“Don’t you know he’s married and has three kids?” She yelled a few choice Korean profanities that Carolyn was clueless about.
Carolyn hung up on her, probably shocked that my mom would dare call her.
Mom had started to drink the moment Dad left her, but once she realized he wasn’t coming back to her, her drinking got heavier. We’d never seen Mom drink alcohol before, so it was hard getting used to what seemed to now be a daily habit. As her nights out became more frequent, she would come home drunk in the early morning hours, sometimes brought home by men or acquaintances I’d never seen before. Mom had gone through so much. After all the abuse she had suffered as a child and at the hands of alcoholics, she was becoming one.
In the early morning, I was awakened by someone wailing outside my bedroom window, which was near our front door. It was Mom. I knew that Chong or Doug didn’t want to bring her in. They were acting like they were asleep, or maybe they truly were soundly asleep. We were hardly talking to one another, just surviving. I still was hoping one of them would bring Mom inside. After waiting for one of them to answer the door, I finally knew I had to be the responsible one. I was the oldest son. I opened my bedroom door, walked down the hallway, made a right into the living room, and unlocked the front door.
I opened the door and found my mom curled into the fetal position behind a small brick wall that partially hid her from the street. Her mascara was smeared on her face, and the smell of alcohol alerted me to another night at the bar. I found her uncontrollably weeping. Any attempt at consolation was of little help.
I immediately pulled her from the cold cement entryway and lifted her up so she could get her legs under her. As we moved into the living room, we tumbled onto the floor together. With one arm around Mom, I used my other arm to close the door so we wouldn’t wake our neighbors. I was leaning against the large front window of the house, my mom now cradled in my arms. I suddenly felt like the parent comforting a child.
Shaking and crying, she kept repeating herself in a deep, mournful wailing, like you hear at a funeral in Korea, “Why me? Why me? Why me?” Then her eyes turned downward and her tears kept flowing. Then she kept repeating, “Why? Why? Why?”
The old smell of alcohol became stronger.
“The only reason I’m alive is for you kids.”
Mom’s face was one of excruciating pain. She was lost.
Her accent sounded thicker, her words harder to decipher.
“You’re the man of the house now,” she declared.
I didn’t respond; she wouldn’t have remembered what I said even if I did say something. Everything in me resisted. This was supposed to be the time of my life: playing sports, dating, partying, and experimenting with new teenage freedoms.
Mom curled up into a ball on the multicolored green shag carpet in our living room. She barely resembled the mom I knew. During this tumultuous season, Mom had aged overnight. Her makeup got heavier. Some nights she wouldn’t come home at all; other times she arrived with glazed eyes and the effects of alcohol evident in her demeanor. Sometimes she’d be laughing, would wobble in to look at us, then greet us with a cheery, drunk voice before going to her room. Her smile was crooked and forced. But other nights, like this one, she came home overwhelmed with grief. Her eyes looked lost in hopelessness. The kind of eyes you see when someone is in shock and locked in a never-ending nightmare.
I’m not ready to assume my dad’s responsibility.
After holding her for a while, I helped Mom up once again and guided her back to her room. The king-size bed seemed to swallow her petite body. It seemed even more depressing that Dad wasn’t in that bed. I closed the door of her bedroom.
I went back to my bedroom with memories of my worst nightmares.
Since I was a child, I’d had night terrors of my parents dying, of their physical lives being suddenly taken away. But this type of dying was something I’d never even thought about. Physically alive, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually dead. Mom’s drinking was spiraling out of control. Ulcers and sicknesses were more frequent. Her physical body started to turn on itself.
Mom’s energetic spirit and her contagious laughter were a distant memory.
The divorce proceeding was to take place in Phoenix. I told my sister I’d take Mom to the courtroom. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I felt it was the elder son’s responsibility. Chong had still been picking up the pieces of responsibility left to her by our dad and mom. Doug was too young and still finding it hard to deal with the separation of the parents he loved. He was doing his best as a young teenager. I felt the most compassion for my brother because he was quieter and more reserved. It was challenging for all of us to share our feelings, but it must have been even more difficult for him.
As Mom and I walked down the shiny, waxed floor of the courtroom, I was struck that this environment seemed so formal, sterile, and clinical. Yet it was here that people were dealing with some of the most dramatic human conflicts. Entering the courtroom, I saw places for the interested parties and family to formally settle in; I took a seat far from the wooden wall that separated the audience from the main participants of the proceedings. I couldn’t help thinking that the judge’s seat looked like a towering wooden throne with the American flag and the Arizona flag prominently displayed behind it. In front of the judge’s bench, to his right, was where Mom would uncomfortably sit behind a wooden table with her lawyer. I can’t imagine how out of place she must have felt as an immigrant, more culturally Korean than American. Dad entered the room and sat on his side with his lawyer. As a stenographer, Dad had worked in these very rooms for years. I knew the discomfort Mom felt about being there, but these were familiar stomping grounds for my dad. Even Dad’s lawyer was someone he had worked with before and was also a personal friend.
As comfortable as he might have felt, my dad never looked me in the eye the whole time I was inside the courtroom. His eyes were fixed on the judge or his lawyer.
Then there was Mom, with her broken English. Alone with some unfamiliar lawyer. The only person she knew in that room besides me was my dad. She knew the proceedings were meant to be quick and uneventful, but she couldn’t hold back the tears. The finality of the moment overwhelmed her. The forensic language and the participants were all unrecognizable. When the judge started reading the dissolution of the marriage, I could tell that Mom didn’t seem to know what was being said anymore. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to comprehend the moment. Eventually she locked her gaze on my father as if he were the only one in the room. As the judge and lawyers kept deliberating, Mom began pleading with my father, crying out, her voice trembling like it probably had when she’d felt alone as a child in her hometown in Korea.
Mom couldn’t contain herself anymore. She blurted out: “Gary, I don’t want this divorce. I don’t want this divorce.”
Mom’s face was filled with anguish, her eyes damp and red. She just looked over at my father in desperation. Her lawyer vainly attempted to comfort her.
When I heard my mom crying and begging my father not to proceed with the divorce, I ran out of the courtroom, not wanting anyone to see my tears. Mom didn’t need to share my pain. She had enough to deal with. Generations of suffering were her inheritance. I stood in the long glossy corridor waiting for everything to be over. This was now my default way of dealing with things. Just run away. Ignore the drama. Even if I’d been aware of the pattern back then, I don’t think there was anything I could have done about it. The pain felt too overwhelming. I felt like I was drowning in Mom’s suffering and injustice.
After the proceedings, Mom came out. We walked together to the car. Not a word was spoken as I drove her home. We remained in a painful silence. Mom had a dazed look on her face. She was still in a state of shock.
Their split was now public and official. Reconciliation was no longer an option. All the prayers for them to come back together again seemed like wasted effort. With Dad now officially divorced from Mom, we all felt he’d made his choice. Not only with Mom, but also with us. He would no longer have any authority in my life. No respect, for sure.
And the Christian thing Dad had led us into… I was done with it. As for God, I struggled with His existence. If He was real, why would He permit such suffering?
CHAPTER NINE Alone
The first thing I noticed was their height. Some of the guys had long, black cascading hair glimmering in the summer sun. They had that relaxed Island vibe and their ominous size was something to take seriously. On a field in the neighborhood next to ours, a group of jacked high school guys played tackle football, and after seeing me, they asked me to join. This was new. I didn’t remember such openness to me from public school kids before. And this was the cool, athletic, jock group. I couldn’t resist. None of them knew the awkward middle schooler I used to be. He was long gone. I had little regard for my life now and I was open, even eagerly looking to take risks.
As a teenager, my baby fat was finally starting to get redistributed to other portions of my growing body. I began lifting weights. I started to comb my hair and use product. I cared about my fashion. Mom had always been the one who made sure we were looking good, but now I was taking on that responsibility. My dad had bought me a motorcycle before all the turmoil went down in our family. I enjoyed riding the Arizona streets in shorts and no shirt. I was proudly and uncomfortably showing off my slowly maturing athletic physique.
As we picked teams, I noticed the teenagers that surrounded me. A couple of them were Asian—large Samoan-looking behemoths. Their bodies proudly carried a collection of scars on their faces, arms, and legs from other teams they had played against. The shirts and pants they wore looked sweaty and roughed up.
“Have you played much?” one of the guys asked me.
“Yeah, some,” I said.
Some meant hardly any. When I was younger, my dad had enrolled me in a tackle football program for kids. I barely played. My red-and-white uniform always remained spotless after each game. I was afraid to hit people and injure myself, even though we were wearing helmets and pads. I didn’t understand the need to hit people, even with equipment on, with such velocity. It seemed foolish. Dad would come to the games disappointed that I wasn’t playing. One time walking away from a game that I didn’t play in again, he muttered under his breath that our efforts “were a waste of time.”
Things were different now.
From the moment the opposing team hiked the ball, I played with reckless abandon. I chased after the quarterback, attempting to either sack him or get him to throw the ball away. I pounded into players, pushing them back, or barreled into them with overzealous intensity. After a series of plays like this, I noticed one of the guys who was larger than me respectfully gazing at me like, Bro, who are you? Damn, you’re good. I had hit him hard multiple times with a couple of intense blocks. My rambunctious play was a bit much for a neighborhood pickup game.
My concern for personal injury was gone. I concluded that if I didn’t worry about my physical body, I could be dangerous. While these guys were playing casual football, I was zealously pummeling and pushing them with all that I had. I know now I must have been working through all that pent-up anger toward my dad and the powerlessness I felt. And the praises and smiles of the other guys after I made a good play felt gratifying, even comforting.
