[Crying in H Mart] # Ch 5-1: Where's the Wine? (~p.56)

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[Review previous expression]

Until a few years ago, observing my father made me question his life goal. He used to say the only reason he had worked was taking care of us. But now I realized he is enjoying having taken his life for granted.
I take it for granted that he will love me.

 

My advisor kept convincing me to go abroad for a post-doc for my good track record.

Chatgpt: My advisor kept encouraging me to go abroad for a post-doc due to my excellent track record.
benficial 한 거라 encouraging을 추천함!

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[Summarize this chapter]

I could understand how much she loved playing a guitar and how resuntful to her mother because she had neglected her dream. They had fought every single day because of the college admission issue. There was a gap between them so they hurted each others with bad words.

 

Upon she noticed her mom got cancer, she felt sense of guilty because she wasn't a good daughter  So she reflected on her behavior when she was mischeivious teenage. 

chatgpt: "Upon noticing that her mom had cancer, she felt a sense of guilt because she hadn't been a good daughter. Consequently, she reflected on her behavior during her mischievous teenage years."

reminisce

 

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[Quotes that I liked ]

 

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[New Expression]

(p. 49) “Why won’t you include me?” I whined into my cell phone as if I were tattling on an older child for neglecting me.

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(p. 49) More news had come and none of it was good.

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(p. 49) There was a 3 percent chance of survival without surgery.

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(p. 49) which led me to believe our only hope lay in the hands of some kind of Toy Story character.

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(p. 49) “She knows she has to put all her focus into getting better.”

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(p. 50) I came to appreciate all the labors she performed, their ends made apparent only in her absence.

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(p. 50) From day one, I’m told, nothing about me was easy.

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(p. 50) Nami Emo had dubbed me the “Famous Bad Girl.”

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(p. 50) If there was a kid at the party who was crying, it was guaranteed to be me.

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(p. 50) a pretty rotten kid.

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(p. 50) the tense years to which I knew my father was referring.

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(p. 50) simple teenage angst

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(p. 50) I found it hard to muster the will to do much of anything. My grades had started falling and my mother and I were constantly at odds.

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(p. 51) “Bet you can’t sleep either.”

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(p. 51) I was sixteen and recovering from another blowout with my mother.

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(p. 51) “Too much going on here,” he said. He tapped on his temple without looking up and turned to the sports section.

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(p. 51) he was caught selling

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(p. 51) a guinea pig

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(p. 51) Every Saturday he dug a hole in the yard behind the institution, and every Sunday they made him fill it back up again.

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(p. 51) Any trouble I might be in seemed minor by comparison.

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(p. 51) He attempted to console my mother, convince her it was a normal phase, something most teenagers ache in and out of, but she refused to accept it.

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(p. 51) malaise as a luxury they’d paid for.

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(p. 51) She doubled down, morphing into a towering obelisk that shadowed my every move.

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(p. 51) She needled me over my weight,

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(p. 51) I was whisked away to extracurriculars, then stuck in the woods, left to grumble alone in my room with the door left open.

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(p. 52) my sole respite from my mother’s overbearing supervision.

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(p. 52) plastic craft-store flowers weaved through the chain links that suspended it.

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(p. 52) feminist. That my care played such a principal role in her life was a vocation I naively condemned, rebuffing the intensive, invisible labor as the errand work of a housewife who’d neglected to develop a passion or a practical skill set.

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(p. 52) It wasn’t until years later, after I left for college, that I began to understand what

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(p. 52) it meant to make a home and just how much I had taken mine for granted.

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(p. 53) But as a teenager newly obsessed with my own search for a calling,

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(p. 53) Why did her interests and ambitions never seem to bubble up to the surface?

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(p. 53) I began to interrogate and analyze her skill set.

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(p. 53) I could tell my mother was jealous of Colette—not because of her whimsical ambitions, but because of how I idolized her desultory aims—and the more I rotted into a cruel teenager, the more I flaunted my relationship with Colette as a way of taking advantage of my mother’s emotions. I felt it was payback for how frequently she took advantage of mine.

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(p. 53) Into the vacuum of my disinterest, music rushed to fill the void. It cracked a fissure, splintered a vein through the already precarious and widening rift between my mother and me; it would become a chasm that threatened to swallow us whole.

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(p. 53) my existential dread.

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(p. 53) I pocketed my allowance and lunch money to spend exclusively on CDs

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(p. 53) concerts I’d attend.

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(p. 54) We never stopped to question if what they’d accomplished had really been so great, why they were back in town to play so often.

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(p. 54) crowd surfed for the first time,

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(p. 54) Isaac Brock was like a god to us.

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(p. 54) someone we could claim as our own.

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(p. 54) coveted albums

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(p. 54) What it was like to suffocate slowly from the boredom.

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(p. 54) His swelling eleven-minute opuses and cathartic, blood-curdling screams soundtracked every long drive with nothing to think about.

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(p. 55) But nothing impacted me so profoundly as the first time I got my hands on a DVD of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs live at the Fillmore.

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(p. 55) with an unrivaled showmanship that obliterated the docile Asian stereotype.

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(p. 55) before lassoing it above her head by its cable.

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(p. 55) I found myself in a strange state of ambivalence.

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(p. 55) My first thought being how do I get to do that, and my second, if there’s already one Asian girl doing this, then there’s no longer space for me.

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(p. 55) its nascent stages,

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(p. 55) have the analogical capacity to imagine a white boy in the same situation,

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(p. 55) Fueled by this newfound optimism, I began to badger my mother incessantly for a guitar.

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(p. 55) Having already sunk a hefty sum on a long list of extracurriculars I’d summarily abandoned, she was reluctant to oblige, but by Christmas she finally broke down, and at last I received a hundred-dollar Yamaha acoustic in a box from Costco.

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(p. 55) The action was so high it felt like you had to wrestle the strings half an inch to pin them to the fret.

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(p. 56) I was lucky enough to be paired with a teacher I actually liked,

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(p. 56) prepubescent boys

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(p. 56) The lessons couldn’t have come at a better time.

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(p. 56) Infuriatingly, she was objectively pretty and popular but masqueraded as a tormented alternative.

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(p. 56) which I followed assiduously even though we weren’t friends in real life.

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(p. 56) Her entries were made up of Bright Eyes lyrics conflated with her own romantic encounters and meandering ruminations largely written in the second person, directed at someone anonymous who had either wronged her or for whom she desperately longed.

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(p. 56) I thought she was one of the great American poets of our time.

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