When you’re five and the world around you is chaotic and unpredictable, you learn to abstain from your feelings. You don’t add to the chaos and make things worse because it leads to merciless punishment. A feeble yelp misconstrued as insubordinate behavior; deserving of ruthless punishment. A deep sigh is a sign of dishonor to your exalted guardians. Deep sighs are relegated to the adults, the ones who have the right to show dissatisfaction or fatigue. Children must show complete honor to their parents, despite any grievance they might feel. They are never allowed to display any sign of resentment or displeasure; for the parents have given them the gift of life. A gift that the children will never be able repay.
Though this main rule was very clear and undeniable, I never knew the plethora of other rules burgeoning from the main rule. Despite my greatest efforts to discover and apply these rules, I kept faltering away from the expected perfection. It was precisely stated to me that the rules are plain, unambiguous, and self-evident. However, they remained mystical, mysterious, and cryptic to me. Even as I was being punished, I was unable to decipher which rule had been broken. My mother explained that I must have more “noon-chi”; the ability to analyze, decode, and interpret the current situation. Once the situation is illuminated, one must enact the proper course of action. If I mastered this skill, I would be able to dispense my duties to my parents more accurately. My constant inability to decode the situation and deliver the appropriate action led to much shame and mortification in my role as the first offspring. The first offspring is responsible for being the best at everything, for taking care of the parents (if female, this responsibility would be relinquished to the eldest son at marriage), for being the role model to the younger siblings, and for sharing in the parental duties.
Confronted by this shame, I attempted to be invisible. Though my parents didn’t have a schedule, I learned to be flexible and complete tasks without being noticed. This was incredibly difficult in a house without private corners and where doors were never closed. My siblings are more introverted than I am, so invisibility was a natural, almost perfect ability for them. I would help them with their hygiene, bathing, dressing, and eating. No one made a sound. We learned to conserve water, as a way to conserve sound. Sound conservation became a perfect ability for all of us. In the rare instances, when we actually had visitors, people could not help comment on how quiet the house was, despite three small children. My mother would beam with pride.
Though a majority of the rules still escaped my understanding, I was able to compensate by reading my parent’s moods. Over time, I became efficient and extremely accurate at reading their feelings. Before embarking on any activity, I would assess my parent’s moods. Depending on my assessment, I would regulate the activities of my siblings and myself. Though my ability to read my parent’s moods helped avoid some mishaps, they didn’t account for everything. It didn’t account for my father’s constant swinging moods from depressed, ecstatic, sane, insane, irritable, angry, rage, and so many more. His moods could change within seconds. It was impossible to adjust to his moods quickly enough to avoid danger. He would often smile one second, find something annoying, and become enraged the next second. There just wasn’t anytime to adjust or even react. My father required his children to read his mind, but his mind just baffled my inexperienced and different mind.
As my brother grew older, it became apparent that his “noon-chi” was a far more refined and accurate ability. In time, reading “noon-chi“ became his official role. We began to work as a team; I read feelings and moods, while he read “noon-chi“. When my father, unconsciously, put his hands in a cigarette holding position; my brother immediately retrieved the cigarettes, the lighter, and the ashtray. When my father thoughtfully looked at his empty wine glass, my brother brought more wine. He also became the only person who could, sometimes, read my father’s convoluted and irrational mind. However, if my father’s mood changed and he looked irritated, I would be the one to notice and move my siblings to another room. We became a successful team. However, our success was brief and uncelebrated. With our increasing success, came increasing expectations. Expectations of perfection beyond our formative years that no one could ever fulfill. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t be perfect adults.
At some point, to our infinite dismay, my father recognized the existence of his children. One day he realized that his children could speak and understand language. Suddenly, he decided to exercise his power as a parent. He believed that children are required to obey, listen, and learn. Unlike the adults in his life, his children couldn’t leave if they disagreed. They were not allowed to dishonor him, even if they didn’t like him. I’m not sure if this train of thought began to seep into his mind in this organized fashion, however, his behavior would confirm these train of thoughts. He would soon repeat them to his children, in a cryptic fashion, to test their minds, test their loyalty, test their integrity, and their honesty. For myself and my siblings, we called it torture; though we didn’t know that word yet.
Most of the time, my father ignored us. Though some children complain that their parents neglected them, we prayed to be neglected and ignored. It was the only time we could breath. I had no idealistic visions of playing with my father or having an actual conversation with him. I didn’t mourn his absence, for it was such a relief from suffering. My mother also fueled this notion, by giving my father Presidential status in the family. No one really talks to the President, unless they are the Vice-President. However, when my mother was unavailable, my father turned his attention to the only other humans in the house, who happened to be his children. I don’t think my mother ever imagined what horrors my father would commit while she was gone. She felt it was his duty to care for us, while she was out taking care of important business. Business, she believed was his duty, but business he refused to care for. I don’t know why she didn’t consider what he would do, after all, she frequently had to save us from his torture when she was home. I guess that’s why I never told her. It seemed logical to me that if my father could torture us when she was home, surely she would know that he tortured us when she wasn’t home. Why bother repeating what she already knew? I just thought it was our role, in the quest to immigrate to the U.S.
Even before my parents were united, both wanted to immigrate to the United States. After the Korean War, huge numbers of Koreans wanted to immigrate to the “golden country”. They hoped to find the American dream and save their families from poverty and dishonor. However, due to immigration laws permitting only a few thousands to enter the U.S. per year, one would have to wait 20 years, before being allowed to enter the U.S. In desperation, many applied to go to South America first, for the U.S. allowed larger numbers to come from South America. For this reason, it was frequently necessary for my mother to visit the American Embassy and complete forms or interview. Often, she would leave us alone with food prepared, locking the door as she left.
In the beginning, my mother took my sister and left my brother and me at home. We were 4 and 3 years old, respectively. My father was at work. So my brother and I had the whole day to ourselves. We loved our independent days! We were both independent, creative children and we never ran out of things to do. We were finally free to play and dabble in the forbidden. For a brief time, we enjoyed the opportunity to be children and not little adults. These independent days are the only good memories connected to being home in this time period. However, like all wonderful things, it didn’t last. In the early days, my brother and I learned how to take care of ourselves. It was also a time for bonding and becoming best friends. The time we spent playing, helped us learn about each other’s weaknesses and strengths. We also learned to work as a team and how to talk without words. All these skills would help us endure the torture that was coming.
One example of how we played stands out in my memory. I’m still unsure how a 4 year old could come up with this experiment. However, this is the first time I learned how my brother’s brain worked and it also helped me learn how testing sometimes brought out the answer. My brother loved the opportunity to experiment. We had an old fashioned stove that required matches in order to light. The matches were always available right next to the stove. He brought paper and retrieved the matches. Concerned that he might start a fire, I warned him about the danger. However, my brother was determined to continue his experiment and reassured me that he would experiment on the kitchen floor, far away from anything flammable. Systematically, he started to tear the paper into two by one inch rectangles, 8 pieces of paper in total. Secondly, he treated each piece of paper with different items from the kitchen: water, oil, sauce, soda water, wine, sugar, and salt. Then he put them in a neat horizontal row. Finally, he explained to me that he wanted to see which piece of paper would burn the fastest. He explained that in order to be accurate, he needed my help to light 4 paper rectangles, so that they could be lit simultaneously. By then, I was quite fascinated and agreed to assist him. Then we lit four matches, one for each hand. On his count, we lit the papers: two per hand. The paper with the salt burned the fastest. I couldn’t believe that you could learn something by experimenting! I soon learned that my father also used the scientific method. However, instead of making a hypothesis and trying to find the truth, my father believed that his hypothesis was correct and only used the data that supported his hypothesis, by ignoring the truth. This would become the basis of his torture method, though I didn’t know it at the time. When the torture began, my brother would be more adept at following my father’s train of thought. This would help him escape some of my father’s wrath, but I could never understand it, despite my concentrated efforts.
My sister would be able to escape some of my father’s wrath by her natural reactions. She was blessed with a similar personality to my father’s beloved sister. She’s also the baby of the family. This position in the family would often protect her, but it was also her reactions and her similarity to my aunt, that helped her escape some of the real brutality. My sister felt comfortable with her dependent role and she expected her older family members to come to her rescue. She frequently asked for help, with the full expectation that someone would fill her needs without question. No one in the family could resist her charms. If there was a small leftover cake, my parents and my sister would each get a slice; my brother and I would have to sacrifice. There was no question about her status and my brother and I never complained, neither in heart nor in thought. My sister’s place and role in the family was in part due to her personality, but it was also due to our family’s reaction to her pleas. Though her personality and her reactions saved her from physical abuse, it did not protect her from mental, emotional, or sexual abuse.
My sister and I shared a completely different relationship than my brother and I. I viewed both as my children, but my sister was definitely the baby. When she started nursery-preschool, I was in kindergarten, and my brother was in preschool. My brother and I loved school and we easily adjusted to school life. My teachers loved my lively personality and my brother’s teachers were certain of his genius. My sister had a difficult time adjusting to school. However, her kind and loving teacher finally won her over. Unfortunately, this first teacher had to leave mid-year due to pregnancy. For my sister, this change turned out to be unbearable.
I’m not sure what event caused my sister to fear or hate her new teacher, but she was unable to endure it. The school had a large gymnasium in the middle and all the classes surrounded this gymnasium. The classroom doors were shaped like saloon doors, so the bottom half was open to the gymnasium. Everyday, my sister would escape her classroom. She would sit in the middle of the gymnasium, within view of my classroom door and softly cry. She was waiting for me, but I didn’t see her. Her cry was barely audible, so I didn’t hear her.
I’m not sure how long she sat there by herself, but her teacher and the vice principal found her pitiful figure. At first, her teacher and the school vice principal tried to coax my sister back to class. However, their efforts were futile. Despite her fragile appearance, my sister’s strength and stubbornness is unmatched by anyone I know. Finally, her teacher picked her up, but my sister’s cry of protest was loud enough to be heard by the entire school. It sounded like a frightened calf about to be killed. The instant I heard her cry, I flew out of the classroom without bothering to ask for permission. Like a mama bear protecting her cub, I roared and glared at the teacher who dared hurt my sister. Her status as an adult, did little to protect her from my anger and outrage. I reached out for my sister, who immediately reached out for me. The teacher, in utter shock, let her go. Turning away from the outsiders, I held and rocked my little baby in my arms. In her embarrassment, the teacher returned to class. The vice principal patted my head, told me that they tried talking first, and instructed me to take my sister back to class, after she calmed down.
After some time and a piggy back ride, she stopped crying and I was able to make her smile. Then slowly I tried to persuade her to return to class. After a short story, she agreed to go back to class, as long as I went with her. When we arrived it was playtime, so I placed her within the play area and sat nearby. My sister soon forgot about me and started playing with the other kids. When she was fully engaged, I slipped out of her class and returned to mine.
Despite this good outcome, my sister refused to go to class the next day. My mother felt she just needed time to adjust, so she left her with her teacher. A little bit into the day, my sister returned to her spot in the gym, softly crying, she waited for my return. My classmates alerted me to her arrival and I went to rescue her. It was so logical to me that I would help her that I didn’t bother to ask permission. Like the day before, I soothed her, took her to class, and waited until she was fully engaged in playing and returned to class. This continued for some time, until we were evicted by force. This incident cemented our roles as mother and baby for a long time, though not forever. During our torture sessions, we repeated these roles. This saved her from the brunt of the torture, though it didn’t protect her from the fear, anxiety, or depression.
Not long after this incident, the opportunity for torture increased because my father started staying home more often. I‘m not certain, but if future behavior is any indication, he probably called in sick, most likely due to a depressed mood. Prior to this time, my father drank with his friends or at bars. This type of socialization helped him control his behavior and it also meant he was distracted by other people and didn’t need his children to provide delectable entertainment. Perhaps he was just lonely; he hated to drink alone or be alone. Or he was just trying to be a good father and didn’t know how. Perhaps he felt responsible, but didn’t know what to do. In my opinion, he needed to control someone. When my mother was home, they would fill the silence with their anger; she insisting he be more successful and he insisting she spend less and share in the responsibilities. Sometimes, my mother would drink too. That’s when we had no one to rely on, no one to protect us.
On bad days, my father stayed up all night, drinking very slowly and deliberately, preventing blackouts. He didn’t have a high tolerance, three glasses of wine would assure his drunkenness. By nursing his drinks, he could stay awake, fueled by his irritation and anger. On the nights that my parents fought and my mom fell asleep from exhaustion, he would sleep only a few hours and wake up drinking in the morning. During these bouts, my father ate very little and slept even less. He could not sleep until he finished calming the rage, by usurping power in his home.
My father’s anger was fueled by misunderstanding and impossible expectations. Though he loved people, he was essentially naïve and uneducated about social customs and human interactions. He would give perfect love to strangers and expect the same in return; only to be frequently disappointed . Unfortunately, he did not know how to screen worthy people. He was easily persuaded to bestow his fierce loyalty and love on those who deserved it the least. Frequently willing to give away his paycheck, if someone cried in need, but never being able to receive in return. Who else would give away money for their own family’s groceries, and decide to pay for a stranger‘s groceries instead? These frustrations turned into anger, but he was unable to unload his anger onto these strangers. He would come home angry, breathing fire, needing to channel his anger in a way that gave him power; a power he lacked in the outside world. For as long as his anger remained acute, he continued to drink and exercise his power to assuage his rage. In this way, my mother received the bulk of the torture. He would torture her, the way a cat plays with its mouse; torturing it, until it finally gives up, and resigns to its death. For as long as his anger filled his heart, he never tired of playing with her will; always keeping her just minutes from giving up. He would force her to stay awake and listen to his deliberate, paranoid, and ranting utterances; until his irritated, angry, and tortured soul felt at peace.
These drinking episodes would last between 2-4 days, averaging 3 days. Though we could not predict when a drinking bout would start, we could usually predict when it would end. Ironically, the start of a drinking bout would ease our anxiety; at least we knew that it would end soon. Although, we usually lived on high alert, these drinking days were especially delicate. As children, we learned to stay quite for days at a time. Unfortunately, being invisible did not always work.
My father needed to prey on the powerless. He needed to wield his sword of power, until he could decrease the agony of his powerlessness. The powerlessness that started in his own broken, abused, neglected, and unloved childhood. Displaying absolute power over his children, eased the powerlessness of his social and work life. He rationalized the need for this harsh discipline, as a way to strengthen his children against the atrocities of the world. He would teach us to withstand torture, so we could succeed in a world filled with hate and agony. It didn’t occur to him, that torture was not a good teaching tool. He simply took a Korean adage to learn through perseverance and twisted it into “learn by suffering evil“. He didn’t understand the not so subtle difference, for on the outside it could look similar; suffering always looked the same. Unfortunately, this was just one of the many twisted proverbs in my father’s head. No one had bothered to teach him the correct interpretation. He simply interpreted life through the haze of his own history of abuse and neglect, retarding his development by drinking substantial alcohol by the age 10, and his undiagnosed mental illness.
We were safer when my mother was home. She would protect us from the worst and frequently make us go out, so we could escape from his domain. Today, she left after feeding us breakfast. She told us to be quiet so my father would sleep. Then she showed me the sweet potatoes for lunch. When she turned away, I put them in my pockets. When she started walking out, we followed her like frightened bear cubs, until she shooed us away and disappeared around the corner. I didn’t want to go back home. I knew what that would mean and I didn’t want to be tortured. I probably would have led my siblings far away and wandered the neighborhood aimlessly. However, my sister was always too afraid to go beyond viewing distance of the house.
So we walked around the corner, in front of the neighborhood store and just behind the wall that hid us from our house. It was just couple houses away. Close enough to almost hear my father, just in case he came looking for us. Yet hidden from his view, in case he doesn‘t remember us. My sister would often have me check the house, in case my mother came home a different way, even though, she never did. We were afraid that our mother would never come back and we would be alone with our father. It was a nightmare that no one actually voiced out loud. Afraid that saying it, might make it come true. It was one of those fears that we shared, but we all kept secret from one another. In time, we would start collecting these secrets like bottle tops.
The wide pathway where we sat, was not busy with people during the day. However, an occasional customer would visit the home based store, but they did not usually notice us. We always practiced invisibility. The store lady, who knew us, would frequently give us cookies or homemade lemonade. She knew me because I was friends with her son, Enrique. I didn’t know it then, I thought our family troubles were a secret, but I realize now that our troubles were probably front page news in the community. Hot gossip travels quickly in a small neighborhood, especially for people who had plenty of time to discuss them. She was one of the last neighbors still speaking to us. Mysteriously many of them had stopped greeting me or showing kindness towards me. In fact, even the children stayed away from us. Though I wondered why, I was too busy surviving to spend too much time being curious. My siblings and I started our life of isolation. Isolation would define our lives for years to come.
One day I learned the penalty of having friends with money. Since my father was working less frequently, he had less money to feed his addictions. He was desperate to fill the need, but he owed more than he could repay. When my father found out that this wonderful store lady was nice to me, he forced me to “borrow” wine and cigarettes from her. Once or twice without payment, a nice neighbor could lend to someone in need. But how could a store function if a five year old kept returning, with no hope for payment in sight? One day, she only opened the door to reveal her embarrassed face and told me that she could no longer help me until my parents paid her. Even as a 5 year old, I didn’t blame her. Although I was embarrassed, I was more scared of my father’s reaction, afraid of his rage. To my embarrassment, he sent me to her door again. Perhaps another child would have lied to her father, but I was too afraid to lie. This time, she didn’t open the door. It was a relief for me. At least, I wasn’t forced to face her again. It would be the last time I saw her or any of her family, including Enrique. He was the last friend I made outside of school hours, until I graduated high school.
Our little hideaway, was actually quite open to the world. It was uncomfortable to hide in plain site, but my sister wouldn’t have it any other way. So I began to tell my adventurous and action packed stories again. All the stories had three characters that each one of us could identify with personally. The stories were full of unending drama and all three of us would completely immerse ourselves in the story; forgetting our surroundings and genuinely enjoying ourselves. Sometimes, if it was available, I brought boiled sweet potatoes, which we ate for lunch. We drank water from a garden hose, innocently without thought.
Inevitably, the sun would start to set and it was time to go home. We had to come home before the sunset; it was my mom’s only outside rule, . My sister would be anxious to go home because she only stayed out, when there was no other choice. My brother was curious and anxious about my father and worried about my mom. I never wanted to go home. I could have stayed out all night. I dreaded what would happen at home, more than I dreaded the dark night. I wanted to sleep outside on the grass. I imagined running away to a far away land, having the adventures of the characters in my stories. Yet even at the age of 5, I couldn’t imagine abandoning my siblings. The desire to run away and the inability to abandon my siblings, becomes a lifelong quandary in my life. Staying close to my siblings becomes an absolute rule, even if I must give up other important people in my life. They always come first. After all, they are my children. At the tender age of 5, this responsibility was overwhelming and the strain made me sad, melancholic, humiliated, upset, restless, and rebellious; though none of it showed on my face. My face stays placid and pleasant, for everything must stay a secret.
My sense of responsibility pushed those thoughts into a deep abyss and replaced them with duty to my parents and love for my siblings. When I was 4, I learned that there was a God. A God who loved me and had a plan for making things better. I learned about Moses, David, and Abraham. I learned that they put their complete trust in God and God rewarded them with assistance and blessings. It was complicated and I couldn’t understand it all, however, I learned that I must be a good person. I must love God, I must love others, especially my siblings, I must honor my parents, and I must put my whole trust in God. I’m not sure why, but it made sense to me. I was absolutely certain that these things were true and I decided that I would live by these principles. Perhaps it was the way my mother told the stories or perhaps it was the Bible people that came to visit, but I was certain that good existed and therefore God must exist. These principle would affect me the rest of my life. Still it was hard to face doom and stand by your principles at the age of 5.
As we stood up, my mother rounded the corner. She looked exhausted and barely acknowledged us, but she was home. The four of us quietly walked home. We all felt the dread of coming home to a possible situation. We all felt the same, but no one dared speak. Sometimes we were lucky and my father‘s need to wield his sword was over and exhausted he would sleep. Sometimes, his eyes were closed, but his senses were alert, ready to pounce on a new target.
When we entered the house, it was silent. My father’s room was the lit by a tiny lamp to his side. He’s awake. Otherwise, the house was dead. Everything looked the same, except the bottle of wine was almost empty.
“To-Ka-Te!” (It’s the same.)
Her anger scared me. One angry adult is bad, but two angry adults is explosive. It’s like putting a stick of burning dynamite in the room and waiting to see what will happen.
Despite her anger, she headed to the kitchen to prepare food. She felt responsible to feed us, even though she’d rather turn on the T.V. and ignore. Making food was part of her role. No matter how poor, she always found a way to feed us rice, eggs, and Kimchee (a Korean staple, usually spicy, dilled cabbage). As she began to prepare the food, the noise from the kitchen got louder.
It was dangerous to make so much noise, when my father was obviously awake. Loud noise exponentially increases his agitation and the likelihood of a full scale war. Doesn’t she know that he’s going to get angry? She doesn’t seem to care; she’s tired and angry. The sounds of anger keep flooding from the kitchen. This was before she accepted the full scale of his violence. Before she learned that he didn’t have normal boundaries. She‘d hoped to come home to his realization that he needed her. Maybe her absence would wake him from his stupor and make him realize that he needed to take care of his family. She thought marriage would knock some sense into this man. Every man she knew drank a lot more than her husband. She knew he was a good man inside, why couldn‘t he get it together? Her thoughts seemed plainly stated in the banging and clanging of the pots and plates.
Inevitably, my father chose an easier target. “Bettiya!”
In seconds, I stood in front of his bed, hands held tightly in front of me, head down, and submissively say, “Neh, appa.” (Yes, dad.)
“Go and see what your mother is making. Tell her I want some soup.” He knows she’s angry, but he wants to add fuel to the fire. The night awakens the hunter in his soul and he can‘t wait to play with his prey. He’s been alone too long.
“Neh.” I peep. Intuitively, I guess his intention and I know the expected reaction. I cringe. I know it’s just the beginning. I go to the kitchen and see that she’s making rice, eggs, and Kimchee; our staple. Holding my breath, I say, “Omma, dad wants soup.”
A plate crashes onto the counter and I flinch backwards. She huffs, grinds, and murmurs, “Tell him that if he wants soup, he needs to work and bring some money home!”
She turns away, ending the conversation. My heart sinks, does she really expect me to say that? I run over to my father, same position, but head lower. “Dad, mom isn’t making any soup today.”
He looks up at me, “Is that what she said?”
“No…”
“Then why did you lie?” This is my father’s pet peeve, lying. However, his version of lying is very black and white, but I didn’t understand the difference at that time.
“I didn’t lie. I just told you that she isn’t making soup. I didn’t say that’s what she told me.” Some people might agree that this sounds rather reasonable, but my father didn’t fit into that category. Besides, he was looking for another target to play with. He was practicing to tame the lion, so he started to torture the cub; to teach it to fight.
“HOW DARE YOU TALK BACK TO ME!!” Silence. My father loved these long silences. It gave you plenty of time to scare yourself by imagining the worst outcome. Languidly he would take a drag from his cigarette or take another sip of wine. There was plenty of time on his schedule.
“You lied. You were afraid to tell me what your mother said. So…you lied.”
By now, my feelings were choking my throat, I felt the urgency to pee, and my head hurt from trying to talk myself into calmness. If I cry, this will only get worse. It will only get longer and then he will drag my siblings in too. Too late…
“Tell your siblings to come here.”
My heart dropped to the floor. “no…”, my heart squeaked. What could I do? “I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry I lied. Please forgive me.”
Sharply his eyes focused on me. If daggers came forth from glares, my father would be an expert. “You lied, again…”
What! What does he mean? I didn’t lie again! My face always spoke to my father, exactly what I was thinking in my head.
“You’re not sorry.”
I couldn’t understand where he was going, so I repeated. “No, Father. I really apologize for lying. I do!” I added.
He had me and I didn’t even know it. “You’re lying. Think about it.”
I didn’t realize that it was possible to lie without knowing it. My anxiety was at its peak. I was trying to figure out what he meant, but I was so emotional that couldn’t think clearly either. What was he talking about? What did he mean? I was taking too long. Years later, I would figure out that if one didn’t actually feel “sorry”, saying “I’m sorry.” is a lie.
“Why do you defy me?” Silence. “Go get your siblings.”
My limbs have turned into cement and tears are brimming in my eyes, but I manage to walk out to the living room. They looked frightened, their faces drained of blood. Why couldn’t I prevent this from happening? I would do anything to protect them, but I don’t know what to do without making things worse. I couldn’t even figure out what my father was talking about. What can I do? My head feels a dull pain right above my eyes. My eyesight blurs, but I guiltily nod towards them. They don’t need any instruction, verbalization would have been redundant. They quickly walk towards me and follow me in. The three of us stood in a row; from oldest to youngest. My parents both love putting us in the correct order. For my father, this was also the order of blame; the older the more blame. He didn’t acknowledge us right away. Silence ensues. Like a supreme general, he only addressed the lowest ranking personnel if they were in serious trouble. Their time, discomfort, or fear had little to do with his own agenda.
Finally, he looked up at my brother. “Your sister lied twice. How do you think I should punish her; hit her with a stick or hit her with a hose?”
My extra-sensitive brother started to sweat and tears formed in his eyes. Of all of us, he was the most sensitive and the most loving; though it didn’t always show. He would rather die than let anything happen to any of us, including his abusive parent. This question couldn’t be more difficult or more torturous. Of course, that’s why my father asked him. He knew my brother was sensitive and he perceived it as a weakness, not the gift that it is. In my father’s mind, he wanted to toughen the only boy in the family, his namesake. In reality, my father thought he saw his own image in my brother and in his own self-loathing, made him hate my brother. He hadn’t been able to change himself, so he was determined to change my brother. Ironically, my father was wrong. My brother has some similarities in personality with my father, but his goodness is unmatched by anyone I know; he would rather suffer himself, rather than make others suffer. This innate goodness and kindness towards all creatures makes my brother different from my father in many ways.
I looked up at my father. His eyes closed, hanging a cigarette in his right hand, the ashes hanging on to the tip, waiting to be set in the ashtray. Looking over at my brother, I try to tell him that everything is okay. After all it didn’t matter what he said to my father, all the answers were wrong. If you chose a weapon, he was a bad brother and if he didn’t choose, he was a coward. I nodded my head, encouraging him to speak. In my eyes, he could see that I wouldn’t hold this against him. I could tell by his expression that he understood, but I knew it didn’t make things easier.
Looking up, determined, he said, “I don’t know.”
Silence. “You don’t know? Is that because you don’t think she lied or because you’re too cowardly to choose the appropriate punishment?”
“I don’t know.”
Silence. “You don’t know… “ Silence. He looked at my little sister, “What do you think, Vero?”
Immediately, my sister started to cry. She was just 2 and a half years old. She didn’t understand the conversation fully, but she could feel the tension. Unlike children in semi-healthy homes who cry loudly, my sister simply appears fragile with tears streaming down her face, a few sobs, and attempts to clear her nose. She looks fragile, like a baby animal orphaned and starving.
My father looks up at my sister, a tinge of guilt makes him look away and he downs the rest of the wine to deaden the remorse. My sister was able to react honestly, painfully; making my father see the monster he‘d become, in her mirror. He cuts the film and begins to rationalize the necessity of his actions. He must discipline his children, that is his role as a parent; he must teach them to be better than himself. A father must show his love by disciplining his children. He would teach them, for he didn‘t have the luxury of a father, when he was younger. Each rationalization hardened his will and deadened his heart.
My father developed his idea of discipline based on his abusive background and by misapplying Korean cultural mores and Bible principles. Koreans believed in strict discipline to help children achieve professional goals and bring honor to the family. However, even by their strictest standards, abuse and torture are not part of the disciplinary method. He used the Bible to rationalize his discipline, saying that “sparing the rod, spoils the child”. After all, he believed in his good motives. It’s true that the Bible recommends discipline with the rod, but it recommends doing so with love. The rod, a shepherd’s tool, was only used to lightly tap on the floor, to redirect the sheep and prevent them from heading in the wrong direction. The shepherds didn’t use the rod to beat the sheep into submission. Stunted by the constant inebriation, my father didn’t have the lucidity to evaluate his upbringing and reassess his values. He was too wrapped in his own pain, unable to prevent inadvertently spreading the pain to his children.
He shot a look towards my brother, who started from the intensity. “Go bring a spoon.” He knew he was right. He was being a good father.
My brother, all muscle with soft steps, went to the kitchen. In his absence, I repeated my mantra, my determination. I will not cry or yell with pain. I will show my strength. I was certain that this would help my siblings endure, my strength would ease their fears. Many years later, my mother would tell me, that my strong reaction without tears would make my parents punish me more.
My brother returned with the spoon, with my mother in tow.
“What are you doing?”, my mother asked indignantly.
No answer. He didn’t seem anxious to explain. So my mother started moving my sister and my brother out of the room.
Before I was able to go, my father jumped onto his knees and screamed, “STAY!!”
The swiftness of his actions never stops jarring my nerves into hyper-alert status. Even my mother looked scared, but she quickly put up a strong front. She could not lose. It made things worse.
“Why are you upset? What did she do?” Wisely, she adjusted her tone.
“She lied.”
She told me with her gestures to let this one go, to just admit, so we could all rest. “Why did you lie? You know that’s bad. I guess you deserve the punishment. Don‘t do it again. Okay?” She sounded fake. Would he take the bait?
I nodded yes and turned my body towards him. I wanted to explain. I wanted to shout the truth. I wanted to tell her that if she hadn’t said those words, I wouldn’t have needed to change the wording for my father. I wanted to tell him that I just didn’t want to repeat mean words from my mother. Why didn’t anybody get it? Why didn’t they want to know? I thought they wanted the truth! No, it didn’t matter. I guess it’s not about the truth. Someone must sacrifice. I would sacrifice. Not for them. I would sacrifice for the sake of my siblings. It had to be me. There was no one else.
“Put your arms out.”, he was determined and focused. He stared at me, not with the pain of a parent about to hurt their child, but a man who had to prove he was right. His rage gleamed in his eyes, as he rose into a half kneeled position, towering over me by a few feet. He no longer saw his daughter, only a living, breathing object in his path.
I put my arms out and closed my eyes.
“Open your eyes.”, he slurred, intoxicated by his rage.
When I opened my eyes, his eyes were furiously staring at me, close enough to blur the room. Instead of fear, I reacted with surprise. Even at 5, I knew that the precipitating event and his current rage didn’t match. Why was he so angry?
“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!!
“You…”, I started to murmur. But, before I could breath in, he hit the underside of my forearms with veracity. When my brain started to process that I‘d been hit, then he hit me again. Before my mom could reach my father, he hit me even harder the third time around. My mother moved me away and she stood in front of me, protecting me. She started yelling, but I couldn‘t hear. As I walked out of the room, I looked back. I saw my father lying down, his eyes closed, cigarette in his right hand, and a smug smile turning the corners of his lips.
In a hazy daze, I walked to the bathroom. Walking past my siblings, who were unable to eat, shell shocked as they stared at me. But I procured a faded smile and motioned them to eat. When I got to the bathroom, I let go. I cried into a towel, after turning on the water to drown out the sound. I was more frustrated and confused, than actually hurt. Finally, I looked at my arms and saw the wounds. The welts on my forearms were the perfect shape of the spoon. It was red and hot and the whole forearm swelled from the rushing of blood.
I was angry, I hurt, but I didn’t know what to feel. Though I felt some anger towards my father, I didn’t conclude by blaming him. I was hurt that my mother put me in that position in the first place, but I felt sorry for her. Sometimes she spends the whole day dealing with him and protecting us, how could I be mad at her? Now she has to deal with him again. In the end, I blamed myself, but I didn‘t know what for. What should I have done? It frustrated me that I didn‘t know what to do to change the outcome for next time, but it was too much. It was time to care for the kids, since my mom was busy. I brushed aside my tears, washed my face with cold water, and put on my brave face. Then I opened the door, leaving my only solace.
I walked over to my siblings and smiled. They looked apprehensive, but a little relieved. Time had taught me to be a good actress. I could mentally access another part of me, to complete tasks during stressful times. I began to prepare the food, putting rice and one egg into their bowls. Then I started to mix the rice and egg and added a little soy sauce. The first bowl, I gave to my sister, who began to take a few bites. I repeated it for my brother, but I added a spicy Kimchee. He waited as I made a bowl for my father and mother. Finally, I made a bowl for myself, adding Kimchee and spicy chilies, for spicy things are easier to eat when you’re anxious or upset. When I started to eat, my brother followed. We ate quietly, as our parents were loudly fighting just 12 feet away. When we finished, I stacked the bowls, picked up the used spoons and started to head towards the kitchen. I signal my brother to take my sister to the other bedroom, the one next to my parents. When I’m done putting away our used dishes, I head to the bedroom with water.
The sounds from the next room have not abated. I feel guilty as the cause and the dysphoria burdens my chest. We didn’t have a bed, we just had a couple mattresses on the floor, which we put together, so everyone could sleep together. Being together in a small space, made us feel safer. There were no sheets, just simply old blankets on the bottom and newer blankets on top. It was always my habit to make the bed before going to sleep. Then we climbed in, always in our usual places. My brother to the wall, then I would go in the middle, and my sister would sleep on my other side. This line up was perfect for a couple of reasons. From my middle position, I could tell my story quietly and they both could hear me. It was also good because my mother would often come to sleep in our room. Then my sister would have the benefit of her company, which she always craved.
Though my parents were still fighting in the next room, it wasn‘t different from the many of the other nights. There was nothing to do, but try to sleep. Sleep always brought peace. So I began to tell another story. I sat up and leaned against the wall and my sister cuddled in my arms.
I didn‘t know that helplessness was not a normal part of childhood. I had nothing to compare our lives to, this was the only life I knew. Some people say that I’m a survivor. I remember thinking that I didn’t realize there was a choice. Perhaps if I knew there was a choice, I would have made different choices. Soon, my parents would become helpless. Their leadership position would be overtaken. Soon, everything they knew would fall apart and they would have to start all over. But for us, it would be the best time in our childhood.
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