Hundreds of strange faces pour into a chamber that will soon decide my brother’s fate. I only recall the faces of four to five people. The rest I do not know. Regardless, everyone flashes a bright smile as they greet us in the room, carrying a whiff of anticipation along with them. 

 

I look toward my right and see Doyoon. He is roosting on my mother’s lap, wearing a Doryoungmo: a Korean hat embroidered with golden flowers. Every five minutes, he struggles to doff the hat and hurls it far away. Flustered, my mother scurries to pick up the Doryoungmo and forces it on him again. As my mother darts from one place to another, my father stands stone-still next to me, shaking the hands of all the strange faces. I take a quick glimpse of everyone as I grasp onto the tip of my father’s hanbok. One of the faces, blurry and distorted, approaches me. 

“You must be Dayoung!” she exclaims. “The one who picked the stethoscope, I believe?” 

My father nods. The ends of his lips slightly flutter upwards. 

“Dayoung, she’s your aunt,” my father whispers, shaking me off of his arm. 

 I break off from my father, only to look at my aunt’s cold, cavernous gaze and bury my eyes in the folds of my jeogori again. The features on her face slowly crystallize, and a set of brown eyes appear amidst the swarm of peach shades.

“I’m sorry, she’s usually not like this,” my father apologizes.

“No worries,” my aunt replies. Her eyes briefly meet mine, arch upwards, and melt back into her face again. Her face is now unrecognizable, just like everyone else’s. 

 

I take a deep breath in and slowly look around the room. Beneath everyone’s smiles, I can easily perceive a sense of tension, something that strengthens as they hold Doyoon up in the air. The tension extends throughout the room, like the hairs of the plant roots beneath the soil: quietly, but invasively sucking up the sustenance of others. 

 

“We have high expectations, Doyoon,” they’d say, as they pat him on the head. Doyoon’s face contorts. He tugs on my mother’s red hanbok skirt, a clear expression that he feels uncomfortable. But no one, except me, seems to notice him. As I try to reach Doyoon, my father pulls me away. My hand barely grazes Doyoon’s hanbok as I’m pushed toward the table. 

 

“Take a look around the room, Dayoung. Do you remember this place?” my father asks, filled with excitement. “Yes, pa.” I say, “How can I forget.” 

 

I close my eyes and recall the scene from fifteen years past. I’m wearing a Doryoungmo, just like Doyoon’s but sheer and purple. I’m perching in front of a large table about ten times my size. The walls of the room seem to be encroaching, inch by inch, as more people crowd in and surround me. Everyone’s faces are covered with hollow camera lenses, and none of them are recognizable. On top of the table sits three items: a stethoscope, a pencil, and a gavel. I look around in confusion and trepidation, and I settle my eyes on my mother’s face.

 

“Go ahead, Dayoung. Go ahead and decide your fate,” my mother mouthed.  

 

I sit there with blank eyes, peering at the limited options on top of the table. After a few seconds, and a few minutes of tense silence, I look back up at my mom. The warmth in her eyes died down. The lenses that surround me started to gape, wider and wider. The horde of black openings resembled the mouths of beasts, threatening to gulp me down.  

 

“Pick, Dayoung. Pick,” my mother declares, struggling to keep a smile on her face. “Pick, Dayoung. Pick,” the lenses echo. I nervously scan the items on the table and slowly pick the one on the far left. A tingling sensation encapsulates my arms, pass throughout my body, and slowly dies out. It’s hard to describe what it felt like. It was more nauseating than cleansing, disconcerting than celebratory. 

 

“A stethoscope! She picked a stethoscope!” my uncle exclaims. 

 

A brief moment of silence frosts the room, soon thawing with slow, conscious claps from the crowd. Some whisper to one another and some remain still, but all of them are devoid of emotion. Then, most of the faces glitch, their features fade, and form a large pool of peach shades. I cannot recognize anyone.

 

The decision I just made, as I later realized, is called Doljabi, a Korean ritual of celebrating the birthday of a 12-month-old baby. From my parents’ Doljabi to Doyoon’s, a lot of the traditional items placed on the table were removed. The mic, supposedly bestowing the child with an angelic voice, disappeared. The ball of yarn, granting eternal life, was unraveled and thrown away. An arrow, promising great physical strength, was broken in half. After years of eliminating unnecessary items, my parents, myself, and further descendants of our family were left with three choices: a stethoscope that awards high neuroplasticity, a pencil that promises the best decision-making skills, and a gavel that gives telepathic abilities. Choosing a stethoscope, I was designed to absorb large bulks of knowledge. But I also began to delete any trivial or virulent information -- even the faces of my relatives. 

 

“...now, please guide Doyoon to the table!” a distant voice awoke me. 

It was the MC, speaking through a mic near my mother. 

 

“Pay attention. You know how important today is to your brother,” my mother, who picked a gavel, whispers. 

 

“Yes, I’m sorry ma,” I murmur. 

 

I glance at Doyoon, naive and young, unknowing of the weight of the decision that he is about to make. My mother lifts him up from her lap and starts to make her way to the table. On his way, Doyoon’s doryoungmo hangs dangerously on his ears, slips off, and is soon stepped on by the tall towers of people who gather around him. 

 

“Excuse me,” I apologize as I make my way in, grabbing Doyoon’s doryoungmo which is now covered with brown traces.

 

Doyoon starts to whimper as soon as he is placed in the center of the room, alone. He frantically looks around, as if he is finding someone that he recognizes out of the myriad of faces in the room. As soon as his eyes meet mine, his red, flustered face turns to a pleasant beige shade and his features soften.

 

My father, who stands next to me, nudges me and says: “Dayoung, teach Doyoon what he’s supposed to do. He’s taking too much time.” He taps his foot impatiently.

 

I take a deep breath and hold it in. 

 

“Pick what you want to pick, Doyoon. Your fate is in your hands,” I mouth. 

 

Doyoon, with his eye-contact unbroken, dons a faint smile back at me. He slowly looks at the items in front of him, on top of the large table: a stethoscope, a pencil, and a gavel. Everyone, including the MC, takes one step in, trying to catch a better glimpse of Doyoon’s decision. Then -- thump. Something falls on the ground. Nobody, except Doyoon and me, seems to notice it. After curiously peeking at what has fallen like a fox that scans its prey, Doyoon ducks down and hunts the item: something that is sparkling under the pale white light of night. 

 

His decision, which was supposed to be bombed with flashes and shutter sounds, is rather greeted with confused mumbles from the crowd. A few sharp snickers slice through the room. The item has a silver, round head, and a black, cylindrical body. It was the MC’s mic. 

 

Doyoon mumbles into it. His voice, although barely comprehensible, sounds angelic: like the tweets of birds in the midst of the morning dew. I peek at my parents, fearing that their faces would gape, wider and wider like the ones that surrounded me when I was young. But they weren’t. My parents maintains a straight face as they approach Doyoon, who was still speaking through the mic. 

 

“It’s okay, Doyoon. We -- can overcome this,” my mother mutters. 

My father, still silent, hugs Doyoon from the back. But I can see his face beneath this performance. His eyebrows contort. The nervousness in his eyes dies down. It is replaced with a sense of fury, a fury for something that is lost, and something that can never be returned. My father’s face starts to glitch, his features melt, and he blends into the whirl of strange, unrecognizable faces. 

 

I look around the room and see some of the obscure bodies clapping, some of the faces laughing, and all of them relishing Doyoon’s decision -- not for Doyoon but against him.