The Eyes Are the Best Part

By the time you’re done with him, he’ll be begging for mercy. Who is he if he can’t control you? Is he even a man anymore? It will seem like a relief when you give him a hand, even if that hand is holding a blade. And when you take everything from him, you can say what these men say about us: He was asking for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.

How do I explain to her that the home I miss isn’t a place? It’s a time when my life made sense. When things made sense.

I’ve always been jealous of the kids who have never had to deal with this crushing pressure. They have no idea how good they have it, how lucky they are. Often, I find myself wondering: What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?

Yeah, sorry, I ate a homeless guy’s eyeball last night, and I’m really struggling with it, so. . . .

As later experiences would confirm, to deal with a man like that, a man like George, you have to pull the rug out from under him. Not all at once, of course; a small tug here, another one there. You don’t back down when he tries to wield his power. Instead, you trip him up by slipping him little lies. Correct him whenever you can. Confuse him. Make him feel foolish. Men like him hate being wrong, hate being embarrassed, hate not being in control. Men like him don’t know what to do when that happens, and they resort to childish displays of anger, temper tantrums, sulking. In spite of this, he won’t be able to do a single thing about it because in the end he’s the one who is weak. The only power he has is the power you are willing to give him, and you’ve given him nothing. Not a scrap.

I know that plant is pretty, but poison is everywhere, even in the places where you least expect it.

We girls are taught from an early age that we are demonstrably inferior to our male counterparts. We are smaller, weaker, stupider. When we succeed, it’s only because men allow us to. And as Asian women, we are foreign and especially powerless, with our supposedly porcelain skin, delicate physiques, “slanted pussies,” and quiet, submissive natures.

There was a delicate, tenuous thread tying us together. If I moved, would it break?

In the end, everyone leaves.

I’m certain that blue eyes would taste amazing, much better than brown ones.

And when you take everything from him, you can say what these men say about us: He was asking for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.

Her tears dripped onto my hands, onto the carpet; I watched them fall and had the sudden realization that our roles had reversed. Somehow, I had become the mother and she the daughter.

What is it like to live freely, to live a life untethered, without having to be responsible for everyone around you?

The only power he has is the power you are willing to give him, and you’ve given him nothing. Not a scrap. By the time you’re done with him, he’ll be begging for mercy. Who is he if he can’t control you? Is he even a man anymore?

George’s power doesn’t come only from the fact that he has a penis. It comes from his whiteness. For us, that kind of certainty and self-assuredness is an impossibility.

It must be nice to be so assured of your safety that you don’t have to worry about being alone at night or getting in the wrong car.

She’s sleeping on her side, huddled over in the corner, even though the rest of the bed is empty. Perhaps it’s because she’s used to making herself small. Perhaps it’s because she’s spent a lifetime making herself inconspicuous for men like my father and George.

Then I slowly, methodically dig his eyes out from his head with the knife. I put each eyeball in my mouth and swallow it whole, optic nerves sliding down my throat like spaghetti noodles—

You don’t back down when he tries to wield his power. Instead, you trip him up by slipping him little lies. Correct him whenever you can. Confuse him. Make him feel foolish. Men like him hate being wrong, hate being embarrassed, hate not being in control. Men like him don’t know what to do when that happens, and they resort to childish displays of anger, temper tantrums, sulking. In spite of this, he won’t be able to do a single thing about it because in the end he’s the one who is weak. The only power he has is the power you are willing to give him, and you’ve given him nothing. Not a scrap.

There are some things that you can never truly escape. Not really. Maybe that’s why, even now, she’s stuck in the past, long after everyone else has moved on.

The other night, she insisted that the moon landing had been faked. When Ji-hyun and I started arguing with her, she seemed almost happy, even when it resulted in an almost hour-long quarrel that left Ji-hyun in tears.

when you take everything from him, you can say what these men say about us: He was asking for it. He was begging for it. He must have wanted it, since he didn’t fight back.

I press my tongue against the white of his sclera. It’s salty. His tears. His sweat. I can taste it all.

Umma tells me that the eyes are the best part. I watch as she leans over the dinner table

It’s delicious. The flavor is rich and full. It’s not like the fish eyes I’ve tried. Not at all. If anything

Hope is a terrible thing. Hope is my mother waiting by the front door for months. Hope is a table full of banchan

His wallet is flush with cash, the leather stretching around it. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that amount of money in my life. It looks like a thousand dollars, maybe two. Umma glances at it before turning away, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the hungry gleam in her eyes.