Lelia Character Analysis

And then others—the ones I always paid close attention to—came to her because they had entered the first grade speaking a home language other than English. They were nonnative speakers. All day she helped these children manipulate their tongues and their lips and their exhaling breath, guiding them through the difficult language.

But I wasn’t to be found anywhere near corporate or industrial sites, then or ever. Rather, my work was entirely personal. I was always assigned to an individual, someone I didn’t know or care the first stitch for on a given day but who in a matter of weeks could be as bound up with me as a brother or sister or wife.

“People like me are always thinking about still having an accent,” I said. […]

“I can tell,” she said.

I asked her how.

“You speak perfectly, of course. I mean if we were talking on the phone I wouldn’t think twice.”

“You mean it’s my face.”

“No, it’s not that,” she answered. […] “Your face is part of the equation, but not in the way you’re thinking. You look like someone listening to himself. You pay attention to what you’re doing. If I had to guess, you’re not a native speaker. Say something.”

“So what’s her name?” Lelia asked after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

I told her that I didn’t know. That I had never known.

“What’s that you call her, then?” she said. “l thought that was her name. Your father calls her that, too.”

“It’s not her name,” I told her. “It’s not her name. It’s just a form of address.”

It was the truth. Lelia had great trouble accepting this stunning ignorance of mine.

We perhaps depend too often on the faulty honor of silence, use it too liberally and for gaining advantage. I showed Lelia how this was done, sometimes brutally, my face a peerless mask, the bluntest instrument.

“Just think about it. You haven’t said his name more than four or five times since it happened. You haven’t said his name tonight. Maybe you’ve talked all this time with Jack about him, maybe you say his name in your sleep, but we’ve never really talked about it, we haven’t really come right out together and said it, really named what happened for what it was.”

[…]

“It was a terrible accident.”

“An accident?” she cried, nearly hollering. She covered her mouth. Her voice was breaking. “How can you say it was an accident? We haven’t treated it like one. Not for a second. Look at us. Sweetie, can’t you see, when your baby dies it’s never an accident. […]”

I took her and we lay down on the carpet. Before I could do anything else to stop myself I told her his name. John Kwang. I could almost see her turning the words inside her head. Of course she knew who he was, that he was Korean. He was appearing on the broadcasts almost nightly because of the boycotts. She didn’t say anything, though, and I could see that she was trying her very best to stay quiet, to think around the notion for a moment instead of steaming right through it. Ten years with me and now she was the one with the ready method. […] And now her voice brooking in my ear, in a voice I hardly recognized. “You just say what you want. Please say what you want.”

“Everyone’s got a theory. Mine is, when the American GIs came to a place they’d be met by all the Korean villagers, who’d be hungry and excited, all shouting and screaming. The villagers would be yelling, Mee-gook! Mee-gook! and so that’s what they were to the GIs, just gooks, that’s what they seemed to be calling themselves, but that wasn’t it at all.”

“What were they saying?”

“‘Americans! Americans!’ Mee-gook means America.”

“That’s perfect,” Lelia says, shaking her head. “I better ask Stew.”

“Don’t harass your father,” I tell her. “He won’t know anything. It’s funny, I used to almost feel good that there was a word for me, even if it was a slur. I thought, I know I’m not a chink or a jap, which they would wrongly call me all the time, so maybe I’m a gook. The logic of a wounded eight-year-old.”

“If I had heard that one redheaded kid say even one funny word to Mitt! God! I would have punched his fucking lights out! I would have made him scream!” Her chest bucks, and she almost starts to cry, strangely, as if she’s frightened herself with a memory that isn’t true.

Now, she calls out each one as best as she can, taking care of every last pitch and accent, and I hear her speaking a dozen lovely and native languages, calling all the difficult names of who we are.

And then others—the ones I always paid close attention to—came to her because they had entered the first grade speaking a home language other than English. They were nonnative speakers. All day she helped these children manipulate their tongues and their lips and their exhaling breath, guiding them through the difficult language.

But I wasn’t to be found anywhere near corporate or industrial sites, then or ever. Rather, my work was entirely personal. I was always assigned to an individual, someone I didn’t know or care the first stitch for on a given day but who in a matter of weeks could be as bound up with me as a brother or sister or wife.

“People like me are always thinking about still having an accent,” I said. […]

“I can tell,” she said.

I asked her how.

“You speak perfectly, of course. I mean if we were talking on the phone I wouldn’t think twice.”

“You mean it’s my face.”

“No, it’s not that,” she answered. […] “Your face is part of the equation, but not in the way you’re thinking. You look like someone listening to himself. You pay attention to what you’re doing. If I had to guess, you’re not a native speaker. Say something.”

“So what’s her name?” Lelia asked after a moment.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

I told her that I didn’t know. That I had never known.

“What’s that you call her, then?” she said. “l thought that was her name. Your father calls her that, too.”

“It’s not her name,” I told her. “It’s not her name. It’s just a form of address.”

It was the truth. Lelia had great trouble accepting this stunning ignorance of mine.

We perhaps depend too often on the faulty honor of silence, use it too liberally and for gaining advantage. I showed Lelia how this was done, sometimes brutally, my face a peerless mask, the bluntest instrument.

“Just think about it. You haven’t said his name more than four or five times since it happened. You haven’t said his name tonight. Maybe you’ve talked all this time with Jack about him, maybe you say his name in your sleep, but we’ve never really talked about it, we haven’t really come right out together and said it, really named what happened for what it was.”

[…]

“It was a terrible accident.”

“An accident?” she cried, nearly hollering. She covered her mouth. Her voice was breaking. “How can you say it was an accident? We haven’t treated it like one. Not for a second. Look at us. Sweetie, can’t you see, when your baby dies it’s never an accident. […]”

I took her and we lay down on the carpet. Before I could do anything else to stop myself I told her his name. John Kwang. I could almost see her turning the words inside her head. Of course she knew who he was, that he was Korean. He was appearing on the broadcasts almost nightly because of the boycotts. She didn’t say anything, though, and I could see that she was trying her very best to stay quiet, to think around the notion for a moment instead of steaming right through it. Ten years with me and now she was the one with the ready method. […] And now her voice brooking in my ear, in a voice I hardly recognized. “You just say what you want. Please say what you want.”

“Everyone’s got a theory. Mine is, when the American GIs came to a place they’d be met by all the Korean villagers, who’d be hungry and excited, all shouting and screaming. The villagers would be yelling, Mee-gook! Mee-gook! and so that’s what they were to the GIs, just gooks, that’s what they seemed to be calling themselves, but that wasn’t it at all.”

“What were they saying?”

“‘Americans! Americans!’ Mee-gook means America.”

“That’s perfect,” Lelia says, shaking her head. “I better ask Stew.”

“Don’t harass your father,” I tell her. “He won’t know anything. It’s funny, I used to almost feel good that there was a word for me, even if it was a slur. I thought, I know I’m not a chink or a jap, which they would wrongly call me all the time, so maybe I’m a gook. The logic of a wounded eight-year-old.”

“If I had heard that one redheaded kid say even one funny word to Mitt! God! I would have punched his fucking lights out! I would have made him scream!” Her chest bucks, and she almost starts to cry, strangely, as if she’s frightened herself with a memory that isn’t true.

Now, she calls out each one as best as she can, taking care of every last pitch and accent, and I hear her speaking a dozen lovely and native languages, calling all the difficult names of who we are.