Chapter 3
A great source of tawdry stereotypes about Asians is the hackneyed concept of arranged marriages. We are often presented with the quaint notion that such anachronisms still continue, which serves to generate a convenient old culture/new culture conflict, which inevitably leads to a shotgun marriage, more thoughtless ethnic mischaracterization, and lot of bad drama. I don't know if arranged marriages still occur in the clich‚ sense of two deeply traditional families contracting the marriage of their children at a very young age (as an American, it's hard for me to imagine such a thing). I suspect they don't, but if there was ever a couple whose marriage was so universally accepted as inevitable that it could be considered to be arranged, it was Sarah and me. A year ago you might as well have told a fellow that you knew an honest lawyer as told him Sarah and I weren't going to make it to the altar.
Sarah's family emigrated from Korea about two weeks before my eleventh birthday. Sarah wasn't her name then, it was Shin-ja, but arrangements were made and paperwork done to facilitate the proper Westernization, and she became Sarah. My eleventh birthday party was a quiet, genial affair. Most of the Korean community turned out as this was also where the Parks, Sarah's family, made their debut into our established Korean expatriate network. There were small gifts for me and treats for all the good quiet children, while the adults discussed business and gossiped. It must have been quite a relief for the Parks--especially Sarah, who was only ten--newly arrived in a strange land, filled with the anxiety of the refugee, to find themselves surrounded by friendly, sympathetic faces. In those days the Korean community was a ready-made support group. Now, of course, everyone is upper middle-class comfortable.
Over the next few months it was my sworn duty to look after Sarah at school. Understandably, her parents had fears of her being mistreated. It was something of a nuisance as it distracted me from baseball and my friends for a while, but in retrospect I'm glad I wasn't selfish enough to resist. It was the least I could do, and never let it be said I didn't do the least I could do. I say it took months, though it's probably more accurate to lose the plural. Though humble and quiet, Sarah is very intelligent and personable with other females. Her English quickly went from good to better than mine, and she fell in with a crowd of very smart and snobby little girls that I hated. Her parent's fears were unfounded. Nobody could mistreat Sarah--such a sweet, well-behaved little girl--and not spend the rest of his life performing noble acts in penance.
Still, Sarah and I saw each other at school everyday and we were both at all the Labor Day picnics, weddings, funerals, birthdays, etc., that transpired in our ethnic circle. I don't know at what point our eventual involvement and marriage became assumed--like the majority of communication in my life, it was never spoken of directly--but it did, and you just don't cross expectations and assumptions in the Korean world without engendering feelings of betrayal. Unexpected behavior is the real enemy. Evil acts would have a chance for acceptance as long as they had the proper set-up, but something out of the blue, no matter how innocent or legitimate, is a strict violation of the holy safeguard of humble reliability.
I suppose the thing with Sarah and me was that everything seemed just right. Harmonious. She was a couple of months younger than me and, due to America being my land of birth, she would never achieve quite the level of assimilation I had. That meant the requisite manly dominance was pre-established. Not that it would have been a problem if we were equal in age and assimilation--Sarah was an appropriately meek Asian girl. When our fathers began to have business dealings together that made it a mortal lock.
As you've probably gathered, I lost Sarah over the course of the last year, and I sometimes feel a twinge of regret. But if you'd asked me at the time I probably would have expressed relief. It may have been about sex. Everything's about sex, isn't it? Sarah never expressed any interest in sex. Not a whit. And the only thing worse than being involved with a woman who fights your every move is being around one who completely ignores it. Hello! I'm puttin' the moves on you here! Could you please at least acknowledge my existence?
Knowing Sarah, I figured on unbridled reticence from the get-go and I thought I could deal with it. I didn't expect a complete absence of recognition. At least she could have treated me like a hovering mosquito and brushed me away, but I got nothing, not even a cold shoulder. You see, as a freshman, away from home for the first time, I was actually having sex from time to time. It must have been at a point where I was terribly satiated that I decided to formally ask Sarah to be my girlfriend. I knew sex was going to be sorely absent, but I fooled myself into believing that I was an adult and should begin thinking about my future. This was the future everyone expected for me and us, so better be a man and get on with it. Such is the effect of regular sex: it lulls you into a sense of triviality and your mind progresses to other illusions. I asked Sarah to be my steady and she said, "OK." Two years later I was cursing myself regularly.
Our dates, if you could call them that, were nothing more than a series of vignettes with a similar theme. The location varied--at home watching TV, at the movies, or just on a walk--but the sequence of events was as predictable as a tape loop. I'd move close--she wouldn't react. I'd put my arm around her--she wouldn't react. I'd softly touch her hair--she wouldn't react. Eyes forward, blank expression. How many times I longed for her to go limp in my arms, eyes flashing, breathing heavy, lips moist, and...
Anyway, going through this routine for about the five millionth time I suddenly had an epiphany. Sarah was the little girl who could spell. The little girl didn't run or cry, Sarah didn't slap me silly for being fresh. The little girl didn't laugh and ham it up, Sarah didn't shiver in anticipation and yield to sensual pleasure, clutching, writhing...
Anyway, on what turned out to be our last date, she greeted me at the door instantly, as if she was waiting with her hand on the knob. I was pleasantly surprised to find her roommates were not home--two big scary Korean girls. They were very protective of her and constantly placed me under the evil eye despite my unassailably respectful behavior. Subsequent events proved them good judges of character, but they had no way of knowing it back then. Sarah was all ready to go, dressed in a very nice single color sweater and a pleated, Catholic school-girl looking knee-length skirt. She wore no make-up, but her face was quite pretty in a cleanly sort of way. We didn't kiss. She just grabbed her purse and we left. She knew we would be alone in her apartment. Why couldn't she have met me in wearing a wispy half slip, or better yet, cellophane? Why couldn't she have given me a deep languid kiss when I arrived and led me to her bedroom where we could press our bodies tightly together, letting our burning desires build to the point of...
Anyway, the point is that it was over, whatever it was. I planned to tell her on that very night, but I needed a drink first so I suggested we walk over to the Del Rio bar. Once there, Sarah let loose and ordered a wine spritzer. I now recall that she was ordering actual alcoholic beverages with a bit more frequency, but it didn't register as significant at the time. That was one of the many signs from her that I misjudged, my hindsight being twenty-twenty. Also around that time, I remember seeing a copy of Cosmopolitan mixed in among her schoolbooks. I thought she must have signed up for some goofy feminist theory class because she would never look at something like that unless she had to. Even that night at the bar there were other clues, like that fact that she initiated the conversation.
"Our fathers are starting that new business together."
"Hmm," I acknowledged.
"I think they want us both to work there after graduation."
"Hmm," (My version of "OK.") I continued, "Is that what you want?"
"It's OK." Of course it was. "Is that what you want?"
"It's what every good Korean boy wants."
She smiled, just slightly. Another clue. She understood my cynical comment and appreciated it, but again I missed it. I was so certain I knew what she was that I interpreted any evidence to the contrary as exceptions to the rule when, in fact, the rule was wrong.
"I don't know what I want," I said. She kept her barely perceptible little smile.
I wonder if she understood how true that statement was. No, I don't wonder, I know she did. Everybody did back then except yours truly. But I had other things on my mind, like dumping her. I did and still do respect her and I never wanted to hurt her in any way. I at least owed her the truth and, though painful, in the long run it would have been better to get it over with quickly. That would have been the honorable and courageous thing to do.
So I didn't say a word about it. I just stopped calling her.