My name is Ji-hye Choe. It means “gather in a wise place.” Cute meaning, unfortunate irony. Wisdom clearly forgot to show up when I did.
Mom says I’m the kind of person whose body works harder than her brain. “Ji-hye, think before you move,” she used to sigh. But by the time I start thinking, I’ve already moved. That’s me—impulsive first, reflective never on time.
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My earliest memory is from kindergarten. That morning, both of my sisters didn’t have school. Mom was visibly exhausted and clearly wanted one peaceful day off from parenting. She asked, “Ji-hye, what if you skip kindergarten today?” I said, “No! I’m going.” She tried again. “Really?” “Mom, I already said I’m going. Why are you asking again?”
Mom thought I was decisive. I was just literal.
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That trait never left me. By elementary school, I was known as the human static channel—always slightly off frequency.
Once, a friend said, “Let’s go to the library tomorrow,” so I showed up in gym clothes. “How was I supposed to know we weren’t working out?”
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Then middle school came, and the family’s genetic hearing problems became undeniable.
I told Dad, “Can you pick up some soap on your way home?” He came back proudly carrying soup mix. “Got what you asked for!” he said.
Later, I told Grandpa the story, thinking it’d make him laugh. “Grandpa, Dad heard ‘soap’ and bought ‘soup’ instead!” He frowned, genuinely concerned. “Still,” he said, “what kind of man buys a suit just because his daughter asked for one?”
That’s when I realized it wasn’t just me. It was hereditary.
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I’m the youngest of three sisters—the cozy one, the cold one, and me: the lazy-but-polite one.
I like people, just not for long. That’s why I’m always the listener. People tell me, “Ji-hye, you’re such a good listener.” I used to think that was a compliment. Now I know it really means, “You’re easy to talk to… because I’m not trying to date you.”
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Then, sometime after twenty, I learned something new: I’m not stupid. I just have a slightly different version of common sense.
One day, my sister and I were eating cup noodles. I bent the lid back and started drinking from the folded edge. Hot broth dripped all over my hand.
“Why does this keep leaking?” I said. My sister stared. “Ji-hye… you’re drinking from the folded side.” “So?” “That’s why it’s leaking!” “How would I know that?” “Everyone knows that!”
To this day, I stand by what I said next: If they make the lid fold that way, it shouldn’t leak. That’s logic. Perfectly sound logic.
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Still, I learned how to survive. With a strict dad and two intimidating sisters, I mastered the art of looking harmless while negotiating mercy.
People call me “a nice girl.” They’re wrong. I’m just tired but polite. Inside, I’m always thinking, Ugh… fine, I’ll listen.
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Now I’m twenty-eight. London degree, New York rent, zero relationships.
Mom says, “Maybe it’s because I had you at thirty.” Mom, people have babies at thirty now. Try again.
So what’s wrong with me? I have no idea. That’s why I decided to write this.
The main character is me—Ji-hye Choe. As a kid, I misheard things. As an adult, my logic just runs on a different operating system. And right now… I’m a slightly lonely New Yorker.
Still, I can’t help believing that someday, someone might finally tune in to my frequency. Or maybe, like my cup noodles, I’ll just keep spilling until I learn.