En Lengua Fobula Posts

Childhood Truths

Talking with Ernie earlier this evening

Moi: So I’m shocked you didn’t do a post yet re: Mr. Rogers
Ernie: Yo, I gotta pay my respects ya know?
Moi: True. True. The man helped me learn English
Ernie: Werd
Moi: Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street, and the Electric Company
Ernie: Ahhh yes, the PBS Triumvirate. What, no Muppets?
Moi: No.
Ernie: Why not?
Moi: I used to believe that the Swedish Chef was speaking English.
Soundclip of My Plight as a Child
Can you see how this could traumatize and frustrate a fobtastic little girl in pigtails?

*Soundclip translation, and mind you, my Korean as a 4 year old was far better than it is now. Currently my Korean sucks as is evident in this poor little attempt.

Mommy, I was watching the Muppets. But…the Swedish Chef kept on saying ‘Byorki Byorki Byorki Byorki Byork’ What’s that? How do you say that? *sigh* What a sad little girl I am.

My Dad won’t fit.

Conversations with the Old Man.

“Happy Father’s Day Daddy”
“Is that it?”
“Uh… what else do you want?”
“Nuh tting.”
“Ok, then you get nuh tting just like you asked”
(chuckles)
“How are you, my love-ly daughter?”
“Oh, fine Daddy.. just fine. Did Mike call you?”
“He in Korea. Business Trip.”
“Wow, really? And he remembered to call?”
“Yeah.. he watching soccer. He at the game when he call.”
“Woah. “
“Yeah. At least he remember to call Daddy.”
“Well, I guess it’s not so special for you when I call because I call you all the time?”
“No, not so much.”
“Uh, thanks… I think…”
“Ah, stupid daughter. I still love you.”
“I love you too, of course.”
“Try to Daddy happy, always.”
“Of course. Always….so how old are you now, huh?”
“Daddy is … oh, I almost forgot. Daddy is 65 year old.”
“Wow Dad. Don’t die or anything, ha ha ha…”
“Aigoo.. don’t say!~”
“Just joking Dad.. just tell Mike and Charlene to have some kids for you… I’m a long way off from that.”
“Yesuh, I know. Trouble maker. Aigoo.. you findah boyfriend yet?”
“Not quite Dad. You know me. Picky.”
“Too much picky never find the right one. You can find one who is good enough, right?”
“Sure, but good enough is different from what you think and what I think.”
“You know, so long as nice, good person…doesn’t matter if they make a lot of money or anything like that…”
“So I don’t have to marry a doctor anymore?”
“No.. you don’t have to…but I don’t mind still.”
“No Doctor Shorty, though.”
“He still nice man.”
“Yes Dad, I know.”
“Ok, try to be good.”
“It’s hard Dad, but I’ll try.”
“OK. Bye.”
“Hey Dad? I love you.”
“Yeah yeah yeah. I love you too.”

Other Memories of My Dad?
Too many to mention…but some that I’ve blogged follows. I will say this though, my relationship with my father is really a blessing. It’s not sophisticated or very erudite, but it’s earnest, and unconditional. We’ve come a very long way to get here like most families, I’m sure.

The summer of 92, after my mother passed away, my Dad spent a lot of time alone and in contemplation. His son had moved to Korea, his wife had succumbed to cancer, and his daughter, whom he’d had only antagonism and miscommunication with, was his closest family member and she, er, me, I was going off to college.

He sat me down one day and said “I’m sorry I’m not good daddy always. But I know now, I have to be mommy and daddy for you. Please let me try.” I remember crying again when he told me that.

He’s a good dad. And the best one that I could ever hope for.
(And boy do I write about him a lot)
04/20/99
08/30/00
09/13/00
09/24/00
12/12/00
12/23/00
03/30/01
07/01/00
09/30/01
11/07/01
11/28/01
02/14/02
03/27/02
05/9/02

My pops is cute but he needs to work on his timing.

I have tremendous warm fuzzies today.

Warm-cozy-mug-o-frangelico-spiked-hot-chocolate-in-your-tummy-sitting-by-a-fire-with-a-soft-not-scratchy-wool-blanket-over-your-shoulders-and-being-hugged-from-behind-by-a-cutie-kind-of-warm-fuzzy. I called my dad while stuck in traffic today. He was glad to hear from me and I was pleased to chat with him now that he’s not nagging me about my unemployment and fretting about my state of singlehood and how come I won’t let him set me up with Dr. Shorty in Ohio.

First, my dad explained to me how he had gotten a marvelous gift for my brother, moi, and my step sister. It’s the same gift for us three. For Christmas. Yes, I know it’s still March.

Typical of old school Korean families, there is null concern regarding selecting an individual and particular gift for a loved one. Nor is there any discrimination or qualms with the notion of re-gifting. And of course if there is a good sale in March, of course it’s within normal rationale to purchase a gift to be stored until Christmastime. The same gift is good for everyone.

This is mighty marvy for when I’m visiting kin in Korea and can simply purchase a half dozen bottles of Johnny Walker Black Lable for all my uncles (at duty free, no less), and Ghiradelli Chocolates & scarves for my aunts. Next time I visit, I know all my cousins want a leatherman. In 1999 when I was last there, my uncle found my leatherman an amazing device and in a slightly Johnny Walker induced slur, proceeded to preach for a good half hour on why the Korean Army needed to include such a magnificent American invention with their regular gear.

I had simply pulled it out to cut the metal lables off the top of the bottles and to help fix second uncle’s glasses. Without hesitation, I gave him my leatherman as a birthday gift. With tremendous humility, he accepted it.

Back to the warm fuzzies. Dad described in emphatic enthusiasm about the quality and value of the wool blanket that was imported from New Zealand that he had gotten for a steal. Five minutes later he told me how he acquired such a find. Ten minutes following that he told me how the blanket had come in it’s own bag with *handles* on it. Wooo. Five minutes after that he told me how he plans to give my brother and his wife their blanket in may. Two minutes after that he told me that he won’t send the blanket but I’ll have to get it at thanksgiving or Christmas, or whenever I decide to come home. Zealous over a binky? Yup. That’s my pop. Can he handle the enthusiasm of giving me the binky some time in November? I hope so.

Then my dad got completely amush. He asked if I was mad at him for my childhood. He asked me if I forgave him for punishing me when I was younger. He mentioned that he was feeling old and remembering how he just tried to be a good father but that he felt so remorseful for having to hurt me when I was younger. The last time he spanked me was over fifteen years ago. I only remember being “having a hand laid on” me was maybe a dozen times. Mostly for crimes quite worthy of spankings, like throwing a hardbound copy of Robinson Carusoe at my brother’s nose or stealing money from my dad’s secret stash in the basement. (Hundreds of dollars were miscellaneously stashed about the house when we were younger. Only in my teens did my dad finally decide to trust a bank. He bought the family automobiles in cash. All.In.Cash. Usually transported in a brown paper lunch sack. He got his first credit card when I graduated from college)

Heaven knows, I appreciate my parents for raising me as a parents should. A pet peeve of mine: parents who negotiate with their kids, but that’s a whole other digression. No matter how much I tried to assure my father that I was fine, that I loved him, that I was thankful for how good a relationship we had, that I cherished him dearly, that I wasn’t begrudging him for anything, but indeed proud with how reasonably level headed and just plain *good* my brother and I had turned out, he couldn’t stop saying sorry. I finally had to raise my voice playfully and say “Daddy! Stop being the trouble maker! That’s *MY* job!” My pops’ response? “NO! No trouble Daddy is Good Daddy!” We then giggled, and that made my heart smile like May sunshine.

He then asked me where my writing was. Dad had gone ahead and paid for a two year subscription to KoreAm, the magazine that had featured two articles I’d written for their February issue. He complained about the $50 that he had to spend for the subscription. Five minutes after that, he confessed that he had showed the magazine to several of his church friends and they had all signed up for subscriptions. He was looking for an article by me in the March issue but alas, I hadn’t written anything new for KoreAm in the last few months, focusing just on job hunting, and now, the new job.

“Jooodiya… I’m so proud you. My daughter. Good writing. I think the book [it's actually a magazine but pops calls it a book...because saying *mah-gah-jheen* is too annoying], ehbury younger generation should read.”

Then he complained about the fifty dollars again and told me he had to go because he didn’t want me to talk on the phone while driving. Of course he never said he liked the notion of me writing until *after* I’ve started a non-writing related job. Some timing. Either 9 months too early for xmas or 15+ years behind for reconciliation & forgiveness, or 2 months behind for expressions of pride. At least he’s on time for love.

“No trouble daddy, good daddy.”
“No trouble daughter, good daughter.”
“I rubbha you.”
“Me too Dad, sah rahng eh yo.”

01/17/02

Dear Daddy,

I know you think you were sneaky today.
Calling my cel phone and hanging up without leaving me a message. Third time in the last eight days.
You worry about me. I know. I know. And I do love you for it. And when I do answer, you listen for joy or hope in my voice. Some word that I might have a clue or at least more confidence about what my career is going to look like this year. If I’m eating well. If I’m in love. If I’m happy. Sorry that I couldn’t muster too much of that the other morning when you called. But then again, it was 6:30 my time. And being the unemployed sloth that I’ve become, I go to be at 3 and creep out around 11 when the day’s light is tugging at my shoulders and the morning is mostly gone.

Daddy, I know how much you love me when I hear that anxiety in your voice. When you tell me it’s ok for me to come home. That if it’s too hard, I should just pack it up and go home. That it’s ok. That you’re sorry for poking at me before and saying that I should look harder for a job. Or that I should have worked harder to keep the miserable one that I had before. Or that the only job I couldn’t get fired from would be as “wife”. I know you say these things when you ask if I’m eating. If I’m ok.

And when you say “Come Home” you mean more than packing up and going back to the bedroom that
I spent over 13 years of my life sleeping in. That you mean letting me be your little girl again. To relieve some of the burden of responsibility for my own life and direction and to defer it back to you, to when you ordered my morning, afternoon, and evening activities, and I didn’t have to worry, nor think. Nor in many ways, grow up.

In Korea, the korean language has few words to describe an independent woman if not by her own name. She is referred to as her father’s daughter. Her husband’s wife. Her child’s mother. But rarely as herself.

And that coming home, coming home means giving up myself again.
And you wonder why I’ve been such a stubborn asshole about it lately.

Daddy, I love you but I’m not coming home. Not like that.

**********************
And no, my dad does not actually read this site. Nor does he go on the internet at all. Nor does he know how to operate a computer. He only got his cel phone in November and demanded that I program the urgent numbers of my brother and myself into it since his eyesite and English & Technical proficiency couldn’t be bothered. So if I get phone calls at 6:30 in the morning, I suppose I can’t be mad because I am partially responsible.

**********************
Life is hard enough.

I think to myself that I’m in a very static place right now, but I’m confident that there is much to grow from it.
Times of stillness are important for a number of vital reasons. #1, it allows you to digest the events/circumstances and influences of the most immediate past. #2, it allows you to survey the roads before you without haste. #3, it allows you to prepare correctly for the appropriate path, once you have selected it.

I understand that and so I’m not in a state of emotional or spiritual anxiety. I trust in God whole heartedly.
If he could take care of me last year amidst all the chaos and drama, then how could I doubt that God will take care of me this year now that I rely on him even more. Yes sweeties, I’m bad about going to church on a regular basis and I talk way much trash, but my faith is still there and I need moments of stillness to remind myself of that.

So yesterday I had an appointment with my pal N. to have a little injection of fablousity tossed into me.
I lost a pound in the course of an hour. Yeah. A pound. A pound of hair.
Long hair, that whole long straight-down-to-your-bra-strap- thing for me was so 2001. So yeah, I dropped a pound of hair. Razor snipping it in the back, for the first time in my life, my short hair is lying flat. Normally, I have so much bulk there that it puffs out and I have triangle head. It’s rather sleek now, looks good messy, can be squinched, has some cranberry highlights and is overall washed in concord grape. Yeah, my hair is now fruit punch. Weee.

Anyways, N & I, old friends, share all that is distressful and earnest, scandelous, and true. This conversation leaned towards a bit more sober than I’m used to from him. His boyfriend of over a year would receive test results today.
Not GMAT or LSAT or GRE’s but HIV. Yeah. Something a little more stressful to think about. N. who has been HIV positive and living happily, healthfully, without drug cocktailing for the last 9 years, expressed more concern, love, and tenderness for the emotional state of his partner than anyone I’ve encountered. He’s also been vigilant regarding safe sex with him. His partner, who expresses that if he were so concerned about HIV, he wouldn’t even be with N, wasn’t so vigilant during the weeks before their courtship began. Regardless, the circumstances be damned, the love and spirit of life that they have hasn’t had nary a shadow cast on them. Life is hard enough as it is, isn’t it?

And here I go bitching about my weenie little concerns.

***************
How is it that I have four writing assignments due this week and I feel like organizing my mp3s instead of writing?
Oh yeah, that’s me being a dumbass again.
Nevermind.

You may as well tell me it looks fabulous because telling me otherwise does damn little good as it’s pretty impossible to *uncut* it ya know.

Anyone want a pound of hair? I got it in a plastic bag.

——————————————————————————–

Min Jung