I still remember the day, at age 14, when I realized that my non-Korean friends weren't obsessed with poop.
“I haven’t pooped in at least two days,” I told my friend, interpreting her silence as a passive prompt for more information.
“I bet it’s building up.”
The quiet persisted, and I began to understand her soft look of intrigue was actually one of revulsion, but I kept going because that's what you do when you're an unsocialized teen.
“Do you think if I drink some coffee I’ll be able to go soon?”
The answer, of course, was, yes, I would.
She didn’t tell me so, but my mother would have. She’s the one who gave me my first lesson in pooping, after all. Because -- in case you didn’t know -- there are ways. My mom’s been teaching me them for as long as I can remember.