Whew… I was so glad to hear that. Oddly, I wasn’t even considering how ridiculous this conversation sounded.
I walked out of there but wanted to make doubly sure. I didn’t want to be expelled from school for breaking a rule. There was a reason they called this the West Point for Christians. It was a highly regulated environment. Demerits were handed out for not making your bed or talking past the lights-out bell at 11 p.m., holding hands with your girlfriend, or being late for a required event. There was a check-in system for going out and for coming onto the campus. If you got 100 demerits, you’d get permanently campused for the semester, which meant you couldn’t leave the gated grounds. In certain circumstances, you could even be expelled for a 150 demerits or some other nonnegotiable rule like dating interracially.
Being extremely sensitive to rules and not wanting to waste my mom’s hard-earned money for me to attend school, I wanted to be confident there would be no issues with this policy. I went to the dorm supervisor to affirm what Dr. Boyd had told me. Dorm supervisors oversaw a hierarchy of student leaders assigned to each dorm room. I met with him and explained to him my situation, just like I did Dr. Boyd, and he agreed that I was good. I was half-white and half-Korean. That’s what mattered, not my physical appearance. Yes! I was in. But still embarrassingly insensitive to the plight of others in similar circumstances. I was raised in this “No griping tolerated” culture. You learned not to challenge authority, which would be a sin.
Before the conservative evangelical leader Jerry Falwell founded Liberty University, there was Bob Jones University. Bob Jones Sr., a well-known evangelist who was one of the predecessors of Billy Graham, founded the university in 1927 because he wanted to combat what he believed was a compromising and lackadaisical generation rising. He and others like him felt that the world was becoming too liberal when it came to their beliefs about evolution, the Bible, sex, sexuality, and who you associate with. Hence, the evolution of what is known among this subculture of Christians as the Fighting Fundamentalists grew larger. Or as some would quip: No Fun, too much Damn, and No Mental. Falwell himself would launch a political force called “The Moral Majority.” Ostensibly, the vision at Bob Jones was to establish a training center for youth that would be known for its “academic excellence, refined standards of behavior, and opportunities to appreciate the performing and visual arts.” There was a real emphasis on culture and civility, as well as old-fashioned Southern etiquette and the performing arts.
The school liked to advertise themselves as “The World’s Most Unusual University.” And many would agree. You could feel the energy of all these private school students and homeschoolers from around the nation coming together to discover people just like them. We were the new wave of conservatives battling for what was right. Conservative religiously and politically. To some, Bob Jones was treated as a reform school or a place to get you on the straight and narrow. The hope of many parents was that their young prodigies would “get their lives back together again” and, of course, find a godly life partner to marry. There was always a group of students who did not want to be there; they had been forced to go there. It was like a recovery house for rebels. To me, this was like Bunt’s camps or two-a-day football practices. I could take the heat. Even if I couldn’t agree with the rules or the demerit system, I knew doing things that I didn’t like doing would be good for my character. That’s how I had been taught to reason when I didn’t agree with authority. I felt the discipline would strengthen who I was. It actually felt oddly comfortable coming to a place of rules. Coming from chaos, structure and order were a relief.
I discovered that those who were attending Bob Jones from Korea loved the school because of its strict culture. Korean culture during this time was hierarchical, disciplined, formal, passionate, strong, and male-centric. When Korean parents heard about Bob Jones, they loved it because it was more like their own moral standards than their children’s. The structure and the respect for authority aligned with Korean parents’ values. I don’t think my mom cared about that. She was just excited that I was going to college, period.
Bob Jones was in lockstep with the church culture I had grown up in during a time when authority and institutions were disrespected and when we were constantly told that the world was getting worse. You have to fight for what is right at all costs and expect persecution, they said. Persecution means you’re doing something right. Fear was provoked to encourage us to do right. Women weren’t allowed to wear pants publicly and skirts had to be beneath the knee.
Now that my fears about dating were put to rest, I dove into college life. I became a voracious reader, disciplining myself to a rigid schedule where I would rigorously organize times to study, work, hang out with friends, sleep, and even take fifteen-minute naps. If I was going to take care of my mom, I didn’t want to waste her money. I wanted her to be proud of me. I could picture her in just four years, standing in this auditorium full of thousands of people, crying like she did when I graduated from high school. Her dream of marriage might have fallen apart, but her dream for me would come to fruition soon. I’d make her proud. I’d eventually work multiple jobs on campus and off, while still participating in intramural sports and, of course, dating women from around the country.
The dating scene at the school was exciting because there was a culture of meeting others without having to get serious. It was a dating paradise. Since there was a no-touch rule in place, the environment was considered safe by concerned parents.
Since the university encouraged dating and getting to know others, the Dining Common at BJU became one of the magical grounds for matchmaking. Where better to possibly meet the love of your life than while you’re enjoying some good ol’ Southern food—scrapple, sausage, bacon, meatloaf, mashed potatoes, butter, and gravy. Lots of gravy. Grits and gravy. Biscuits and gravy. Scrambled eggs and gravy. Country fried steak and gravy. The genius plan was to mix thousands of students from the different dormitories and assign them to specific tables to get to know others. If the stars aligned, you would get a shot with someone you normally would never have crossed paths with.
Just watching the sit-down dinners in the football field–length cafeteria was an awe-inspiring sight. After the prayer, you’d see streams of student servers swiftly making their way to their assigned tables to serve. It was a well-orchestrated feat done almost every day of the year. Every freshman was required to take etiquette lessons highlighting table manners, conversations, and treatment of others at the table. It did feel like a military academy.
During my first year, I was assigned to a table where I met one of the most beautiful young women I’d ever seen. Tall, with long sandy brown hair and an attractive smile, Rebecca Locklear stood out. However, the unique difference in her vibe was her kindness and humility. I knew she would be a great partner to do life with. I could just see it in her eyes and the way she carried herself. Her eyes were gentle and generous. She was energetic and walked with purpose.
Every dinner table had two hosts to keep the conversation going, and since Rebecca was friends with one of the hosts, she was relaxed and at ease. For several weeks we were able to talk and get to know each other better. While I conversed with everybody, it was hard not to pay special attention to Rebecca.
Over the course of many meals, I got to know details about Rebecca. She had grown up in rural northern Maryland. Like me, she’d come from a strict religious background, including a Methodist school where her mother, Mary, was a librarian. Mary grew up a tomboy with a father who built houses and liked using his tractor. The conservative Pentecostal church she attended deemed her not spiritual because she lacked the gift of tongues, which is when someone believed to have the Holy Spirit starts to speak in a heavenly or unknown language—unknown to us at least. It can sound like gibberish. But anyone who really knows Mary Locklear knows how close she is to God, evidenced by her tough yet gentle spirit, her wise spiritual insight, and her humble care of those who are suffering. Rebecca’s dad’s genetic roots were European and Lumbee Indian. He was a Navy seaman, physically fit with a darker complexion and strong chiseled features. After the Navy, he joined a local construction company, where he died in a tragic construction accident, leaving behind his wife, two sons, and Rebecca. All the children were very young at the time. Becca was long-suffering and patient. She carried the no-frills attitude of her mother, and the tenacity and resilience of her father. As I got to know her, I could tell that she had also inherited the strong moral compass of both parents and their deep spirituality.
After a few weeks, students would rotate tables at the Dining Common to meet new people. After we’d said our good-byes for the last sit-down meal together, I waited a couple minutes for the table to exit and then surreptitiously looked at this index card–size list of names of those who’d sat at our dinner table this time around. I found Rebecca’s dorm and room number. After jotting them down, I went back to my room and proceeded to write her a note to ask her out.
At this time, the only way we could formally ask a young woman out was either face-to-face or, more popularly at this school, via the nightly letter run between the men’s and women’s dorms. There’s an art to taking the time to write a letter to someone on a piece of stationery. You get an understanding of who the person is, by not just the words, but also their handwriting, their pictures, and the fragrances they add to their letters. You had to put your note in the box by a set time. Then the men’s literary societies took turns running boxes of notes from dorm to dorm. Once the letters got to the dorm, they were sorted by floors, and the dump would happen. They would throw all the letters in the middle of the dorm hall. Those who already had partners were the calm ones who were accustomed to regularly getting their notes. The people waiting to be asked out or those waiting for an answer from someone they wanted to go out with nervously retrieved their letters. Some would take their letters privately back to their rooms, while others would open them on the spot. You would hear shouts of joy or hear the moans of guys who got denied.
I had asked Rebecca to a soccer game on campus as a possible first date. My roommates had zero confidence in me.
“Gibbons, she’s a sophomore and you’re a freshman,” they told me. “She’s beautiful. She isn’t going to say yes to you, son.” “Son” was Southern slang we used to say to emphasize surprise or affirmation, or to be a bit derogatory in a friendly way. Although this term used with someone you didn’t know could be a fighting word.
I didn’t let the guys’ skepticism hold me back. My attitude was always, It doesn’t hurt to ask.
That night when study hall was over and the letters were arriving on the hall floors, I found a letter from Rebecca waiting for me. As I got to my room and tore open the letter, with my roommates watching in anticipation, I took the time to meditate on each word slowly, like every word was a prime cut of KBBQ. And there it was. The word I was looking for…
Yes.
Our first date at the soccer game was wonderful because it rained. It allowed me to get closer to her under my umbrella. On a campus that didn’t allow physical contact with your date, touching shoulders was a thrill. I didn’t even care about the game. I was enthralled with Becca and the freedom of her laughter that night. Who doesn’t like someone that laughs at all your jokes or humorous stories? She was at ease around me. And I was comfortable with her. I walked her back slowly to her dorm and couldn’t believe how great the date had gone.
Rebecca would later tell me that, after our first date, she told people that I was “more American” than her. I was the first Asian person she’d ever met. Rebecca lived in a mostly white, rural area of Maryland, where gentlemen’s farms picturesquely lined the forests, lakes, and hills. She added that I was “the most fun guy to date.” And what was great about dating me was that I made her “comfortable around other guys.”
In other words, I had launched Becca into a spectacular dating life where she would find someone else to be her boyfriend. In fact, when socially awkward or inept guys were anxious around her, she helped them to relax. Becca said she learned that from me. I had set her free! Good for her, but not for me.
For a while, I was asking Rebecca out as much as I could. I was ready to settle down. She would say yes every time initially. Then her letters began to change. “Sorry, I already have a date that night.” She started being increasingly popular with the guys. It got to the point I had to ask her out months ahead for a date. Eventually I started seeing her around with this tall basketball player from Colorado. I saw how they were gazing into each other’s eyes and I knew it was over for me. It was a look that you knew meant their relationship was serious. I took comfort in the fact that I had helped her dating life so that she could socially connect better with guys like this. Nah, I wasn’t that righteous.
But I wasn’t going to let this ruin my personal vibe. Because there were so many eligible candidates, if one person rejected you or cooled off, you learned to cope with it. Not take it too personally. You’d move on. I was only twenty years old but felt the clock ticking. People were getting married after high school. I felt I had no time to lose. My goal was to lock in my potential wife my freshman year. That way I’d be able to focus. But until then, I just had to keep trying. That’s where my Asian roots showed up. It was a numbers game. While I didn’t fit the Asian stereotype of loving math, I knew enough to recognize that the odds were in my favor.
So going out with me had bolstered Rebecca’s confidence? No problem. Rebecca gave me confidence, too. At our school, the culture was set up so that dating was easy. They took away the pressure of trying to get someone into bed with you, because it was against the rules. Breaking any rules of physical contact could get you a ticket home. As a result, on dates, there wasn’t any pressure to do anything physically. It was a gift not to have the expectation or pressure of being physical too quickly, at least to the parents. On a date, the focus was on the conversation you were having and who the person really was. I had fun getting to know different women. All of them were kind and enjoyable to be with.
Arriving back home after my freshman year at BJU, I hadn’t forgotten about Rebecca. In fact, whenever I met with family and friends and showed them photos of my classmates in the annual yearbook, I would show them Rebecca’s photo.
“Look here. This was the young woman I really liked. The one I thought was best for me. [Sigh.] But it didn’t work out.”
But the unimaginable can happen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 눈치 Nunchi-a Dark Premonition
Mom’s going to die soon.
This premonition came to me without warning while I was driving back home after my freshman year at BJU. This strong, intuitive feeling that something unpleasant was about to happen came like a notice from a doctor who knew I would need some prep time for this dark potentiality.
But even more than a premonition, I attribute it to the Korean idea of “nunchi” (pronounced “noon-chee”).
Nunchi, sometimes spelled noonchi (눈치), is a Korean concept reflecting the subtle ability to listen and perceive others’ feelings, moods, or well-being. It first appeared in the seventeenth century as nunch’ŭi (眼勢 in hanja), meaning “eye force/power.” In Western culture, some might liken nunchi to the concept of emotional intelligence. More than EQ—emotional quotient, which is another way to talk about emotional intelligence—it is the ability to see who and where a person is. You know that you know. I had that sense that Mom wasn’t doing well. We had a soul connection. I sensed in unspeakable terms that Mom was in her last few months of life.
When I was a child, my biggest fear was of my parents dying. In my nightmares, I watched Mom and Dad dying in a variety of horrific ways. A house fire. A plane crash. A tsunami. In a world war. Or us being left behind at Christ’s return. Each time, I woke up with my heart racing and then rushed to my parents’ room, only to find them sleeping, but thankfully alive. Sometimes I headed back to my bed relieved while other times I jumped into their bed at the risk of disturbing them. I couldn’t picture a life without my parents.
I grew up with this worry and always found it surprising that other kids didn’t think this way. Yet even with those fears, I wasn’t really trained to do anything differently. We weren’t taught stress management or how to release anxiety by deep breathing techniques. I learned to simply live with these fears. This premonition and nunchi, however, went beyond fear to a strong sense that something bad was going to happen, specifically to my mom. And it was going to happen very soon.
I still vividly recall the breakdown she had one night shortly after my dad left. The words she told me in her thick accent still saddened me.
