My dad, the hero and villain, both the protagonist and antagonist, a human by any other name.
His moods waver from
each interaction to the next, steadfastly living the idiom you teach people
how to treat you. I sometimes walk faster to maintain a distance between
him and me. At times, I’m embarrassed at the latest outburst with a submissive
service worker seemingly depressed behind a glass window or maybe bitchy with
an all too cheery façade. Sometimes, I’m frustrated at my dad’s incessant need
to school others as if he were exemplary. As if any of us are. At some point, what
you may call impossible standards are frankly just good standards against the
low ones we have all succumbed to.
When I was younger, my
friends would respond to me with a familiar detachment, exasperated sighs, and
rolled eyes when I called shit out, proclaiming, “Someone has to do it!” I
would not be accused of being sheepish or not brave enough to defend my principles
– that was the worst thing to imagine. How much have I really changed?
As my dad bought our bus
tickets to go from Seoul to Cheongam, he went fluidly from politely requesting
the later bus at 9:20 am to scolding. His precise delivery translates to
something like the following:
You know, you need to
look at people when you talk to them. Did something bad happen to you this
morning? Put me in a bad mood.
My dad has bad hearing
so when he yells, that’s a ready excuse. He didn’t say anything wrong. It was
the delivery. Another reminder of my own opportunities as I have been advised
before. I must be careful of my tone and speak to people softer, not like a submissive
lady but rather respectful and calm, coming from kindness and not anger.
Traveling with my dad is a lesson for me, not the other way around.
As I vented then to my
mom about how my dad acted, I felt that familiar distance and exasperation from
my mom. She was feeling the same towards me as both she and I had so many times
felt from my dad’s actions. At that moment, I woke up from my anger and heard
what she had asked me before – what are you going you to do about it?
Complaining has always
been a pet peeve. It’s an act that accomplishes nothing, indulges in self-pity,
and sticks the speaker and all those around in a bubble of negativity and
inaction. This is why I write, how a hypocrite learns.
It’s not the words we
say that are the most important – it’s the essence. My casual dread of
powerlessness had started to inflate each additional day of travel with my
family. That’s a fallacy to break, and I remember how it’s been done. The trick
is doing it. It’s understanding my dad’s needs and expectations, changing the
turmoil to a matter of fact. Any action can be handled tactfully, supporting my
dad while also mediating the situation to help the person not feel like shit.
In Korea, there is a greater acceptance – call it camaraderie – of speaking loudly, emotionally, and authoritatively to get your point across. Koreans are an enthusiastic, passionate crowd, and it became clearer again as I walked down the street with my dad the morning after the burial ceremony. He fit in with the crowd and didn’t give a fuck about his mannerisms while others, younger people, did. He requested a discount from the middle-aged and round-faced fruit guy once we bought 50,000 KRW of fruit (about $50 USD worth), and we got 2 free plums. At the rice cake shop, he negotiated 500 KRW off some traditional dduk. As we were walking out, my dad said See you in a few years! The reserved, young lady said the respectful affirmative nae, not recognizing the tourist joke or even calling out what could easily have been construed as rudeness. The subtle hit was hilarious, and I instantly felt proud to take after him.
Later that day, we visited a traditional palace where we took candid and characteristic photos, took in our ancestral heritage, and enjoyed a modern art museum, but not before my dad yelled at the ticket lady for charging us another 2000 KRW for museum admission.