“Did you try popping your ears?” my mom asks me over the phone, as I’m standing in the home goods aisle of H Mart. That’s her answer for everything, including my bad week. Not to say that she takes my dips lightly. But unlike my friends or my cousins or even my brother, Jean often tries to link my lows with something physiological. Oh, you're depressed? There must be something wrong with your chemisms. (Her sister is a nurse, so she knows.) And yet, even though I know a mere popping of my ears won’t resolve how I’m feeling on the inside, there’s something in the simple imperative (“Just pop your ears”) that comforts me. I laugh, and shake it off. One call to my mother in Atlanta and instantly I feel a little better. When I’m at my worst, I often forget that there’s a person out there who knows exactly what to say when I'm in a pickle—someone much wiser, much older, and much more empathetic. I realize I've been standing in the home goods section staring at a wall of sake glasses, grocer...
