God and the Ants

By Mary Yoo

"God and the Ants" is the coming-of-age story about AJ, the daughter of conservative Korean immigrants. From an impoverished Chicago neighborhood to the manicured lawns of the suburbs, AJ struggles to make sense of her faith and her identity as a female, a sister, and a daughter.

Follow AJ through seasons of chaos and joy as she questions helmet-haired aunties, fights the status quo, and makes life-long friendships. AJ searches for meaning as she sits on church pews, kisses boys on her parents' rooftop, and overdoses at a warehouse party.

This culminates on the sunniest, most tragic of mornings, where AJ finally finds answers to lifelong questions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Yoo
• Release date: Nov 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370657711

Mary Yoo

Mary Yoo is the middle child of Korean immigrants. She grew up in Chicago, Illinois as a sister between a younger and older brother. In her youth, Mary lived in the duality between conservative Korean culture and American culture. Not only did this shape how she sees the world today, this led her to be fascinated with the way culture shapes the way people see the world. Early in her career, Mary received her Master’s in Clinical Psychology and worked in the counseling field for a number of years. However, her lifelong desire to travel caught up with her in 2008, when she moved abroad to live in Seoul, South Korea. For the seven years Mary lived there, she worked in the field of education, traveled through fifteen different nations, and collected many stories. She is passionate about traveling, being connected to the global community, her spirituality, telling stories, and holding hands with her Loved Ones.

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Author’s Note

"God and the Ants" is my version of my story. I estimate about 96% of the events and conversations actually happened in some fashion or another.

The timing of some events has been changed for the sake of telling a more coherent story. I also used composite characters that represent several people in one. If you think you recognize yourself, it may be you. But if that character does something you don’t recognize, it’s because it’s not you. I’ve shared my journey by combining many people’s stories with other people’s stories. The only character that is (mostly) true to life is me (AKA AJ).

Additionally, I need to mention that I got permission from my family and Loved Ones to tell this narrative. For a number of years, my Appa (father) and I had a volatile relationship that is described in a few of the chapters. Since then, we have had seasons of reconciliation; I love and deeply honor my Appa. His continual desire for growth and restoration is something I admire and hope that I am emulating my own life.

Finally, my brother Peter (Sam in the novel) did not appear very much in the pages. This is not an indication of where our relationship is; Peter is an extremely important person in my life.

***

I have always been haunted by Big questions:

Why was I born? What is the purpose of my life? How did I get myself into this? Who the hell is Jesus?

I grew up in the Church, and for most of my life, I stumbled along feeling troubled and resenting the hypocrisy I saw there. The pat replies that I was handed about God and faith and the Meaning of Life never worked for me. At some point, I ditched the neatly wrapped religion of my childhood and went on a quest to figure out what was really True.

I sought for Truth in pleasure, validation, and control. It was wild, amazing fun. But what I found was inconsistent and temporary—and the universe kept falling to pieces around me. I always knew there was something more than what my five senses could perceive, but I fought those invisible answers until God made Himself known to me.

Looking back, I can clearly see the threads of the Divine weaved throughout my narrative, but it took a lot of reflection, perspective, and hard lessons to move me to Believe. The route I took to find the one True thread was circuitous.

The following pages recount the beginning of that story.

Prologue: A Morning

I awoke to a feeling of dread.

I kept my eyes closed to the sharp pain lancing from left temple to right eye. Taking a deep breath, I tightened the bed clothes around my bare shoulders, hoping to fall back asleep. This is how it always was: the sudden emergence from a poisoned slumber. The sickening stirrings of conscious thought. Aching body. Throbbing pulse and the clench of swollen eyes. Just breathe. Just go back to sleep.

But rest would be impossible. My nose stung with the sticky brown reek of cigarette smoke from the tangle of my hair. Opening my eyes, I stared at the faux wood grain of my night stand for a while. I worked hard to keep my mind blank. I didn’t want to remember yesterday.

My eyes moved from the wood grain to the half bottle of red wine sitting open on the floor next to the bed. A dry cabernet. It had been knocked over the evening before. I could hear the glugging, gulping sound as it hollow-clunked and spilled. A shining cascade of deep purple splashed across the white and blue patterned floor. Not a drop of that wine had actually been drunk. I had already been blind drunk.

I closed my eyes. I heard last night’s swinging beat and felt the sweat and the heat. I felt his burning eyes.

No. I don’t want to go there.

I pictured my friend Surrie. A million years ago, we had become best friends. Surrie had always looked the same to me. Her bluest-black hair, open smile, and kind eyes.

***

Surrie was sitting on faded green carpet next to me, a million miles away, a million years ago.

My bedroom light was off, but the little lamp I kept under my desk was lit. Surrie and I were overtaken by the giddiness of the late night hours of our slumber party. The moonlight shining through the frosted window beamed down on us as we spoke in hushed voices.

Here, I whispered as I passed Surrie a warm beer from under my bed, we have to be quiet. My parents can hear everything. I picked up my own can and carefully popped it open. She did the same.

Our first beers, I gleefully toasted with Surrie.

Happy birthday, Surrie grinned at me.

We sipped the beer. It tasted sour and vaguely like corn. I immediately felt a heaviness rush over me. Goosebumps rose all the way down my body. That was weird. Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

***

The washed-out light from the early dawn was leaking into my garden apartment. My eyes slowly moved from the bottle of wine to the wall. I hated this garden apartment. I hated that it was always slightly musty in here. Darkness and decay continually encroached in from the walls. I want the wind to take the ceiling right off. I want the hot, dry sun to come in and bake my body until there is nothing left, except ash… I need a cigarette.

My smokes were on the night stand. I pulled one out and put it to my lips. The flame jumped, lungs filled, and smoke curled. I clenched my fist. I hate smoking. I hate myself.

I tried to quiet the snarl that rose my throat. I tapped my cigarette over the open bottle on the floor. The burning ash hissed as it hit the cabernet.

***

My short-haired grandmother used to smoke outside of my childhood home in Skokie, Illinois. My brothers and I weren’t supposed to know that our grandmother was a smoker, but her habit was impossible to conceal.

The summer rains were pouring down when I poked my head outside of our back door. I saw my grandmother smoking under the eaves of the house. The air was steaming as the drops cooled the over-heated earth. Everything smelled green. Bright green. But my grandmother was coughing.

Halmuni, I called.

Get back in the house, she snapped.

I darted back into the safety of the warm kitchen. I crawled under the table and lay on my side on the floor. Pressing my cheek to the linoleum, I traced the worn pattern with my finger.

***

The throbbing in my head had calmed, so I dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the bottle of wine. I slowly ran fingers through the tangles of my hair again. I bit my lip and let myself think about the iced mug of beer that I had been drinking when the early evening had turned into later evening. I saw the face of my friend, Ellie.

***

Last night, Ellie had lined her eyes to look like Cleopatra’s.

A pitcher of beer and two glasses were on the table between us. Ellie was checking her makeup in her compact while excitedly recounting a story from the weekend before. Her eyes glimmered merrily as she applied pink lip gloss.

Do you want some? Ellie asked.

I quickly glanced at my reflection, No, I’m good.

What are you doing after this? Ellie asked.

I don’t know. I want to go dancing. There’s someone I’m supposed to meet down the street.

Who is it?

Oh, no one special. No one I’m interested in, anyway.

Ellie laughed, Well, you never know.

I shook my head, Oh, I know how I feel about this one. Definitely just a friend.

Friends can become more than that, Ellie winked exaggeratedly.

No way. Not this one. He’s the wrong person, was my firm reply.

***

Gingerly, I pulled myself out of the twist of my sheets and walked into the kitchen. I filled up a cup with water several times and gulped it down. But I didn’t feel any relief. Leaning against my fridge, I tried to remember how I had gotten home. I vaguely remembered disrobing. Being disrobed.

No. I don’t want to go there.

I focused on my vintage stove. A million years ago, I daily cooked dinner for my brothers.

Our mother used to make meals for us in the morning and then leave it for us to reheat after school. But in high school, she stopped cooking those dinners and had me take over. I enjoyed cooking. I liked the process of cutting vegetables and heating pans and blending ingredients. I could fill my loved ones with food.

That old stove was just like this one.

As I began coughing, I clenched my fists. My throat was raw. Closing my eyes, I heard the echoes of quickening moans from two bodies. I could feel the heat from his hands sliding over my skin. The softness of his tongue in my mouth. The burn of his eyes staring into mine.

No. He was the wrong person. It’s always the wrong person.

I stumbled through my apartment, opened my patio door, and walked outside barefoot. I didn’t care that I was half-dressed. I was glad it was raining. The concrete was damp and felt rough beneath my toes. I tilted my head upward and watched the raindrops falling from the sky.

Do You see me? Do You care? Does any of this matter?

The cold drops fell and joined the hot tears that ran down the sides of my face.

Part One

Chapter One: Korean and American

AJ always thought that her parents’ story was in the realm of fable or legend. Appa (her father) had told her the story so many times AJ could picture the tight turtlenecks and polyester pants:

In mid-70s Korea, a single man and a single woman were approaching their 30s. The man was studying metallurgical engineering. The woman was working as a nurse in a hospital. They lived in different cities and were seeking out their next life move.

Their families were pressuring them to find a life partner. The man and woman were both Jesus-hippies and required that their future spouse be the same. Around the same time, the two singles expressed this one marital constraint to a mutual friend and a meeting was set up. Within a few days, a blushing woman and a cheery man sat across a table from each other.

Two weeks later, they were married.

The newlyweds emigrated from Korea to the United States of America. They only had $200 cash with them to bring into the country. The man gave $50 of this money as an offering to God. This left $150 for the couple to start chasing the American Dream. Over the next five years, a boy was born, then AJ, and then another boy. It was 1981 and this Korean American family of five lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Chicago.

AJ has flashes of memories from that tiny apartment. Watery radish soups, dirty cracked paint, and the occasional mouse that raced from A-to-B across linoleum. Rather than sitting on chairs, the family sat on Korean picnic mats that lined the floor of the apartment. Orange bricks of government cheese sat in the freezer. Their shelves held white boxes with generic black print that read Powdered Milk and Cereal. Most of AJ and her brothers’ clothes were patched hand-me-downs.

The couple owned a dry cleaners in Cabrini Green, a rough neighborhood on Chicago’s near north side. Monday through Saturday, the family of five went to the cleaners and spent the whole day there. Every day felt sunny and full of potential to AJ. The dry cleaners was the perfect place to play. AJ and her older brother (Oppa) played hide-and-seek among the hanging coats and dresses. Their baby brother (Sam) was too young to play with them. Sam blew spit bubbles in a cradle in the back of the cleaners while the two children swam through the cellophane that covered the clothing. AJ hugged the jackets and suits and then wrapped her arms around her Appa’s legs whenever she ran into him.

Initially, the family was unaware of the inherent violence in the neighborhood, so the two children freely moved about outside. They hopped over the cracks in the concrete sidewalks and ventured through empty lots and broken glass streets. There were many