Pink Carpets

Everyday, my morning starts something like this:

• 7:15 Wake up
• 7:15-7:30 Pack a PopTart for lunch, eat one for breakfast, all while staring at my bed.
• 7:30-7:40 Take a shower
• 7:40-7:41- Deliberate what I will say to Alexander
• 7:41-8:00- Listen to one of Alexander’s stories
• 8:00 Rush to class

Alexander is a Chinese man over 80 years old. After I was technically homeless in Hawaii for about 7 hours, he offered me a room in his home while yelling in his broken English, “I love Korean people!” I reciprocated by telling him how much I love Chinese people too but really meant to say penthouse suites for a ridiculously cheap rent.

Every morning, when I am about to leave for class, Alexander intercepts me with shouts in Mandarin. Today, he led me to the kitchen pointing at the xiang jiao that has become too ripe and gone bad.

This usually lasts for about ten minutes and ends when he realizes that I am not Chinese. Like every morning so far, he laughs at himself exactly the same way and explains how he forgot how I was Korean. With Alexander, I don’t feel the need to explain how I am actually Korean American. So then he repeats everything that he had just said, but this time, in his rehearsed English. Yesterday, he walked me over to the dining room table where he has been working on his Chinese-English dictionary for the past ten years. He told me that he would like it if I could one day translate it to Korean and I laugh agreeably as a way to keep my horrible Korean a secret. I catch myself wondering why I try so hard to protect myself from the opinions of strangers, but carry on.

This morning he tells me that I should try not to get home so late. And that is when I realize that the carpet throughout the whole penthouse is pink.