Seeing my bro in NYC: Trying and failing to be a good 'noona'
Noona is Korean for older sister. This is a scene from my memoir. It was when I was in NYC for work and found out my brother was there too.
This was ~ 2014. At this point, I hadn’t seen my brother in at least a year, maybe two. Back then, this was normal. I’d see him here and there, but mostly, his life was a black box. (I don’t have any photos of him during this time. In the photo below, he is 20, much younger than in the story.)
We meet up in Union Square. It’s not quite winter but might as well be—welcome to New York City. I recently moved back to the West Coast after living here for nearly four years. That’s four winters of winds so cold your eyes and nose start leaking.
I hustle up the steps of Union Street’s busy subway station and notice the gutters are frozen and I avoid icy patches as I make my way to 14th Street. He’s standing on the corner and my heart pangs when I see him only wearing a hoodie and his Dodgers baseball cap. It starts to snow, but there he is, looking like a Californian noob about to freeze his ass off.
“Yo, what up, Noona,” my brother leans in to give me a hug.
Noona is the Korean word for older sister from a male. Before my brother was born, my family never adopted these kinds of titles. I never called my sister unni, which is the term a younger sister is supposed to call her older sister. But maybe it’s because we immigrated to the states when we were babies and my parents wanted us to assimilate.
I was 10 when my brother was born and from then, my parents insisted he use noona to address my sister and me. So from the time my brother was a tiny, big-eared 8-month-old, it was all noona this and noona that, and it just kind of stuck.
When he leans in for his usual side hug, I’m overpowered by the smell of weed. I nearly forget that I should expect him to be high.
I immediately harp on his lame excuse for winter wear.
“You didn’t bring anything warmer? It’s supposed to snow a lot more today.”
He glances sideways and says, “This… is all I got. I don’t have anything thicker.”
We’re standing right in front of Nordstrom Rack, so I tug his arm and scold, “You need a coat if you’re going to be in New York in the winter.”
My brother and I sift through the endless options for coats. He holds up a few bomber jackets that offer zero thickness and I shake my head in a way that says he knows nothing about winter wear. I find a sensible down jacket for $125 and tell him this is the kind of coat he needs for East Coast weather. He nods.
I insist he put on the coat as soon as I buy it, so he removes the tags and we make our way across the street to Union Square’s famous Coffee Shop. When I lived in New York in my 20s, I’d eaten many a brunch here, usually on Sundays with my girlfriends. We’d have our scrambled eggs and slices of toast while trying to remember the previous night’s drunken escapades at some club in Meat Packing.
The inside of the diner hasn’t changed one bit. That’s probably the appeal. A classic in an ever-changing Manhattan. We slide into a booth and I peel off my scarf and gloves.
My brother says, “Thanks for the jacket, I guess I needed one. It’s been pretty cold lately. When it’s cold, I don’t go out.”
He’s only been in Manhattan for a few months, so I impart my New York weather knowledge upon him, informing him he will quickly learn that the forecast will dictate his life. I tell him I used to check and recheck the weather constantly so I would know whether to bring an umbrella or put on shoes with thicker soles.
Our waitress comes by with menus. She’s got chest tattoos and bright red lipstick. We study the menu and I order a chicken salad. My brother asks for the cheeseburger and fries with a soda. He could never refuse a good burger and fries. I wonder when his metabolism will catch up to him. I learned that in my late 30s, you can gain half a pound just from standing near a McDonald’s.
Growing up, McDonald’s was our go-to spot. Nearly every day when he was in elementary school, I’d pick him up from school and the first thing he’d ask after getting in the car was whether I could take him to the Golden Arches. He’d ramble on about the latest Pixar toy inside of a Happy Meal that he saw on T.V.
Most days, I’d say yes, but there were other days when I’d snap, “You think I have an endless supply of money to buy you McDonald’s?!” God, why did I have to be such a bitch. And that money was actually an endless supply that came from my parents, so what the hell was I so moody about.
I’d watch as he’d pop open the Happy Meal box and hold up the toy, oozing with delight. After a few disappointing box unveilings with the toy he did not want, my brother became somewhat of a Happy Meal toy expert. He’d instruct me to tell the drive-through worker to please make sure the toy was the blue one and not pink.
Those days were so simple.
“So how’d you meet your girlfriend? Her name is Jillian?” I ask.
“Yeah. We met through mutual friends in L.A. She’s from Koreatown. Her dad owns Korea Spa.” My brother says this like it’s a part of Jillian’s intro—My girlfriend’s family owns Korea Spa, you know, the swanky one that even white people go to?
Why would a girl that comes from Korea Spa wealth want to be with my brother? Did I just say that out loud?
My brother’s eyes crinkle and he grins, “That’s a good question.”
He goes on to say she’s in New York studying business real estate, so her days are spent in school and she studies a lot. According to my brother, “She’s a big nerd.”
She’s also the tallest girl he’s ever dated—a leggy 5’10. He says when she wears heels, she’s taller and that makes him feel weird. I nod, imagining him feeling completely insecure with his manhood because she’s an inch taller.
I picture a Korean Gisele Bundchen-like creature, which intrigues me even more. He flashes a few photos of Jillian from his phone and she’s not too far off from what I imagined. Vivacious, bright eyes, easy smile.
I guess it confirms that despite his shortcomings of having no job, being a stoner, and living a somewhat mysterious lifestyle, my brother has never had problems dating. He finds girlfriends easily, but I’m glad he’s not the clingy type who can’t be alone.
He calls her Jilli and says she’s patient and they get along. They live on the Upper West Side in a nice-sized two-bedroom apartment building with a roommate.
I know my brother has nothing to offer Jilli, but a part of me is glad that he’s at least safe, warm, and living in a nice place. I tell him maybe he’s found himself a keeper.
He nods and looks over at the waitress coming our way. “Maybe.”
Our meals are held in giant, heavy dishware—the kind that says this establishment doesn’t mess around with portions. The waitress sets down the huge bowl of fresh salad in front of me and warns my brother not to touch his plate because it’s hot.
I pick up my fork without meeting his eyes. “So… what are you doing for money?”
He pauses. “You know, hustling. I make money here and there.” He takes a bite from his burger dripping with grease.
I assume hustling means a number of things but I don’t ask for details because it makes me feel awkward and I never know how to probe deeper anyway. What difference would it make if I know every single thing in his life? It would only stress me out more.
“And?” I press, “Are you at least able to contribute to rent and groceries with Jilli?”
He chomps one of his steak fries into a nub, “Whenever I can I help out.”
I raise an eyebrow. When my brother lived with my sister a few years back, he never gave her a dime for rent, utilities, or groceries. My sister, who is more generous than me, was willing to move into a two-bedroom and get him a job at her office.
I change the subject. “Then, what do you do every day?”
“I just chill out and play video games. Smoke a bowl. Wait for Jilli to get out of class.”
This scenario tells me it’s only a matter of time before she realizes he’s no better than a piece of furniture and kicks him out. He’ll have to pack his suitcase and find another place to stay. Another friend’s place, perhaps? He seems to have a lot of hospitable friends who let him crash on their couches. I never understood how my brother could finagle his way into their lives and overstay his welcome for months at a time, without feeling an ounce of guilt.
Or maybe he’ll go home, which is usually his last resort. My parent’s place is cramped and barely big enough for two, let alone three.
I ask, “Have you talked to mom and dad?”
He nods. “They know I’m here.” He stares at his empty plate, swishing the last of his steak fries in mini-pools of ketchup.
One part of me is relieved that he’s living a somewhat quiet life with Jilli, tucked away in the safety of the Upper West Side. If he had a full-time job, I’d encourage him to play video games and get stoned to his heart’s content.
But I know a job is out of the question. He’s paranoid about the cops finding out where he is if he were to find a full-time job that requires an ID and documentation.
I hope he’s not involved in stupid shenanigans. Maybe Jilli is just the positive influence he needs.
But another part of me struggles with this because I want more for him. I want him to be an adult. I want him to go to school, like his girlfriend, and learn something. I want him to meet more people like Jilli who have ambitions and goals. I want him to stop believing that the world will somehow come and rescue him. I want him to stop feeling entitled—like he’s special.
I don’t know how to tell him this, so instead, I ask for the check. I lay my credit card on the receipt tray and while my wallet is still open I give him a $100 bill.
I hate myself for doing this and I know I am enabling his behavior. Here I am, wanting him to grow up, but without a second thought, I buy him a coat and thrust a crisp hundred in his hand. It’s a familiar struggle my whole family goes through.
But shit, it’s winter and freezing and his warmest jacket is a sorry-ass hoodie.
We step out of the diner and the frigid air slices through me.
My brother turns to me with his long outstretched arm. “All right then, Noona. Thanks for lunch and my coat.”
We embrace and I tell him to stay warm and out of trouble. My words feel generic and useless.
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Here’s the synopsis from the website:
Two families and an unthinkable crime at summer camp that binds them together. A new podcast from WBUR, Boston’s NPR, and The Marshall Project explores America’s opaque parole system through a 1986 murder case and asks: How much time in prison is enough? Who gets to decide? And, when someone commits a terrible crime, what does redemption look like?
Here are other stories about my bro that may interest you…
