My grandfather left Korea to live with us in New York when he was almost eighty years old. My parents fixed up the attic so that he had his own room. He wore traditional Korean clothes and chewed on small dried fish snacks that smelled up everything. He coughed a lot.
My grandfather spoke only Korean, so I never understood what he was saying. He scared me.
One day, my mother told me to take tea to him. I was reluctant, but I did. He smiled and began speaking Korean. When I said I didn't understand, he said, "Aigoo," and then, "Korean important. Yes?" I was surprised he knew some English.
He often spoke to me in Korean for long periods. I didn't understand the words, but I grew to like the sound of his raspy voice filling the warm attic.
One afternoon, I watched him practice calligraphy. He looked up and said, "You." Then, "Won Chul." That was my middle name. He drew two elegant characters on rice paper—one for "Won," one for "Chul"—and pushed the paper toward me. "For Won Chul," he said.
My mother later explained this was hanja, a Korean writing system using Chinese characters. She told me my name meant "Wise One," and that my grandfather had been a famous artist in his town.
Not long after, he moved to a nursing home and passed away the following summer. The attic became a storage room.
I still have the drawing of my name, framed and hanging in my room. I often wonder what he was trying to tell me during those long Korean monologues. Sometimes, in the quiet attic, I can almost hear his voice again, telling me stories I never learned to understand, and see him pointing to the characters that mean "me."