And so it began
March 7th, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I remember exactly where I was sitting – the little space between the bathroom and the vanity in our one bedroom apartment, our first place wedged between Newport Beach and Industrial Costa Mesa – the larger half of the two bedroom crudely chopped into a one and a studio. I remember it was cold in the apartment. It was December. She’d gotten home from work with one of those home pregnancy tests.
She came out of the bathroom, and set that white, plastic stick on the vanity. She crouched next to me to wait out those nervous few minutes. Neither one of us wanted her to be pregnant. We had plans, you see. Good plans: Wait two, three years before starting a family; “Grow together as a couple,” we were told. Yeah, sounded right. Take a few little trips. Go camping. Sleep in on Saturdays. And then there was the money. I had followed my calling. And as it is with most callings, it paid dirt. She was making double my salary. The plan was to live tight, put away her checks and buy a place of our own. Good plans.
So, why were we both smiling? We were. I can see us. Didn’t want it. Scared. But the clearest things in my memory’s eye – looking down on those two sitting there, huddled next to each other – are those smiles. Those nervous smiles. Man, we were just kids.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think you are.”
“No? … I think I am.”
“You do? Hmm…”
“That two lines?”
“I think it is.”
“Really? Why’s that second line so faint?”
“Did we wait too long?”
“I don’t know. Five minutes – is that what it says?”
“Should I do another one?”
“There’s another one?”
“Yes, they come in two-packs.”
“Yeah, think you’d better.”
She did. She was. And so it began.
My Father’s Son
March 3rd, 2012 § Leave a Comment
I bear his likeness. I am my Father’s Son. The narrow face, the creased brow, sunken eyes, the gaunt cheeks. He had the same protruding Adam’s Apple on that feeble, bird neck. Slight of build. And even the same shoulder that pops out of socket. Oh, and the hands, I have his hands. The weekend of his funeral, one of his friends, Mr. Moe grabbed me by the wrist as I walked past. Staring at my hands he marveled in Korean, “Ah, aren’t these exactly your Father’s hands?”
He gave me his shrewd mind. His penmanship. His athleticism. The deep voice. And for sure his palate. Keep your fried foods; hold the potato. Just give me some kind of Korean soup – myuk gook(seaweed soup), kong nam mul gook (bean sprout soup) – rice and some kimchee, and I’m good. I am my Father’s Son.
And yeah, I’ve struggled with that temper. Like it used to with him, far too often, it has gotten the better of me. Once my Mom told of his passive-aggressive, seven day silent treatment in the hearing of my wife. My Mom was laughing; my wife was not. She turned to me, her gaping look said, “Oh my God. That is you!” Yes, guilty. I am my Father’s Son.
He passed on his genes. And some stuff I could’ve done without. But he did more. My Dad showed me the importance of loyalty. He never sat me down for a lesson; I saw it in his friends. He taught me that a man ought to be generous. He abhorred lies. And had a particular disdain reserved for the disrespectful. From how I bowed, to how I sat, to how I spoke; my Dad taught me to be a respectful boy. These values he so deeply ingrained in me, they’ve become more who I am than the color of my hair. I do bear his likeness. Yeah, I am. I am my Father’s Son.
Time Honored Occupation
March 1st, 2012 § Leave a Comment
My Dad died on July 25th, 1985. I was fifteen years old. When he died, I hardly knew him. My older brother, himself just a year senior to me, sped us through the early morning darkness in our beat up, dark blue Ford Thunderbird. Neither one of us said a word. We both knew this was coming. When we walked into that room on the 5th floor of Queen of Angels Hospital, that room to which we’d grown so accustomed, I hardly felt anything. I looked over at my Mom and mostly felt sorry for her. The look on her face – she felt sorry for us.
I didn’t much like my Dad. He was your classic patriarchal Korean Father. Silent and slightly annoyed. Much of our interactions involved his barks and grunts, and our quick acquiescence. More than any other feeling, I remember the feeling of discomfort when he entered the room. And I remember thinking when he came alive in a gathering of his friends, once the Johnny Walker had strode around the table a few times, “Why doesn’t he laugh like that when he is with us?”
On August 1st, 1999, I became a father. Like sons have done throughout time, I followed in the footsteps of my Father into that most common, most important, most demanding of occupations. Fatherhood is no joke. Having walked in his shoes my gaze back to him has markedly softened. How easy it is to throw the tomato from the audience! Flawed, the judgements of an adolescent. The memories selective. My feelings were real, genuine … not always fair.
I’ve made peace with my Dad. Now when I think of him, it is with fondness. I regret that we never got a chance to talk as men, as fathers. I’m filled with warm sadness at never having walked down a fairway with him on a crisp, summer morning. I wish I could turn to him and say, “Thanks Dad. You did alright.”
Maybe one day I will.