The Tiger and the Dried Persimmon (Gotgam)

Nearly every night, we brushed our teeth

said our prayers, wedged the blanket

under our chins, and then Mom would take us

deep into the snowy mountains of Korea

Deep into the wrinkles of time

back when hanok were made of wood and clay

and paper doors did little to protect

against the dangers of this world

Dangers like a hungry tiger

led into the village by an empty stomach

and a baby’s cries

Be quiet, my child!

The mother’s voice evaporates

in the tired screams of a poor thing

Look, there is a fox outside, and when he hears you

he will snatch you from me!

The tiger laughs as the baby cries

A fox is no threat, even to a youngling

He closes in on the paper door

Be quiet, my child!

Mother tries once more

Look, there is a growling bear, and when she hears you

she will stretch her jaws out wide and eat you!

The tiger pauses

The baby cries, growling bear be damned

What a brave little thing

He peers through the window, full of awe

before his empty stomach lurches

What a shame that I must eat one with such potential

Be quiet, my child!

Mother is running out of threats

Look, there is a fearsome tiger outside

and he is coming to get you!

The tiger, flattered, waits at the window

playing with his food

waiting for the baby’s response

Cries echo through the village

The tiger is stunned, for even the rocks and trees

tremble in the wake of his clawed feet

What kind of child does not fear me?

Now I must eat him. He prepares to pounce

Be quiet, my child! Mother tries one last time

Look, Gotgam!

Fear washes over the tiger

and a shiver runs down his spine

for he can hear his own heartbeat

in the silence of the night

He had never heard of a monster more fearsome than he

so he fled, not knowing how close

a terrible Gotgam might be

A terrible Gotgam

soft and orange like the sunset we watched

from Seoraksan mountain

on our first trip to the Motherland

We caught minnows in the river

just like Dad used to catch frogs

scooping them up with his bare hands

A terrible Gotgam

custard-like when frozen, a method

I discovered one hot summer

when my family bought bags of them in bulk

from the local farm

and I bit into them like ice cream

Chewy, cinnamon-y, subtly sweet,

how Koreans prefer our desserts

How terrible

My parents still buy from that farm

keep them in ziplock gallon bags

and I still crave them when I want something sweet

And I think of the folktale every time

how I had laughed at the tiger as a child

and been chased by so many false fears since

I joke with myself

This is just a Gotgam

But I’ve never bought them in this city

alone in my sterile new apartment

They don’t belong in my tiny freezer

under the chocolate bars I like to keep cold

and my grass-fed, grass-finished beef

I don’t cook Korean food out here

I don’t even eat at Korean restaurants

My grandma would not approve

My family wouldn’t approve of most things I do now

Gotgam doesn’t quite belong here

They belong on top of the homemade dumplings and dried sardines

in the freezer drawer of a kimchi fridge

that sits in the garage of my childhood home.

An excuse to be back in the suburbs, an excuse to see Dad

To sleep in my bed and reread my diaries

of everyday Koreanisms that are now fond memories

like boxes of giant pears and clear plastic furniture covers

like the story of a tiger who fears dried fruit;

To eat the food my grandma makes

without any measurements, without any recipes

One of the last things dementia hasn’t taken from her

Gotgam is the taste of a home my neighbors could not understand

The story of the power of a little something sweet

The power of perception over our foolish fears

and the strength one can hold in words, in beliefs,

in the soft squashed disc of a dried persimmon.