, taking huge mother-may-I steps toward the exit.

She made it before me, but the minister’s stance guarding the door slowed us down. Chye did as she'd been taught: she bowed low. I automatically reached out to catch her thinking she would fall over, but she had it under control. The minister caste his gaze on me. Just behind him stood the open door. Freedom. I bobbed my head his direction and turned to bolt, but my inept head jerk gave the Korean women time to set their trap. The babbling began. Their voices rose along with the volume and I yelled at Chye as they closed in on us, “What? What?”

A couple of women  in front of us motioned us toward their dining hall. Another women positioned herself behind us, placed one hand on Chye’s back and one hand firmly on mine. She braced herself, dug her feet into the carpet and began to push.

She. Pushed. Us. Down. The. Hall. Literally.

When I saw what was on the table it was too good to miss. I ran the last few steps, a goofy grin gaping across my lips.

Krispy Kremes and Kimchi.

Klearly Korean.

Oh, by the way, we went back the next week.


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Husband Hunting Part III

Adventure embraces every moment of our lives. We have no idea what is coming next. I had no idea Chye (a co-worker and Korean woman) would ask me about the Korean Presbyterian Church I had attended some months back. Crashing their service was a personal dare to further my book research.

It had not been a comfortable experience.

I am not Korean.

Chye had embarked on a personal quest, to secure a Korean husband, and had completed preliminary research--general fact finding about Korean places of worship in the larger metro area, plus she had joined Match.com and joined a Korean dating site.

At mid-thirty the time was now. Marriage and baby were her goals.

As an an artist/designer, Chye recognized and was appalled by the Korean dating sight and the lengths single women went to in order to photoshop a model-perfect profile photo. Chye would rather you know her as she is. I peered over and wondered what it would take to convince her to remove her beret, comb out her long, dark hair, and dab on light makeup--if only lipstick.

Oh, and a little weight wouldn't hurt, either. By government standards she was probably five lbs. underweight, but that underweight was valued by Korean men. In fact, it might impress her latest long-distance interest, an architect in Korea who engaged in intriguing, online conversations. He sounded like a stunning prospect, so I had demanded, "Why is he not married now?"

"I wonder same thing," she noted.

Korean men are not easy to please. Last year on her annual visit home, a high-school classmate had convinced Chye to meet up with him. He was a doctor, who as a teen, had been smitten with her and waddled behind her like an imprinted duckling. Apparently, Chye had become too Americanized. Their first in-person conversation in years ended abruptly when he cancelled their dinner date and explained, "You're too fat."

There's something about that bone thin Asian women that is hard to shake from some men's fantasies. "Keep eating at Burgerville-USA," I advised. "It saved your ass."

The music played, someone uttered a prayer, and programs shuffled as eyes reviewed what was next in the service. We sat in the back row. I felt slightly self-consious, if not borderline unacceptable (church behaviour-wise), as I pulled out my Droid and snapped a few pictures.

I had no clue if tweeting from church was practiced by Presbyterians, but what could it hurt, I wondered and scribed a couple of 140's.

The music drifted away. The minister began to speak. Instinctively, we both felt the spirit at the same time. We spontanesouly reached out for deeper communication. We were, after all in God's house. Things should be said, things should be shared.

I wrote the first note. "There were more people when I was here before." She glanced at my notepad and shrugged as the minister's voice rose in dramatic fashion. "I LOVE the sound of the language. Beautiful," I wrote and added a smiley face to underscore my appreciation.

Chye slipped the small, spiral notepad from my hands and plucked the pen from my fingers. "He has nice voice!" Her head tilted away as if listening, then wrote, "They are too serious make me very uncomfortable."

I nodded.

"Do you go to church?" Her script on the notepad asked.

I answered, "I used to—this past year, no." Then I drew a little arrow in case she didn't know to turn the page. "And I'm Presbyterian!" I wrote, as if that should allow me entrance to the Korean church mysteries.

"Ah, I don't have religion," she answered in her crisp printing. This makes very strange." She listened and translated the current theme of the sermon then crossed it out, but it was still readible: "Talking about donating and offering money to god." Then she repeated, "I'm very uncomfortable."

She passed the pad and pen my way. "I felt the same way the first time I came here," I wrote, although my reasons had more to do with feeling like I didn't belong than about what I did or did not believe. "Better this time," I finished.

"Hahaha. I'll feel same way if I go to American church." Her next sentenced betrayed that she had spent too many years away from home. "There are too many Korean here." Then she got right down to it. "I don't see any available men. I feel real guilty here. I'll stick with Match.com."

Guilt belongs a lot of places, but not in church.

Okay, guilt is created in church, but I encouraged, "Don't feel guilty—it's an adventure. Not all are successful, but the stories we will tell!" I finished with a larger smiley face.

Chye nudged me and pointed to the notation in both Korean and English in the church bulletin that said, "Welcome."

This is going to be good, I thought, and imagined them asking us to share a little about ourselves as way of introduction. Yes, I'm here with my friend Chye. We are looking for a husband for her. Who is single?

That's when my prayers began in earnest. Yes, Lord, please let us find Chye a husband and get this over. Please, please, please.

To be continued...

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Manhunt Part II

I wonder sometimes why I do some of the crazy things I do. I think it’s because I don’t want to miss out, I don’t like there to be places where I don’t belong, and I like to know what’s behind closed doors. I will be the one who—after everyone has gone home—pokes her head in the men’s bathroom. Just to see what it looks like.

Uh, yeah.

The people who know me would not be surprised by that disclosure. They might, however, be surprised that some of my antics require me to get my nerve up. But Sunday, entering the Korean Church felt quite comfortable now that I was in the company of a Korean, my co-worker Chye.

The time I came without her, the Korean greeters had taken one look at my auburn hair and round eyes and waved the Korean bulletins in their hands as if to ward off smoke from a campfire gone awry, shouting “This is not the right church.” Of course, they said it in Korean, but it was quite clear they believed I had made a wrong turn and ended up in their midst by mistake.

I smiled.

They gaped.

I neared.

They took a step back.

I took another step, reached out, and my smile tensed as I tugged a bulletin out of the tight grip of one of them. I gave it a cursory glance, nodded and entered the sanctuary. I sat as close to the back as I could, certain I was a distraction, but hoped I wouldn’t ruin the service for the people who worshipped there regularly.

This morning they had the same set-up. Two Korean guards women greeted the oncoming with smiles and bowing heads, handing out church bulletins. Their eyes glowed when they saw Chye and the Korean words rushed and swirled as the introduction conversation ensued. With grand hand gestures, one of them handed Chye a blank piece of paper and a pen. Chye wrote something down, turned to me and told me to write my name down.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“They want to introduce you. They say your name and you stand.” She pointed at a spot in the bulletin, ‘Welcome’ it said in bold letters followed by circles and hash marks I recognized as Korean.

“No. No, way,” I answered, taking a step back.

“Just do it,” she said, then the smile tightened on her lips as if to say don’t embarrass me.

I glanced at the women. They smiled encouragingly and waved the bulletins as if to fan the fire of invitation. I grasped the pen, narrowed my eyes on Chye and scratched my name on the paper under hers. Just you wait, I thought, if they make us speak I’ll announce we’re on a man hunt.

We stepped into the carpeted sanctuary and eased into the back row as soft music lilted from the small orchestra at the front of the church: violin, viola, cello and keyboards. We stared at our bulletins. One of us could read it.

A congregational hymn began, a few hands clapped in rhythm. My head jerked up.

Unbelievable.

I understood Korean. At least one word...



AH-LAY-LOO-YAH

More to come...

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Husband shopping

I went to church on Sunday and understood exactly two words. It's not because I don't get God. I do. I totally get God. It's simple. He's in charge. I am not.

No, I only understood two words because the service was conducted in a language I do not speak. Korean to be precise. Yes. On Sunday I visited the Vancouver Korean Presbyterian Church (밴쿠버 한인 장로 교회(미국장로회 PCA). It was my second time. The first was a personal dare. Book research. And was likely one of the most uncomfortable church experiences I've ever had. Mostly because the tables were turned. Suddenly, I was the sole auburn-haired maiden in a sea of dark, bowing heads.

I was the minority.

Afterwards, I discussed the experience with my friends telling them that I felt every white American should do exactly as I had done, attend an Asian church service and discover what it must feel like to someone who is not culturally in sync, to enter our white bread places of worship, to sense how out of place one feels, how difficult it is to understand or communicate, how happy you are to flee.

One of the people I shared this with, Chye, was not necessarily a close friend, but a supportive co-worker, a Korean woman who happily answered questions that arose as I created a Korean family in my first manuscript. She thought I was odd to go to church, she doesn't have faith, and even odder to thrust myself into a cultural morass, but she evidently stored the 'spiritual visit' away, allowed it to percolate then surface when her stage of life changed.

She nabbed me in the hall, referenced the Korean church, and noted she needed to find out where they were located. Why do you seek out church if you are ambivalent at best about heavenly matters? My curiosity piqued and after a few questions I learned, she wasn't shopping for a good God experience. She was shopping for a good husband.

Where does a nice, divorced Korean girl meet a nice, single Korean man? With approximately less than 0.6% of the local population Korean, it's like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Unless you go to church.

While my Korean church experience had been excruciating I was still drawn to to the little building on 18th Street and possessed some longing to go again, but could not muster the courage. Accompanying Chye would be my ticket back in so I volunteered to go with her. "Really?!" she said astounded. I nodded.

Worry clouded her dark eyes as they swung back and forth between mine. She was particularly stressed about connecting with the local Korean community. She feared they might latch onto her and not let go. Set some sort of Korean-cultural trap from which one doesn't escape, pursue her, push her into a relationship with someone she didn't like. Ridiculous I thought and countered, "I'll be the matchmaker. They'll have to be approved by me, and if they bother you, I'll handle it."

I thought I was invincible. I had not met The Koreans.

To be continued...

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It's a writer's conference, cry me a river

Day One.
I give my elevator pitch to Fellow Writer A, a woman. She says, “Oooo, nice.”

I gain confidence and give my elevator pitch to First Agent. She nods, appears interested. I give very brief summary of story. When I get to the part where ex-husband shows up as female protagonist’s new boss the agent stops me.

“No. That is too much of a coincidence for me.” I explain how the plot line makes it plausible. “No,” she smiles, “He would already know who the employees are in a business he is buying.” I tell her the story does not make that clear, whether he knows she’s there or not, it is not a story point. “No,” she repeats still smiling, pulls out a pocket dagger, swings it in front of my eyes for emphasis and details further, “I can’t find anything likeable about your female character.”

Nothing? The glint of the steel flashes and I sit back in my seat. I swing my head toward the exit and try to judge how far away I am.

“I like books with very strong female protagonists. Rethink your pitch, recast it in a way that describes the genre, what and why—why would she marry him?” She says things like explain plot device and ends with, “I have a disdain for characters who get themselves into a fix.” She stabs the dagger into the table top for emphasis.

I am in a fix. She has disdain for me.

Rewrite the story? I can’t just make something up.

Oh, right, I made it all up.

It sucks. I suck.

I my lips pull into a wavering smile and I thank her for her time.


Day Two, Morning.
I give my elevator pitch to Fellow Writer B, a man, “Wow, I’m intrigued.”

Second Agent says, “Pitch me.” I give same elevator pitch. She stops me. “If she’s learned not to depend, why does she?” I explain the circumstances that make it plausible. She asks, “Is this you?”

“No. why do you ask? Does it sound like it happened to me?”

“No, but if it had happened to you, I would ask why you married this guy and tell you to turn it into a memoir.”

I wonder briefly if I can find and marry Jae-Chun Lee. I must discard this thought, after all, he is already married and...and...he is fiction.

I realize I am insane.

My plot is insane.


Day Two, Lunch.
I decide I will not share agent feedback with my critique group, because one of them will tell me that such-and-so always bothered them, too, and I will quit, actually quit writing because…

I’ll give them a good excuse, as soon as I write one that does not suck and sound insane.


Day Two, Afternoon.
I am thirsty. I leave my volunteer station in the agent consult area and grab a seltzer water can out of my car. I slip back into the banquet room and glide past an agent twiddling thumbs on a break.

The Agent grabs my arm and asks,“Where did you find the sparkling water?” I size the situation up. I hesitate. I do not snap the metal circle-tab. “You will be my new best friend,” she declares, “if you divulge your source.”

I hand her my can.

“No, I can't take your water,” she says, and struggles to maintain her composure. She’s likely very thirsty after telling all the writers how much they suck. She swallows and chomps down on the inside of her cheek.

“My treat,” I say. “I have a whole case in the car.”

She looks doubtful. I plant the can on her table. She relents. Her shaky hand reaches out. Her fingers close around the metal cylinder, red-glazed fingernails flick at the ring-top. It pops open and the water gasps, sparkling and plinking of Northwest freshness. She takes a long draw.

“You owe me a pitch,” I suggest, and it doesn't sound like I’m kidding. I mentally check my internal resources and steel myself for rejection.

“Send me your stuff,” she answers, “No,” she decides, after taking another gulp. She wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Send me your entire manuscript.” She scribbles her email on a scrap of paper.

I realize my value is measured in the drinks I keep in my car.

Later that evening, I wonder if it is required to cry everyday of a writer’s conference, and realize I do not suck at everything.

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How an Asian runs his business: focused

Reading a book out loud twelve minutes at a time equals a year in the life of an editing author. We're at Chapter 10 (out of thirty, give or take a prologue, an epilogue). Lee fires one of his young brokers, it’s as bad as any expected. He has high standards and he’s not nice when an employee doesn’t measure up. Kerri Ann, of course, believes it has something to do a brief exchange she had with the young man at the office during Lee's Saturday training.

There’s some mayhem at the house when she wakes in the middle of the night and doesn’t realize a couple of cousins are still hanging out, and she wanders into his dark den with a t-shirt that doesn’t quite cover, well, her behind. It all leads to argument and a slight to Lee’s Korean culture, not nice, but embarrassment sends down strange roads. And that’s not the end of the arguments.

“He didn’t hear me come in. The overhead was off, but the den's desk lamp illuminated the white paper he held. I positioned my thumb and forefinger in an ‘O’ and snapped the paper to break his concentration. He startled, looked over at the hemline of my tee not even hitting the tops of my legs. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I’d never had that reaction before and thought this might be interesting. I decided to give him the rest of the view. I slithered my bare butt up on his desk, started to cozy my feet over his thighs, rolled my arms in the bottom of the tee and began to pull it off.” (A Single Pearl, Chapter 10).

I had little straggly things to fix in this chapter, bit of massaging to get it ‘right,’ keep the characters true. All better now. Here’s how my writing partners logged in…

Lisa: +good description of firing day with Lee; +great office scene with Lee and Kerri Ann; -she is very forgiving if she’s has a big blowout and then goes to the office scene; -‘you’re not coming out here like that, he asked’ seemed more like a statement. Why does she have to wear hanbok? Chap 11: ‘chains of rules with no jewels, don’t understand what that means (?).

Melanie: +your job is to hostess; ++love this scene; -lips practically petrified doesn’t fit; + of course they had to honk; + trembling into nervous apologies; + name tag announcing secretary; + description of office; + ‘who sold house?’like her reaction; + hate JOHN, what a rat.

Pam: +‘death march to the door,’ + I like this part - again! + My, KA is getting spunky! ‘Freckles…followed.’ I’m getting a kick out of the way John belittles KA. +My, KA is getting spunky! +“Freckles…followed.” I’m getting a kick out of the way John belittles KA.

Peggy: +Love Kerri Ann’s defiance and that she stood firm in how she felt; + the receipt J; + the scene with uncle and cousin wonderful details with the t-shirt; + ‘freedom from the hanbok;’ Lee’s response to her the next AM (exhibitionist comment) Does she need to use John’s name so much? Can you replace his name with him/his/he? +‘like acid over his big desk,’ ‘placid lake,’ nice similes.

Edits: I hate re-reading the scenes with John, he can be almost evil. That said, I overwrite him and have to edit half the scene whenever he and KA tussle. He has a side, we just don’t know it…YET!

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Opening to the future, closing up the past

Scene: the main protagonist, Kerri Ann, experiences the death of a family member and reacts not with grief but with stoicism. As others reach out to her she pulls away. It ends in a bedroom with a pillow discussion and a ticking clock underscoring the gravity of life, the choices made to ignore rather than face the past, and the acquiescing to routine rather than opening up to pain and moving forward through life. It’s what they don’t discuss that hangs as a mist to influence future misunderstanding, except at this point I’m the only one who knows that.

“All right,” he said, reached over and turned out the bedside light. He drew in close, sifted my hair over my shoulder, and his lips lingered in light caresses on the nape of my neck. I didn’t respond to his touch. I loitered in the past, trundled through that horrid hovel, knowing it would look worse as an adult than it ever had as a child. The mantel clock ticked a muffled beat as the rest of the house grew silent. The last light seeping under the door went dark, hurling us into blackness.

“Why didn’t you want me to come?” he spoke into the night.

Share, the clock clicked rhythmically. Share, it tocked.

Lisa: good imagery with Kerri Ann and her dad; -just “confided” good don’t need “whispered;” +”Traced my mark.” Note? Need to understand its importance, need more on that. +”Cascading concern,” +”leave it alone,” Sherrine told Chloe; +the whiff of tissues from box;” +glad Lee came; didn’t’ understand only ½ hour of people after funeral? +rude second husband; +speculation about door tight in parents house. Not sure I understand the fight between Kerrie Ann and Lee(?); I don’t care about that, I care about now (conflicts with his questions during fight).

Melanie: Graveyard scene. +Lee not coming to funeral, +++Lee arrived. +Grief of others – for her. +Guest “welcome to God’s country” scene, we knew something was coming! +Pretend jobs no one needs. +Tick Tock.

Pam: +Nice inner thoughts at the first part. Interesting that she left before he died. So she hated her mom, too? I didn’t remember that – sorry. Why is she so devastated that she can’t even function? +Great imagining at the funeral! I’m glad Lee came! Good exchange of character dialogue at the reception (I didn’t get the whole door thing). K.A. has many issues doesn’t she? I wish she wasn’t so ashamed of her past. +Breathe – tick-breath – toc’ (That entire scene is well done).

Peggy: +Dredged up murk” …ooh, I like that! ?He “walked” away again? Death? +Like a lone sentinel, + :-). +Chloe being mad about Lee not being there…And then for him to be at the funeral…Yay! + :-). +”his eyes smiled…” <-- nice. +Like the addition of the clock ticking with her thoughts. +Getting to know Kerri Ann.

Edits: The group thought I could eliminate a couple of summary references to items the reader understands from the details. Done.

There was some confusion about KA’s feelings about her mom. She didn’t hate her, and also some questioning why Kerri Ann felt the death so hard of someone she did hate. Fixed.

I moved the tissue box in the scene from the rows of well-wishers to the family row and think it tightened up the emotions.

Pam’s catch, “Interesting that she left before he died,” will give me something nice to remind her of when KA reflects in Part II why she did that. I’ll enjoy reminding Pam of how astute she was to catch that fleeting thought.

This was one of my chapters I sent to the teacher (Carolyn Rose) when I missed a class to attend volunteer orientation for Willamette Writers Conference. I used teacher's feedback to enhance the scene, but also mistakenly took the scene too far. The read to the group let me know I needed to pull Lee back, the Korean husband, soften his edges, he is not an easy character to understand. we will love him and get pissed at him from here on out. Characters tick as illusive as people who don't want to be known, or who don't know themselves well, as complicated as the inner workings of a clock.

The tick-tock they referenced is a clock beating in the background as Kerri Ann opens up to Lee, shares her childhood, how it haunts her and how she doesn’t want it to touch him. A ticking clock will show up in Part II, but that's to underscore the need to leave. This was a fun night for me to read—lot of emotion in the room, intense listening.

Who will play Jae-Chun Lee in the movie? I'm leaning towards Daniel Henney

Like leaning WAY, way...oops fell off my chair. Okay, back in place, here's the audition call: all tall Korean actors who speak English, please apply.

Okay, skip the English, no translatation needed for this.

Kerri Ann describes Lee as being physically fit, with great abs, kind of like the guy at 1:15.

Guy at 1:23 also has "the look."

I'm sorry, but what was that at 1:42??


Okay, that was fun. Now, let's see them in a suit.

Not enough suits for you, eh? I admit it, most of that was a tease.


Try the next one. You've got time, it's less than thirty seconds. It's Daniel Henney. Come on. You've got time to watch it twice.



Now for John...crap, that will not be as much fun. Oh, heck, I can still look for Jae-Chun Lee's cousins: Jae-Hyeon, Jae-Jin, Jae-Min.

She's got big ideas and it doesn't involve cooking or cleaning

What is Kerri Ann up to now?
The next morning Lee showed me a 3-D drawing in the paper of one of the downtown developments his company was working on. That gave me an idea. I spent weeks at the library researching and took my list to the newspaper and bought old editions, specific dates containing bird's eye illustrations of the city's core.



Saturdays I xeroxed, sizing everything perfectly. At home I cut and pieced it together, drew in the missing areas, and made my own map with colored squares of blue to represent Lee portfolio properties. Little pieces of paper drifted and fluttered from my project. “Your mother is rubbing off on me,” I ribbed.
(A Single Pearl, Chapter 9).



The idea germinating blossomed on that decision walk. When I got home I called Lee to let him know I’d resurfaced. “I’m taking that cooking class,” I said. I went through my leftover pile of newspapers, cut out recipes, and that week cooked them as if they came from a class.

Well, I wanted to do it myself, but after telling Breena I’d set a kitchen towel on fire she swooped in for rescue; she slaved while I cleaned up the smoke damage. We froze the meals and I brought them out to thaw as needed. The dishes were actually pretty good. Lee was impressed, what a good student I was, what a great class. Then off I’d go to study—for my real estate license. (A Single Pearl, Chapter 9).

She needs college cash, has to ask him for money

Kerri Ann needs money, and has to ask Lee for it. It doesn't feel good, but wait...what does he want?

An excerpt from A Single Pearl...
...I’d decided my discontent could only be doused with forward motion, and I’d have to ask Lee for money. It chafed I’d become so dependent, but his soft words were the plink of a stone breaking the surface of my pride lake, sending out ripples of renewal. I tucked in next to him, held myself for courage and took a breath. Lee moved his arm over the back of the sofa, and kneaded my shoulder. He gazed past me, and struggled to say something.
(A Single Pearl, Chapter 9).