by Diane Farr
“The person who picked out Mom’s gifts.” And with that, Seung left the room.
Seung still wouldn’t pitch me to his father. And it drove his dad absolutely crazy. Mostly, I believe, because Seung’s father knew his son was too old to be blatantly told “no white people/black people/ brown people/Japanese people/Middle Eastern people, or simply put—Koreans Only,” so without a discussion of me, there was no way to bring this up. Seung, as we know, had been told this expressly in his youth, throughout high school and college, and even up to a few years ago when Seung actually lived in Korea and fell in love. Seung told his father during that time he just might marry one particular Korean national and live in Seoul with her. His parents were thrilled and their mission was almost accomplished. Except Tiny Tot, thankfully, called the no-hitter.
Tiny Tot, as I like to call her because I have seen her picture and truly wondered if I could fit her whole person inside my pants pocket (the front pocket, of skinny jeans), broke up with Seung long before their relationship got too serious. This seventy-inch, ninety-pound, black-haired Tinkerbell ended their summer romance because she wanted a man more ingrained in Seoul’s society. (The upper echelon of Seoul’s singles scene might be some of the hippest cats in the world. They come from a small circle of families who are all supereducated and super-loaded, whose kids get super-sauced most nights of the week at one exclusive event after another. Frankly, they make New Yorkers look suburban.) Wanting this in a man may sound pretentious of Tiny Tot and we might even assume that her brain is appropriately sized to the rest of her body, but, in fact, what she wanted was a Korean! Which Seung is only in heritage—despite his parents’ best attempts and his numerous Seoul-based cousins who introduced him to the right scene. Seung tried, but he is a Yankee. The only person who had the gumption to call this, though, was Tiny Tot. And I am eternally thankful for her.
Some form of this seems to be the recurring problem for all those born in the “zero generation.” Seung was born in Seoul and came to America at three years old. Which means he is technically an immigrant, but how much culture did he really absorb by age three in Korea? All aspects of the Korean myth that he knows and loves were told to him by his parents, against the background of Washington, D.C., which he considers his home. The biggest hurdle for Seung, as a member of this immigrant-versus-national anomaly, is that his parents were fully formed adults when they came to America. In their hearts they probably had very little interest in giving up their way of life, but even if they did, they had no knowledge of American culture to give to their kids. And so each generation within this family began their journey on a very different path in their new American life.
Seung’s parents would begin their American experience within the confines of a Korean subculture—with whichever relative had the most means to support them. After the parents found jobs for themselves and schools for the kids, they would eventually move to their own apartment but never leave that Korean community where they shared friends and language. They squeezed out the most Korean existence possible in the United States to make up for the deficits that immigration put upon them—loneliness, isolation, and the need to begin at the bottom of society. Thus Seung’s home life became a romanticized/bastardized version of the culture they left behind.
Meanwhile Seung’s own life—school, friends, language, literature, television, music, movies, and eventually cars, girls, drugs, sports, colleges, vacations, everything—was fully American and separate from his mom and dad. Seung had a hard time as a child: growing up in the projects, in a predominately black school, on free lunch programs and other subsistence from the government until his parents learned enough English to get them closer to the vocations they studied in college. By which time Seung had learned to survive in any circle. He fit in with ease amongst white kids or black—and never knew any Asians other than his relatives and parents’ friends, but he flourished in their company, too. By high school, his family’s passion for education kept Seung at the top of his honors classes. Yet sneaking around to do the things most of us try at sixteen and seventeen was also a breeze because his father was back in Korea then and Mom worked all the time to keep them afloat. Seung soared through college and graduate school, starting his career twice—once in D.C. and then again in L.A. He is just now, finally, at the crossroads he has been avoiding his entire adulthood.
With his life fully set up, Seung must now decide which life he will repeat: choosing between the life inside the house he grew up in and everything outside that door that he also grew up in. I don’t think Seung has ever directly addressed this quandary. Rather, I think he has waited to see what will come his way. He fell “in like” and in love many times, with women of all colors, but when our union began, Seung says he knew within the first two weeks he would marry me. So as strict as the cultural limitations impressed upon him were, he had tried and failed the Korean way. And his father had witnessed it. Which now Seung hoped would have influence on the conversation he was about to have. After thirty-five years of wondering how this talk might go, in the end Seung only got to say two words.
After Dad saw his daughter survive her surgery, he finally cornered his son. The Chung women were hooting with laughter looking at pictures of Seung’s life in Los Angeles—all of which prominently featured me—and Dad finally had a tangible excuse to address my race. Holding my photograph in his hand, Seung’s dad asked a lot of questions in an angry tone. Seung did not take the bait. When his father was finally incensed, he yelled, “What is she?” at Seung.
Keep in mind the parents and children in this family don’t share a large variation of words in the same language to have a nuanced dialogue about anything. Seung literally didn’t understand what his father was asking him. His father said, “What is she?” louder or faster until Seung burst out laughing and said, “She is a girl, Dad!”
Dad did not laugh. Seung stopped laughing and respectfully said he didn’t understand the question. “She” is Caucasian, obviously, so what else did he want to know? Seung’s dad asked if I was Polish or of some other European descent. Seung explained that I am Irish and Italian and then raised his shoulders, sort of saying, what’s the difference?
I fantasize that Seung raised “a shoulder” at his father—taunting him, almost daring him to say the thing that was really bothering him. That everyone in the family knew was a problem but everyone was now trying not to say. But having read the rules of this family and every family like them who almost lost their language, customs, holidays, and beliefs within these parents’ lifetime, I know this was not the case. No matter how much Seung loves me, he would never goad his father because he understands where this fear (dressed as dislike of other races) comes from. Yet, in his own way, raising a shoulder at his father was still out of line because what Seung was actually implying was, “If you have a problem with her race, you should figure out how to say those words, because I’m not going to say them for you, in any language.”
To which Seung’s father said in English: “You can’t love one of them.”
Seung shook his head yes, locked eyes with his father, and said, “I know.”
After these two words, Seung never let his father’s gaze go. Which was not as much a challenge, as an outsider might imagine, as it was an apology. An apology from a son who was wholly aware that he was about to fail his father’s greatest wish. But that he was going to do so nonetheless.
* I’M STANDING AT THE DOOR OF THEIR D.C. home. Seung’s mother lives here most of the year, as does Seung’s sister. Seung’s father has just flown in from Korea and so has Seung from Los Angeles. They are all waiting for me on the other side. Several weeks have passed since the father and son face-off alongside the hospital bed, and as the door opens, I am peacefully unaware.
I bow when I see them all for the first time. As I stand with my head lowered beneath their hearts, it is Seung’s sister who laughs at me for being “a better Asian” than she is. She reaches out and shakes my hand, pulling me up
right and into the house—where she says in a hushed tone that I should not sweat the Korean “mish-i-gosh.”
Is this a whisper in my ear—in Yiddish? I love this little huddle! I’m so excited that Eun Yi (pronounced ew-knee) is on my team that I have forgotten to let go of her hand. Yet even now, as I’m realizing it’s time to let go, I can’t stop myself. I’m frozen, waiting for her to slap me on the ass and say, “Go deep!” Eventually, Eun Yi takes both my hands in hers and pries herself free. I’ll just walk shoelessly across the living room now and hope Eun Yi forgets that this ever happened.
Minus one for the “white” team.
For all the hurdles I have jumped through with Seung’s extended family, Seung’s mom and dad are warm and lovely when they greet me. And lovely with their son. Ama (exact translation is Mommy, but both Seung and Eun Yi call her this so we will also) is kissing her grown son, who I now realize arrived only a moment before me. Apa (that would be Daddy, and yeah, we’re all rolling with that, too) gives Seung a bear hug. That’s more affection than I usually get out of my parents, and I’m their only daughter. From his parental embrace, Seung is translating to me as his parents speak to him. They are telling him he looks like a bum because his hair is too long. (Kuh-gee is the Korean word for “bum.” I cannot wait to whip this word out later on Seung.) His parents are offering me food and drinks now, as I’m being led to the best seat on the couch in the fancy seating area. They are clearly excited—and, dare I say, nervous also—to meet me. You know, in all the hoopla I kind of forgot that Seung’s parents are human, too.
As the afternoon unfolds, many things become clear. Seung’s mom speaks English, but it’s choppy and I’m never confident that I understand what she’s saying or that she is getting what I’m saying to her. So we’re both avoiding direct conversation and doing a lot of smiling and speaking softly to Seung, and he speaks on both our behalf. Seung’s dad doesn’t speak in English. Seung speaks to both his parents in Korean with a sprinkling of English when he is stuck for a word. Eun Yi, on the other hand, speaks only English, so both parents must understand enough to get by with her, and they answer her in Korean—and everybody gets what they get.
This may be a factor in why there are so many more moments of “quiet” here than there are at my house. Ah, shit, let’s be honest: Seung’s family home is the picture of serenity compared with the cacophony at my mom’s. And it’s kind of great. Seung’s sister is much softer and kinder than my siblings. I don’t feel like she is interviewing me or judging whether I’m good enough, but she is doing an inventory of all my stuff. Bag, shoes, earrings, shirt. She likes it all, wants to know from where it came and what I paid. We seem to be recovering nicely from the doorway hand squeeze. That is, until Eun Yi asks me in front of her whole family, “So what’s it like to kiss Daniel Sunjata?”
Oh God. Daniel Sunjata is an actor on my current job. I have a love story with him where we do much more than kiss. We have steamy, very close to naked, cable-style love scenes. Eun Yi is bringing this up in front of her mommy? And, oh yes, her daddy! And her freaking brother. Daniel is one of the prettier people on planet Earth, so it’s not like I don’t field this question five times a day. This living room is just the last place I want to discuss it in. Literally. When my eyes nearly bulge out of my head, it seems to inspire Eun Yi to follow up with, “Don’t worry, they won’t understand this conversation.”
Uh-huh. But what if they do understand? Any part of it?
It doesn’t matter. After all this work, I’m not going down over how some actor kisses. I burst out laughing. I’m hoping this inappropriate response should make the parents think they don’t understand Eun Yi even if they do. I then say in a completely jovial tone, “I’m still not talking about this in front of your parents. So laugh back, right now, and I’ll give you all the details later when your parents are sleeping.” With this incongruent sentence, I stare Eun Yi down. Even she looks confused until ... she laughs. She then turns to look at her brother. Seung shakes his head at his sister and then turns to me and says, “Nice exit.” More to come later, as we figure Sister out. I’m currently being invited by Ama to sit for dinner.
Seung’s dad is so expressive, and clearly funny, that I kind of get an idea of what he’s talking about even before Seung translates for me. He is a charismatic entertainer—which was never what I imagined. I find myself laughing right along with everyone else just from his delivery. Seung’s parents are actually fun—which is an adjective I also never considered I might use for them. Just as I pick up my chopsticks to begin eating, Seung’s mother leans in and whispers something about the meal being made without beef because Seung said I do not eat meat. I think she is justifying why they didn’t utilize the most expensive food for my arrival. I feel very flattered. Ama then whispers to me again: “And the kimchi very spicy in our house. You pour water on, if too much for you.”
Ama smiles and nods to me many times, like she is doing little bows. I’m so flattered I want to jump across the table and hug her. But I’m not actually positive this is what she is saying and I don’t trust myself after failing to let go of Eun Yi’s hand earlier. I also think Ama would actually wilt if I touched her at this early stage in our relationship. So instead, I give Seung a prideful yet diminutive smile.
I kind of feel like I’m in a war movie, playing the role of the good-girl-American love interest. Seung swallows a laugh when I give him this look. I raise an eyebrow back, sort of saying, What? I’m totally the good-girl love interest! And I believe I am (although I also laugh out loud when I’m alone in the bathroom, as this whole day is a tad surreal). Whoever I am while sitting at this table doesn’t matter as much as the fact that I’m at this table. And no one is yelling or storming off about my being here. Seung shrugs at my role-play and continues talking in Korean with his family. Which, by the way, is hot.
Seung is doing so many sexy things at this table. He is sort of the master of ceremonies: translating, honoring, and entertaining everyone. He is handling the pressure fantastically. He is currently telling his father about my trip to Malaysia, which I guess I told him about the night I hit on him at our friends’ engagement party. He is relaying details that I have no recollection of telling him, but no one else knows them, so it must have been me. As Seung finishes an impressive tale about my being the first American some devout Muslims on a teeny island had ever met, he winks at me. I think I love him a little bit more today than even yesterday when he asked me to come meet his Ama and Apa.
After dinner I am invited to sit on a couch next to Seung. We sit across from his mother and father, and sister Eun Yi pulls up a chair, making the five of us into a triangle. Seung’s mother and father are not only eager to talk with me, but seem to be very much in love with each other forty years into their marriage. They are holding hands while talking. Seung then takes my hand. Apa asks me a question, via his wife. We talk this way for a while, about movies I think. The scene is so idyllic, I’m not even really paying attention to the conversation. I’m enthralled with how welcome I feel and how happy I am that I didn’t give up before I even got started. I’m making a mental note to myself, that this is Seung’s family and that the ancillary people who come with them shouldn’t weigh me down. Seung’s parents are caring, funny people. It is yet another bonus that comes with him. That and his disco dancing.
Dessert has been served and mostly eaten, so now I am ceremoniously getting up to take the finished tea service back to the kitchen. There is no way Ama is letting me in her kitchen, no matter how much she likes me, but this “cleanup test” is the one that finally puts me over the edge. With big smiles and heavy hands, Ama and Eun Yi push me back onto the couch, implying, We’re not kidding—you just sit there next to him. That’s your job in this house. As I settle back into the sofa, even I know ... I’m in.
THE FORMALITY OF SEUNG’S parents’ house makes me lustful. Like a kid in high school pretending to be asexual and studious at my boyfriend’s house when his parents ar
e around. The second the parents aren’t around, though, I just want to make out with Seung endlessly. Seung is laughing as I’m attacking him in the downstairs bathroom before we go out for a “family walk.” He is laughing hysterically as he says that he should have brought me home sooner.
I am still groping him when I hear him say something about my being the first person he has ever introduced to both his parents. That can’t be right. I know he has dated a lot. One of his female friends from college told me that Seung kissed every friend she had at school. Wait a minute, that is what Seung is saying—I am the first girl he’s ever brought home to meet his father.
This is not flattering. This is frightening. For a host of reasons I will get to, but right now I have to stop this session and become the sexless, high school girlfriend love interest again ... and head out the front door for the walk. But there will be a whole other kind of digging and groping going on tonight.
After everyone retires to their rooms and I am safely tucked away in Seung’s—as he has been banished to the couch—I can’t even count to six before Seung sneaks into my bed. I pull him to the floor to talk and am totally confused when he lands on top of me. Oh no, Mr. Seung Yong Chung. We have some serious bridge-building to do between the Korean way and the American/Irish/Italian/white/ whatever-the-hell-I-am way. Tonight will be about the extraction of details regarding why young ladies were not welcome here.
Part of it, I understood, was because many of Seung’s love interests weren’t Asian, but even those who were didn’t meet with Dad. It turns out that love is just not something you share with Dad and in some Asian families even Mom—until you are ready for marriage. This might be one of the saddest details I’ve heard yet in this family’s culture over the entire nine-month dog-and-pony show I have just completed, so I’m grilling my man on what he wants to keep from his family traditions and what he recognizes to be antiquated and maybe even dangerous for children today.
