Youth Opinion : An Ode to Grandmother, the ‘Policeman’ of a Child’s Life

Through my childhood, I didn’t quite understand that peculiar, fussing old lady who always baby-sat for me when my parents were gone. Initially, I knew her only as hal-mu-ni, the Korean term for grandmother, and that she spoke not a word of the English language. Daily, I tested the limits of her patience by defacing the walls of my room with stick figures and destroying crayons with my Transformers. My grandmother would scold me for my misconduct in Korean, a language I didn’t understand. I cried interminably for my mother, who would only scold me again for angering my grandmother.

As I grew older, I guess I became a little more reliable, and finally the day came when 11 rainbow-colored candles on my birthday cake symbolized the dawn of a new era in my life. No longer was a grandmotherly sentinel necessary to guard my every action. In addition, my mother finally gave in to my persistent requests to allow me to find Christ.

This led to catastrophic consequences when my devout Buddhist grandmother found out. Not only did she move out of our family house into a low-rent, low-quality apartment, but she also spent many nights attempting to make me promise to follow her Buddhist ways. Fearing my grandmother’s “Buddha magic,” as I called it as a child, I always shied away from her strange chant-filled meditations and scripture readings. Refusing to accept Buddha in my heart would be the only time I ever successfully defied my grandmother.

Five years after our religious battle, our relationship is quieter. My grandmother lives in peace about two blocks from our house and visits regularly, bringing rice cakes, barbecued chicken and $20 bills for me to spend on whatever I wish. Each night, she still calls at 7, asking if everyone has arrived home safely. My grandmother yearns to hear the voice of her obedient, straight-A, athletic and maturing grandson, me. Only recently have I understood how important my life is to hers.

Through my sophomore year of high school, my grandmother awakened with the sun to watch me board an antiquated school bus departing from Koreatown for Pacific Palisades High. She would also wait for me at the bus stop past sunset when I had volleyball practice after school.

One day recently, while my grandmother and I watched a tennis tournament on television, I saw her face in repose out of the corner of my eye and was shocked at how tired and old she looked. No longer can I picture her as the vigorous grandmother who bustles to and fro with zest. Rather, she has become one who waits for me, her younger grandson, to fulfill her hopes that I will become a doctor and have children of my own.

Her life, I now understand, has been dedicated to improving mine. Though well into her 60s, she works long hours at a stubborn sewing machine in a humid factory. While much of this hard-earned money is saved, a large portion of it constitutes my weekly allowance. My grandmother’s love is not only pecuniary--it encompasses all aspects of my life. When her “inner spirit” warned her in a dream that I should be wary of teen-age girls, she made me vow to be careful. She continues to call at night but has increased the frequency of calls to include mornings and afternoons. As I approach a precarious age, my grandmother’s cautiousness has heightened accordingly.

My grandmother is no longer just the old lady who policed my childhood. Though the “policing” continues to this day, I also understand how she has supported me and shielded me from the hurtful parts of the world.

I praise you, hal-mu-ni.