My One Tooth Aunt

As we made our way through the chaotic maze of small makeshift stands, we saw her. She was waving her gnarled-up hand at us. Her 4’9” body moved crookedly as she hopped up and down, alternating from left to right foot. She looked like she needed to go to the bathroom.

Her thinning gray hair was split down the middle and pulled back into a bun with wiry strands curled out in different directions. She had on a lime green sweater that was frayed at the seams and decorated with holes from cigarette embers. Her puffy, gray parachute pants were cinched at the ankles with strips of remnants from what looked liked bed sheets; and the outfit was complete with traditional Korean rubber boat shoes. I think they were once white.

As we got closer I could see her broad wrinkled smile that showed off her toothless mouth. The only tooth she had was a bicuspid on her left side. The rest had rotted away or have been knocked out by her husband or one of her five sons. After years of abuse, her cheeks were drawn. Her face was lined with craggy grooves and sagged like the bones have been shattered too often to support her face. She looked much older than 59.

Despite the 12-hour days at the market; despite having to scrounge for coins to buy food; despite the brutal beatings; her smile is what what I remember when I think of her.

It was a chilly February day but with the warmth of the sun, the outdoor market was crowded with shoppers and merchants. There were hundreds of local farmers with their fresh produce spread out on newspapers, crates and plastic tarps, carefully displayed to attract customers.

The shouts of the merchants yelling out prices and free sample offers were almost drowned out by the jarring noises of the banging pots and pans, slams of butchers’ mallets and the firecracker pops of the roasted rice cakes. The ground was muddy from the rain the night before and the dirt-filled air was thick with smoke from the shopkeepers grilling everything from pigs’ heads to dried squid. The smell was an overpowering mixture of raw seafood, fresh garlic and fermented radishes.

We were in Korea for my brother’s wedding and my father insisted we visit our aunt. She was married to my dad’s oldest brother who had died of a brain tumor few years earlier. Their marriage was the traditional Korean union. Elders in their village agreed on the arrangement and the couple met on their wedding day. Marriages were not a proclamation of love, but rather an agreement of procreation.

It could have been a bearable existence for my aunt if she didn’t have to endure the daily beatings by an alcoholic husband or the sons who followed in the footsteps of their father.

My aunt was the primary breadwinner, which meant she had to make enough money for the booze. If she didn’t, her husband would beat her with a ridged iron rod that was used to carry hot coal. If he couldn’t find the rod, he would just use his fists to beat her until she passed out. I remember seeing her after one of the beatings. I was about 4-years-old, and my dad had finally received the approval from the United States military to emigrate to the U.S. My parents had years of household items they needed to give away; and she came over to select the ones she wanted. One of her eyes was swollen shut. She had a deep gash on her left eye that was still oozing with puss. Her lips were painfully fat and split open with bits of dried blood still caked around her mouth. She looked like she had shoved cotton balls into her mouth. She should have gotten stitches but medical treatment for non-life threatening injuries was not even a consideration. She couldn’t talk very well and her movements were slow, but she smiled when she saw us. She always managed to smile.

This was the smile that was greeting us that day at the market, the smile I remembered from decades ago. As we made our way to her, she grabbed my dad and gave him a desperate hug. “Brother, brother,” she sobbed. “Thank you for coming. It’s been a long time,” My dad guiltily replied, “I know sister. I’m finally making enough money, and brought my family.” She nodded and clung on to my dad for few minutes longer. I saw my dad hurriedly brush away his tears. When she let go, she turned her attention to my sisters and me. She looked up at me, raised her eyebrows and asked, “Do you remember me?” Not understanding what she said and somewhat taken aback by her shriveled up face, I just nodded my head. She then grabbed my hand and pointed toward a tent with a green flap. Her translucent skin was rough and knobby. It was like clutching an anatomical skeleton from my high school biology class.

“I made 13000 won so far and I’m going to buy my brother a drink. Come, come,” she instructed. Inside the tent smelled of sour rice, tangy kimchi and burning coal. There were a couple of low tables but no chairs, just cement blocks. We gathered five of them and sat around a table. She ordered a small jug of rice wine, blood sausages and radish kimchi. She poured all of us a small bowl, gulped hers down and poured herself another. She then took her chopsticks and popped a radish kimchi into her mouth. She sucked on the radish, gummed it a bit and spit out what she could not chew.

I just sat there my eyes glued to her mouth. My sister ribbed me a few times and gave me the wide-eyed look, which meant stop staring at the poor woman.

After my aunt drank the last drop of the rice wine and every morsel of the sausages was eaten, the shopkeeper brought us the check. My dad insisted on paying for the $8 tab; and my aunt beamed with joy. It was a rare treat for someone to buy her something.

We stepped back out into the crisp, fresh air and said our goodbyes. As we walked away from a part of our lives that was so foreign to us, I looked over my shoulder to see her still standing there, quietly waving and flashing that toothless smile.

My aunt passed away in 1995. I was living in Washington, DC at the time when my mom called with the news. “Your oldest aunt passed away today,” she announced. I was a bit confused by the tone of her voice. She didn’t sound sad. Instead, she sounded excited and distracted.

Mom went on to tell me how my aunt had sold the small hut she called home for 42 years and bought something for herself for the first time in her life, a brand new set of teeth. She said she didn’t want to meet God with holes in her mouth.

When my mom learned about the new teeth, she started planning for a feast in my aunt’s honor. She was busily chopping, dicing, and mincing to prepare Japchae, Shrimp Tempura and Tahng Suyeok (Sweet and Sour Pork), the three main dishes she always made for important events such as birthdays, graduations and anniversaries.

She was now making these dishes to celebrate my aunt’s only act of indulgence. She wanted her to enjoy the feast with her new teeth. Mom invited family and friends and celebrated my aunt, whose quiet strength and indestructible spirit continue to inspire me.