I. 
A root canal: Many years ago, they saw me decaying in the roots. So they eliminated the nerves in my tooth that sense pain. Then, they filled that emptiness. Foreign materials were inserted where the numbing was executed. They couldn’t leave it empty. They had to place something where the sensation had left: a post, a pillar, a weighty metal closing that keeps from a future collapsing. I felt no pain, no sensation anymore. Then, they told me to chew the way I used to. They told me to live on.
>>Part of me dies and I don’t even feel it. 

II. 
My dentist tells me that my tooth with the root canal can no longer stay. The clinical term for my diagnosis is pulp necrosis. It’s a type of abscess. I go home and read the technical definition of necrosis on a webpage: : … a diagnostic category indicating the death of cells and tissues in the pulp chamber of a tooth with or without bacterial invasion. It is often the end result of many cases of dental trauma, caries and irreversible pulpitis. …. The dentist says that the death was caused by a fracture in my roots. Splitted into multiple parts and can no longer bear the weight and pressure above the surface. I didn’t even feel the split. No sensation left to feel that demolition. 
>>Part of me dies and I don’t even know it. 

III. 
An extraction: The sense of foreign lived within me for years. Barely had problems. Beneath the alien material, I didn’t feel the death in my roots; a necrotic state of being. I know my tooth has been long dead but I’m hesitant to let go. I ask my oral surgeon if it needs to go immediately. The oral surgeon confirms for me because, “We want to keep you healthy.” So they evict the necrosis out of my mouth. I feel no pain, no sensation. Is numbness a blessing? When the tooth leaves my body, the left cheek feels distinctly flat. Then, a certain kind of despair rises in my chest. If I couldn’t feel its death, then how come I feel the trauma of its departure? Why am I mourning for this loss? It seems strange to feel sad about something that was already destroyed into a complete lack of sensation many years ago. What’s the difference between a lack of sensation and lack of existence? Perhaps I wanted a proper burial. Maybe I’m not mourning its death. Maybe I’m mourning its annihilation; a separation of the necrotic mass from the site of trauma, history, heritage, and its birthplace. The tooth that was once able to have sensations. The tooth that was once able to detect danger. The tooth that was once destroyed by foreign entities and human hands. The tooth that survived many cases of trauma even in its vegetative state of being. The tooth that had to embrace numbness as a way of survival. Gone. Where?
>>Part of me leaves and I don’t even know it. 

IV. 
A genealogy: 임창실 was the name of my grandmother. It is roughly translated as “Abundance of fruits in the woods.” It’s a beautiful name with an imagery that, at the same time, implies the expected performance of her gender embodied in her female body. Maria was another. She was baptized in Pyongyang, North Korea, where she was born. It’s also the name of the woman who birthed Jesus Christ. For non-believers of Christianity: a woman of the legendary child-bearing. It was a biblical, Catholic name that most people in her social life used to call her until her death. Her third name was “林” and it was pronounced in the colonizer’s tongue as [Hayashi]. It contained only one meaning: a Japanese pronunciation of her Korean surname, “Lim.” A mark. Meaning reduced down to a label, a number. Under the Japanese rule where her youth was buried, she was Hayashi and Hayashi only.
>>The woman with three names. 

V. 
An inheritance: I imagine my grandmother still living. She is sitting on the stack of blankets laid across her living room floor. The faint light from the daytime TV is reflected upon the translucent skin of her face. Her expression is empty. Is she really there? I tread softly on the linoleum floor as I approach her. I breathe quietly. As I reach her living room, I sit on the threshold to look upon her in silence. Minutes pass. I finally gather the courage to call her but I hesitate. Which one? If I wasn’t her grandchild, by which name would I call her? Is calling one’s name inherently predicated by the caller’s identity, rather than the subject’s? Thwarted by this contradiction, I stay sitting on that threshold. The vision of her swirls past and leaves me. After she passed away, my father gave me a small gold crucifix. He said it belonged to my grandmother and I so often reminded him of his beloved mother-in-law. He named me Fabiola at my baptism. From Maria to Fabiola. I keep the crucifix in a chocolate tin. Once in a blue moon, I open the tin and look upon the crucifix with the brown rust all over. I can’t erase the vision of my grandmother as the holy mother shedding tears for the son of god on her lap; the lifeless body she’s holding in her arms. There’s something swelling up beneath me but I don’t know what it is. Perhaps an abscess. But I’m numb. I put the statue back inside and close the chocolate tin.
>>I go on living my life the way I did. 

VI. 
A narrative: [a record with static plays inside your head in a dubbed English under a murmur of a Korean woman speaking in distance.] … your grandmother was only twenty-five when she escaped from North Korea with a priest. North Korea prohibited Catholicism among many other things. She didn’t have any luggage with her and all she had was her own body. She crossed the cold river in the Korean winter and the priest fell ill as soon as they reached the South. … The war came the following year. She never saw her family again. She worked as a nurse at the Seoul University Hospital, and her fiance from the North came to find her during the war. He became a military officer. She ran and hid from her ex-fiance, now a North Korean soldier. … When your grandmother went into a coma with low blood sugar in her last days, he came back to find her in her dreams. He called for her, “Hayashi…. Hayashi…. Come home.” The dream was the first thing she told me about when she woke from her coma. … I don’t think she’s ever loved him. But I knew my mother’s time was up. She didn’t have much time left here. … and she … [the sound subsides.] 

七. 
林の死の日, “Hayashi’s Day of Death” [a dream; a TV show; a historical-fiction-soap-opera; a fuzzy, pastel-toned scene on a TV screen appears in front of your eyes]

>>“林! 林! 
>>どこにいますか? 
>>私と来て! 家に帰りましょう!” … 

>>[Closed Caption] Hayashi! Hayashi! 
>>Where are you? 
>>Come with me! Let’s go home! … 

VIII. 
A classified information [an epic of a prince with no home; a ghost story]: 

The Foreign Service of the United States of America 
United States Political Advisor for Japan 

No. 670 Tokyo,
Oct 12,1948 
RESTRICTED 

Subject: Nationality and Property of Prince Ri Gin, Ranking Member of Former Korean Royal Family.

The Honorable 
The Secretary of State. 
Washington. 

Sir: 

>>I have the honor to invite the Department’s attention to various questions concerning the nationality and property of Prince Ri Gin (whose Korean name is Lee Eun). 

>>At his request Prince Ri called on an officer of this Mission and stated that he is in doubt as to the status of his nationality and as to the probable disposition of his property in both Japan and Korea. In regard to his nationality he explained that although he was born in Korea of Korean parents, he has lived in Japan for many years, had married a Japanese, and was entered in the family register of the Japanese imperial family. He said that he wishes to donate his property in Korea outright to the Korean government but that he hopes to retain his property in Japan as a source of livelihood. Prince Ri added that he has no intention of returning to Korea or of allowing his name to be used in Korea for political purposes, in spite of what he felt was the desire of some elements in Korea that he return as king. In regard to his personal plans, Prince Ri stated that, if his financial condition should permit, he would like to go to the United States for an extended visit or for permanent residence; he hopes that his son, who is now sixteen years old, will be able to receive his higher education in the United States. 

IX. 
An immigration: Before I crossed the border, my father begged me to see him. I’d been ignoring his messages and calls for months, but I finally gave in. I told him to meet at a cafe and sent him the address. He struggled to find the place and arrived thirty minutes late. He walked towards my table with a look of despair. We exchanged a few words that I don’t remember anymore, then I told him I was leaving the country. And I told him I’m going to the United States to make money and I wouldn’t be coming back to Korea. Hearing this, he said something. But I don’t remember. It’s as if I blacked out. When I awoke from the haze, I told him to stop calling me or looking for me. After my parents’ divorce, poverty, and their abuse, I wanted to cut ties. A total uprooting. He started weeping. I watched him with the strange feeling of dissociation. None of this felt real to me. It felt as if I was watching television. A soap opera. My mind floated up like a balloon and watched the two of us from the ceiling. A few days later, I got on a flight. Looking out the window, I imagined my homeland exploding behind me, and then buried into a mound of oblivion. I closed my eyes. There was something swelling up inside me but I couldn’t tell what it was. Perhaps an abscess. But I was numb. With my eyes closed, I kept replaying the image of the explosion in my mind. 
>>Part of me dies and I don’t even feel it. 

X. 
A permanent resident: 

Department of Homeland Security 
U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services I-797, Notice of Action 

Receipt number: XXXXXXXX 
Case Type: I 485 Application to Register Permanent Residence or Adjust Status
Receipt Date: October 29, 2015 
Applicant: Jang, Hanee 
Notice Date: February 16, 2016 

Hanee Jang 
Louisville, KY XXXXX 

Notice type: Approval Notice 
Section: Adjustment as direct beneficiary of immigrant petition 

>>>>>>WELCOME TO THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 

This is to notify you that your application for permanent residence has been approved. It is with great pleasure that we welcome you to permanent resident status in the United States. 

Notice: Although this application/petition has been approved, USCIS and the U.S. Department of Homeland Security reserves the right to verify the information submitted in this application, petition, and/or supporting documentation to ensure conformity with applicable laws, rules, regulations, and other authorities. Methods used for verifying information may include, but are not limited to, the review of the public information and records, contact by correspondence, the internet, or telephone, and site inspections of businesses and residence. Information obtained during the course of verification will be used to determine whether revocation, rescission, and/or removal proceedings are appropriate. Applicants, petitioners, and representatives of record will be provided an opportunity to address derogatory information before any formal proceeding is initiated.

 National Benefits Center 
USCIS, DHS 
P.O. BOX # XXXXX 
LEE’S SUMMIT, MO. XXXXX 
Customer Service Telephone: (XXX)XXX-XXXX 

XI. 
An assimilation: 
Emails 

[threads continue]

XII. 
A commencement: [an assimilation, continued] 

The loud sound from the speakers in the auditorium announces, 
>>“Students, please come up to the stage when your name is announced.” 
>>“….Nina Yang, Master of Science.” 

XIV. 
A clinical definition of amnesia on a webpage: … is a deficit in memory. The memory can be either wholly or partially lost due to the extent of damage that was caused. Individuals with amnesia can learn new information, particularly if the information is non-declarative knowledge. Some people who suffer  from amnesia show abnormal amounts of memory loss, confusion, and difficulty recalling other people or places. People who recover often do not remember having amnesia. 

XVI. 
A disillusionment of an immigrant: [a hymn] 

I once walked in the woods. I do not recall when or where. 
I only remember the sound, the colors, the peace, the horror. 
I found a tree with long open arms. 
There were so many fruits in the tree.
They were so beautiful. 
So lavish, so lustrous. 
The fruits, however, fell, 
one, 
two, 
and three. 

The tree shed its fruits, 
the crying mother of god, 
only to stand and watch. 
The fruits. They were burning. 
Burning from what? 
There was no fire 
but the fruits turned black tar, 
decaying from the inside. 
I cried, too. 
I sat on the grass. 
And her leaves caressed my cheeks, 
we held each other 
for a long time 
and mourn the fruits on the ground. 

I could hear the laughter in the wind, 
other trees and their arms madly swung about, 
laughing and then crying, 
mirroring our tears. 
Or was it we mirroring them? 
I suddenly smiled, not knowing why. 
In pieces my grandmother screamed inside me, 
“Fabiola! They set fire in the woods! やめてください! … 안녕.” 
The forest was loud 
and empty 
at the same time. 
And I woke up. 

What is it in my mouth that is gone?
I do not recall. 
The dream lingers on 
when I close my eyes. 

Why did she call me Fabiola? She’s never done that before. 
Fabiola. The nurse in red cloth. 
the patron saint of divorced people, 
victims of abuse, 
the unfaithfuls. 

I don’t know what I don’t remember. 
I don’t feel anything. I am whole. 
Just call me Nina. 
Nina. 
Nina. 
Nina. 
… 
Nina who? 

Part of me dies and I don’t even feel it.