When asked what I ate for dinner, I lied. It was roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and salad, rather than the kimchi, rice, and fermented bean soup drowning beheaded anchovies.
When asked what my parents did for a living, I lied. To say they were orthodontists, lawyers, plastic surgeons, or president of Woodward and Lothrop was too far-fetched. So I told them they owned a restaurant called The Greenhouse in Silver Spring on Georgia Avenue. The seafood was especially good there. Fresh. When really, my mom and dad worked in a carryout in Southeast D.C. Mom made hog maw, ham hocks, fat back, chitlins, and chicken gizzards in gravy. Dad worked the register, taking money and making change. They served poor-people food to the poor.
When asked who did my hair and where I got it done, I lied. It was Sabine at Harlowe Salon in Georgetown, rather than my mom, dad, or sister in our basement with the company of a circular saw, an electric drill, hammers, screws, and wood scraps. Our hidden do-it-yourself den.
When asked where I got my cute skirt, I lied. Hecht’s, Woodies, or Saks. When really it was something I stitched together from scraps of fabric left over from my mom’s annual sewing of aprons for work.
Moving from Riverdale, a neighborhood of low-income families and mostly immigrants, to Potomac, the birthplace of Darren Star—future creator of Beverly Hills 90210, Melrose Place and Sex and the City—jarred me. (By the way, Darren and I went to the same high school, which inspired 90210.) My teen logic said that for me to survive my new environment, I must lie, pretend, and fictionalize. My reality was a shame. It must not be found out. I must not be found.
I got good at lying. I got hooked on it. Pulling one over on a poor soul gave me a high. Catching the brief flicker of envy in eyes gratified. It was about time the others turned green.
I got through high school, protected myself from any imagined humiliation, and avoided genuine friendships. It was lonely, but I successfully kept secret the reality of my life at home, which was built on the hard work of my parents, homemade skirts, free haircuts, and kimchi. All hidden. All treasures.
Patti Kim was born in Busan, Korea. Raised in Maryland on both sides of the tracks. Author of A Cab Called Reliable and Here I Am. Married with kids, but can’t stop writing about her childhood.
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