Up to that point, Mom had never spoken to us about her childhood years, but one day she surprisingly explained to my sister about her past. Later, Chong told Doug and me the details of this conversation. In Korean, Chong sounds similar to the word “jeong,” and especially after hearing this story, I think it is the perfect name for my sister.
Mom loved Chong deeply; they had a special bond, and while my brother and I had been wrapped up in getting accustomed to the new private school and making friends, I didn’t notice how lonely my sister felt. Mom had been watching Chong feel progressively more out of place in our home. She was the one “adopted” by my dad, although biologically related to my mom. It never meant anything to Doug or me; we always saw her as our sister. But Chong felt like a perpetual outsider. She hadn’t been given an American name. She also felt distant from our father. He would tease her about her looks while also being stricter with her. Seeing Chong’s emotional struggle with who she was as a freshman in high school, Mom decided it was the right moment for a deep, heart-to-heart conversation with Chong.
“Chongae. Come on. Let’s go sit and talk.” (This two-syllable version of Chong’s name is the correct pronunciation. When Mom would get affectionate, she would call my sister Chongae. Mom shorted her name to Chong only because it was easier for Americans to understand and pronounce.)
After they went into the living room and sat down on the couch, Mom looked deeply into Chong’s eyes and tears started to fill her own eyes. She held both of Chong’s hands.
“Chong, I think it’s time I tell you more about your 아버지 abuhji/father.”
Mom began by talking about her own childhood.
“When I was little, I witnessed my dad getting drunk. You know many Korean men drink heavily because they’ve had a hard life. They don’t know what to do with their pain, especially after the Korean War. So many of us were very poor. We had to eat things that Americans would never eat unless they were starving like us. During the Korean War, I remember running outside the house and hiding because of the bombs that were bursting loudly around us. I would hide in fear.”
Chong held on to each word Mom said.
“Your 할아버지/hal-abuhji/grandfather would come home after drinking and then beat your 할머니 halmoni/grandmother,” Mom continued. “Then he would be abusive to me as well. My father died of toxic alcohol syndrome. Eventually when I was about sixteen, I ran away from home. I knew I couldn’t survive there. I fell in love. I started living with a Korean ROK soldier. And Chong—you were born of that love. You may be surprised, but I had already been pregnant two other times and lost both babies. You were the one beautiful gift to come out of our relationship. Your father was a good man, but like your grandfather, when he got drunk, he would become another person. I tried staying with him, but when I had you, I was afraid for you. Who would care for you if he accidentally killed me? I started thinking, ‘What home is this for my daughter to live in?’ I gave him an ultimatum that he had to stop drinking, and he promised he would because he loved me and he loved you. But he didn’t stop. So I ran away with you.”
Mom continued, “Your father found me again. I told him he had one more chance but he continued to drink and be abusive. One day when he passed out, I took you and whatever I could take with me and ran away one last time. Since then, I’ve never seen nor talked to him. Those pictures you see in the family photo album that are cut in half, some of them are of your father.
“Chong, you came from that complex relationship. But you were always loved, even by your birth daddy. Gary, your father now, adopted you. But you’re from me. You’re my princess. I always wanted a little girl, so you were a dream fulfilled. Gary loves you, too. I know it hasn’t been easy for you to come to America, taking care of your brothers. You’ve been so brave. You saved your brothers’ lives from the fire in Maryland. Now look at how beautiful you are. I love you, Chongae. I promise I will always be here for you.”
Mom then took her pinky finger and wrapped it around Chong’s pinky finger. The promise of love and that Mom’s care for her would never cease. In Korean culture, making a promise by linking pinky fingers is called son-mool (손물), which literally means “finger water” or “hand water.” Breaking a pinky promise is considered a serious breach of trust. Mom then just held Chong, and Chong embraced Mom tightly. She laid her head on Mom’s shoulder and wept.
A comforting voice sometimes woke me up in the middle of my dream. In the quiet dark of early morning, my dad would nudge me as his low voice whispered my name. I didn’t mind climbing out of bed and getting ready. I knew where we were going.
My dad enjoyed taking Doug and me fishing. He meticulously prepared for these fishing excursions, getting together the poles, the bait, all the accessories, extra fuel, and even lunch. He’d wake us up early and we’d drive over an hour to Canyon Lake, a place surrounded by red rock canyon walls and full of hidden coves. There we would fish for bass and trout, and in the process might see a bighorn sheep or deer wander close to shore.
Before we upgraded to a nice bass boat, Dad only had this twelve-foot metal boat with no motor. He’d set up the rack on the roof of his car and hoist the boat all by himself, since we were too small at the time to offer him any real assistance. When we arrived at the lake, he’d put the large metal boat on his back and carry it down to the water himself. His feet would slip going down the precarious, rough, rocky slopes leading down to the lake. Once the boat was in the water, he had to bring all the equipment and food on board. It was a major undertaking for one person, and was made worse by two suburban boys allergic to work.
I have great memories of being out on the lake, floating on the beautiful black-green water. When Dad felt we weren’t catching fish, he’d row us around the lake to let us troll. For me, it really didn’t matter if we caught any fish or not. We usually didn’t. What mattered was the adventure we were on together. Dad often went over and beyond what I saw other fathers do with their kids. Since he didn’t have a father growing up, I know my father’s resolve was to spend as much time with us as possible. What he would do with us I imagine was exactly what he wished his dad would have done with him.
Dad made that boat feel like home. However, it wasn’t the boat that was the defining factor of it being home to us; it was Dad himself.
One day while we hosted one of our epic Gibbonses’ pool parties, it hit me. I realized that I looked nothing like my dad. As the kids from our church youth group splashed in the pool and flipped off the diving board, I glanced over at my dad, who was working on the hamburgers on the grill. For a moment I just studied him.
I noticed his cool blue eyes and his athletic build, which only seemed to grow stronger with age. His curly dark hair was turning increasingly gray in his late thirties. He would soon be all white. He had these Major League pitcher legs, which he’d developed through years of bodybuilding. Truth was, the Koreans were also known for their large calves. But it felt good that at least my legs looked like my dad’s.
Dad was also hairy. Chest, face, arms, legs… He had hair in every place imaginable, and he prided himself on this. He loved to take his oversize whiskers, wrestle us down on to the floor, and then grind his whiskers into our stomachs. We always laughed and cried at the same time while Dad, merciless, roared in delight. Seeing our confused laughing and crying reactions fueled him to tickle us even more.
Looking at him, no one would guess that he was my birth father. I knew that was part of why people always gawked at our mixed-race family. It was especially unique back in the ’70s. My parents were part of breaking barriers that way, though it wasn’t a political thing to them, but a marriage that was born out of love.
After that day at the pool, I couldn’t help but wonder if my dad was my birth father. I started noticing more differences between myself and my dad. I looked more like Chong than my brother, Doug, who had more of our dad’s features.
Why do we look so different?
My parents had always wanted me and my brother not to feel different in any way. Mom would buy us the exact same outfits and toys. Just different colors or slight variances in design that she knew we wouldn’t contest or challenge. They always tried to make us fit in.
But I couldn’t seem to stop wrestling with my identity and my parents’ past.
Maybe I’m not half-white and half-Korean like I’ve always believed.
Maybe I’m 100 percent Korean.
With this question in my mind, I approached my dad one day. With fear and timidity, I eked out the question.
“Am I Korean or American?” I asked. By American, I assumed he understood that I meant white—his birth son.
His alarmed expression made it clear that he didn’t understand how I could even ask such a thing.
“Dave, you’re American,” he said adamantly.
I could see by his face that he was offended that I had even asked. I believed him. It is scientifically feasible to be genetically from two vastly different races but carry the physical ethnic characteristics of only one.
I wondered about my ethnic heritage, but one thing I never worried about was about to unravel.
CHAPTER SEVEN Lost in Translation
Police cars parked outside my house. Police officers standing next to my father’s car. I was sixteen at the time, coming home from school. My father’s new yellow-and-white Chevy Blazer was in its usual place outside in the driveway. The roof was a white hardshell top that you could take off to go four-wheeling or cruising around. This was the most recent car Mom had purchased for my dad.
What the heck is going on?
As I tentatively walked up the cement driveway, I noticed neighbors peering out of their windows. Curious eyes assessing what was happening. Surveying a place that had been violated, I felt like the first responder to a disaster scene. Policemen sat in their patrol cars, while others stood nearby the car. They weren’t sure who I was but let me pass by anyway.
When I reached the Chevy, I was startled to see my mom in the backseat. She was weeping behind closed windows. Mascara running down her cheeks. She had a kitchen knife in her hand and was cutting into the seats. I soon learned she’d locked herself in.
