On the final day of the summer break, as I was set to drive once again with my close friends cross-country to Bob Jones University, the same thought that had been playing on an infinite loop inside my head throughout the summer became a reality.
What if THIS is my last day with Mom?
After getting up early and getting ready to make myself presentable for the long trip back to school, I thought of the salon she worked at. A Hair Affair. The word “Affair” triggered me. It used to mean nothing to me, but now it was a reminder of what had happened between Mom and Dad. This thought dissipated as Mom walked into the room, looking good as always in her fresh uniform top. Her high platform shoes made her four inches taller and her makeup was on point. Lips freshly plumped up and large false eyelashes in place.
Mom and I made the walk to the car in our driveway in the darkness of the morning. She held her cup of coffee as I loaded her brushes, stored in a large pink plastic container, in the car, along with her metal money box, to organize all the checks and cash from her customers. As we drove down Superstition Freeway, I took her hand once again, and held it tightly. These were the hands that had once cradled me, washed me, combed my hair, and changed my diapers. I found myself glancing at her hands. Her hands had labored for decades ever since she was young. Now they were getting wrinkled and chapped from all the chemicals used to wash, condition, perm, and color hair. The beauty industry wasn’t as careful then about harsh chemicals as they are today. I thought about her life. Who she was. The things I knew and didn’t know about her. The abject poverty she had emerged from as a child. An alcoholic father who died when she was still young. The Korean soldier she ran away with. Meeting my father, the young, suave Midwesterner. Getting married. Having us kids. And then the divorce.
I had so many questions about her past. Mom never brought up the early years of her life because she was more focused on our future. About making it in America. She was determined we would live differently than she had. Her joy would be our successes.
As we arrived at the shop in the early morning, I let go of Mom’s hand and rushed to open the backseat to help her with her brushes she had brought home and cleaned overnight. She was always the first one to arrive at the salon. As the top beautician working at A Hair Affair, she was favored by the owner. He was a vibrant, rotund middle-aged white man with sandy blond permed hair and a nicely groomed mustache and beard. He depended on my mom to bring her magic to the space and the customers.
I followed Mom into the store with the bin of brushes and set them in the corner spot, where her customers would sit to get their hair done. Even though I was becoming a man, I still felt more like her child in this moment. Mom’s platform shoes clapped the floor as she walked. The styling chairs in front of the row of mirrors reminded me of barber chairs, but thinner and more elegant. As always, I caught the scents of familiar chemicals used to color or give perms. Mom’s chair was in the favored spot, right in the middle of the action where she could impact the whole room. On the counter and the wall were pictures of us kids. She loved to tell stories about us and our accomplishments, either academically or in sports. So many of her customers told me how Mom proudly spoke about us.
As I placed her pink container of brushes down, I felt the tears starting to fill up my eyes. I’m not good with good-byes. I cry watching commercials. So early on, I made it a point never to say “good-bye” to my loved ones. Saying “good-bye” always felt too final to me.
As I looked Mom in the eyes, I gathered myself and unconsciously took a deep breath to get the words out.
Just be quick or you’ll be a complete wreck and Mom will wonder what’s wrong, I told myself.
“Mom, I love you,” I said. “I’ll see you real soon.”
As tears streamed down my face, I kissed her on the cheek and gave her a big hug, knowing this might be the last time I embraced my mom while she was alive. I held her tightly.
On the verge of doing one of those ugly cries, I quickly turned and briskly walked toward the door. After I got back into the Mustang, I sat there looking into the salon. I couldn’t hold the tears anymore now streaming down my face. The shop was brightly lit, a golden glow emanating into the dark of the morning. It was quiet and still. Mom standing alone. She bowed her head and wiped away her tears. Like me, she held back most of her tears until we were out of each other’s sight.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. I just looked at her as my tears flowed. When I gathered myself, I whispered to her as if she could still hear me.
“Mom, I’ll see you real soon.” I sat there with tears still streaming down my face. I bowed my head. I paused and took one last look at her.
Deep down, I could feel the vast emptiness growing inside of me as I thought about Mom not being home anymore.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN Hit and Run
As my sophomore year began, I was reminded how wonderful it was to see the flourishing green landscapes of the South and then watch the vast fields and hills covered with trees as their leaves showed off their array of fall colors. The transition from summer to fall is more vivid in South Carolina than Arizona. The leaves on the trees signal to you that fall is near.
My goal this year was to pour myself into my studies, but more important, it was to be a social butterfly. I wanted to live out what a wise mentor had once shared with me:
“The most important thing is not the education you’ll gain from college. You won’t remember what your teachers said. What’s the most important thing about your university experience is to learn how to live.”
That made sense to me. For me, school was about developing good habits of scheduling, work, and rest, and of course, great friendships. My freshman year was under my belt. I felt more confident going into this year. I was able to date and feel free from much of the worries at home. The busyness of school doesn’t leave time for idleness.
Now in my second year, I gained traction as a leader on campus. I got a job checking men in and out as they left the school grounds. Since Bob Jones was like a military academy, and there were strict rules about when and why you could leave the campus. I became one of the operational gatekeepers of the student body, interacting with men daily. Working at the main reception desk to the world of the school, I met almost every male student in the dormitories. I enjoyed making new friendships and acquaintances. I was soon elected class officer, probably because people regularly interacted with me. In high school I rarely studied much, but in college I was getting into a groove for how to learn. I was studying multiple hours a day. I wasn’t that stereotypical Asian kid who went to school and then worked with tutors after school. Playing on football and baseball fields was more important to me than crunching numbers.
But here, studying came easier. I was becoming increasingly convinced I was going to be a pastor, preferably at some large church where I could raise a family and comfortably settle down. I didn’t want to suffer. My ambition was to cultivate a community that wouldn’t give up on each other. My challenge would be learning the Greek and Hebrew languages and, of course, taking speech classes. I always got nervous when I spoke publicly. In my first required speech class in college, I remember standing before my class of about twenty students and the extraordinarily talented Professor Jeffrey Arthurs. I was introduced. Students had their evaluations on their desks ready to critique me. And I went BLANK. I totally forgot what I was going to say. I remember awkwardly looking at the teacher. Looking at the students in the class, I said:
“I don’t remember what I’m supposed to say.”
I was so embarrassed. It’s every speaker’s nightmare.
Part of college life is dealing with the challenges that come with higher learning.
The challenge I didn’t want to enter into was now becoming reality.
It was October 6, early in the school year. I remember that the sun was spectacularly bright. Blue skies. Fresh, crisp cool air. Autumn leaves floating to the ground. You could hear the birds up in the trees. Students hurried to the next class clutching books in their arms and freshly typed papers in their briefcases and tote bags. Some were literally running because they were going to be late otherwise.
As I was on my way to a class, someone darted toward me from the direction of the dorms.
“Dave, Dave!”
It was Dennis, my first-year roommate. Dennis was a gifted classical pianist. He’d won competitions all his life and was now majoring in piano performance. Clean and proper, Dennis was meticulously dressed at all times. He had wavy brown hair carefully combed and sprayed. He was always measured and composed in his movements and speech. His pronunciations were exacting and precise, like the way he played his classical music. I don’t know how he constantly managed the piano performance pressure from an early age. But his talent was exceptional and his heart kind.
I had never seen Dennis looking as distraught as he did now. He looked worried.
As he reached me and stood there out of breath, he said, “Dave, your sister just called. It’s an emergency. You have to call her back.”
At that time we didn’t have cell phones. We only had a wall phone in each of our dorm rooms. I ran straight back with Dennis to the room. I dialed my sister’s number. Chong picked up the phone. There was a long pause, and then Chong burst into tears. She couldn’t speak. Usually her voice was always distinct and bright; she learned to speak this way by working as a receptionist at a large Caterpillar machinery plant in Arizona. Now she was crying, unable to speak, fighting to catch her breath between sobs.
I braced myself because I’d never heard my sister weep like this. Something tragic must have happened.
“Chong, what’s wrong?” I softly asked.
“Mom… was killed last night in a hit-and-run accident.”
She could barely say it before her grief overwhelmed her. I could tell her whole body was shaking just by the way she sounded.
Earlier that morning, my sister had woken to men pounding on the front door. When Chong opened the door, she saw they were Arizona highway patrol officers, flashlights in hand. They had asked if she was Debbie (Son Chae) Gibbons’s daughter. Chong, bewildered, still coming out of deep sleep, said, “Yes.”
