by Diane Farr
Armed with my conversation-proof show, I also warned Seung. I told him three times before my dad and my brothers flew in (because I figured five times would make him nervous but three times might prove that I wasn’t kidding): “Whatever you do, do not be polite to them. They will eat you alive.”
Seung is cool, so I know the men in my family will get it eventually; I just hope they might like him right from the start. So to that end, here we are in a black-box theater, watching other men throw women around in a slightly erotic and slightly skilled way. But it’s not feeling right. It’s actually feeling like a colossal mistake.
Before this performance tonight, I went to a rehearsal of this show to make sure it was acceptable for my familial frat. It’s unfortunate that I watched a private showing of this troupe with the man who represents the company, who was selling me on them for two hours. He has a huge financial stake in the show and I am on television. Perhaps he thought I might bring some famous friends to see it. All this went right over my head at the time. Nor did I care that this man is not heterosexual. I didn’t think sexual orientation mattered at that time. Now, with all the very, very heterosexual men in my family here, I’m thinking it does.
Because my brothers are seeing nothing but a bunch of guys in tights running on their toes. My poor father has just landed on the West Coast and is asleep in his chair. Seung and I are still newly in love, only three hundred days into our courtship, and will do anything just to be next to each other—and even he seems bored. But I know for sure this was an error in judgment as we’re walking to the lobby during intermission and my brothers are telling inappropriate jokes about the dancers’ “helmets”—loudly—and random strangers are applauding them. I’m bagging the second act and heading for a diner off campus.
At the diner, Frick and Frack—as my grandmother likes to call my brothers when they act moronic—are idling high with jokes aimed at me, the city of Los Angeles, and men in body stockings. This is the moment of truth for Seung. These are his choices: (a) make fun of the show even though I suggested it, planned it, was excited about it, and paid for it; (b) make fun of me with my brothers, even though they might turn on him for it; (c) defend me even though they are my family; or (d) ignore them and say nothing.
I think, maybe, Seung has found an even better option, as he is speaking to my dad about anything else that he is deeming neutral. My anxiety level is coming down, until I see that Frick and Frack have caught on. I know my kid brothers. They see this mature posture as a sign of fear. And now they are moving in for the kill.
We haven’t even ordered when my siblings begin making inside jokes that they are going to order “dog” for an entrée because my father once infamously asked a Korean if she enjoyed that native delicacy. My father didn’t know this would be insulting. My brothers do. I am actually feeling a little dizzy as I bury myself in my menu, trying to think of some way to throw Seung a paddle. My ears are ringing, so I can’t be sure, but I think Seung might be laughing. As I steal a glance over at him, I see he is laughing. Yes, Seung! Get in there!
As if on cue, my youngest brother’s pint of Guinness arrives. Seung asks my father, almost behind my brother’s back, if he knows why God created beer. When my father shakes his head no, Seung whispers, “So the Irish wouldn’t take over the world.” To which my other brother visibly sits up at attention. How sad that I am encouraging my very respectful boyfriend to make prejudiced jokes right back at my family, but if this was a game of blackjack, Seung has just doubled down. He is now following up the Irish joke by ordering four shots of an aged scotch that none of my family members can possibly stomach, and insisting that any man who fails to drink this, in one take, will have to pick up the bill tonight. My father is laying down his arms, or, more precisely, raising his hand, saying, “I’m out—I’ll pay.” Before the waitress pulls out of Dodge, Seung takes my brother’s dis on my dad (and Korean people) to the next level by ordering “Poodle Parmesan.” The whole table bursts into shocked laughter, myself included. Each of us kids subsequently orders a dog entrée, while my father apologizes profusely to the flummoxed food server.
And a brother-in-law is born.
When dinner is done, I end up alone with my brother who is closest to me in age while waiting for the valet to bring Seung’s car. While staring off into the abyss of the underground parking lot, my brother says, “Remember growing up we called every Asian person ‘Chinese’?” I turn my face to see more of his, to be sure I correctly understand wherever he is heading with this question. I am pleasantly surprised to hear him say, “We were so stupid.” Maybe the occasional prejudiced joke amongst family members has some medicinal purposes after all. My brother, having said all he needed to, then steps off the curb and walks into the darkness of the car park, moving my family one giant step closer to the twenty-first century.
Seung not only is “in” but has somehow made my people look at how we grew up. Yup, that’s just another Seung Chung bonus, right up there along with his 1967 Lincoln Continental—turquoise blue with suicide doors—which is pulling up now. I get in and wave goodbye to the rest of my family as they step into their shitty rental and Seung laughs out loud at all of them. My father gives me a thumbsup. I’m not sure if he is commenting on Seung or shutting up Frick and Frack, but the approval feels good all the same. Seung shuts my door and together we sail off into the Hollywood Hills.
I have only one more hand to play at this blackjack table, before Seung and I can get on with the rest of our lives. But, of course, she can be a m-o-t-h-e-r.
ON THE DAY MY MOM finally gets to meet Seung, she is panicked. Unlike Seung’s mother, mine is fully aware that we are living together. She is so afraid that if I’ve made another Mr. Wrong choice, I may never recover from a second marriage-miss. My mother would never accept the word of anyone else in my family that Seung is okay, because the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. If I am wise, she is older and therefore wiser and if I am a type A/overachiever she is a type A/control maven. As if the stakes weren’t high enough for her, my brother thought it would be fun to set my mother up today.
My brother called at 4:00 PM, before my mom’s 7:00 PM introductory meal with Seung tonight, and said, “Ello Mizzus Fah. Dis is Sing Chunnnng” in the thickest Korean accent you’ve ever heard. And what did my mother say?
“Oh! Hello, Sing! Sooo nice to hear from you!” My mother said this loudly and slowly because not only did she believe that Seung did not have a full command of the English language, she also thought he was deaf. My brother went on to pretend that Seung and I were at Kennedy airport and had no money for a taxi, so “You get in car and pick Diane and Seung Yong up? Now!” My mother was already searching for her keys, when her degenerate son finally burst out laughing on the phone.
As if I wouldn’t have mentioned it if Seung didn’t speak English fluently? It matters none that her own naiveté caused her to fall for this—Momma was now at DEFCON 1.
Seung and I are actually flying together to New York and are unaware of the tizzy my brother has caused. I am about to finish my last week of work in this city, and Seung is going to spend it with me. While here, we will take the weekend out by the beach where I grew up so Seung can meet my mom and her boyfriend, as well as see my youngest brother again, and both of us will meet his girlfriend for the first time. And we have more than enough money for cab fare, thank you very much.
We have more love than we did even one month ago also, because I have taken Suzanne’s advice to heart. I have checked the family baggage and am trying to live my life with Seung as unencumberedly as possible. I think he feels my lightness and finally, today, decides to open up to me about his conversation with his father last month.
When Seung got off the train in D.C., he was shocked to find his father waiting for him at the station. As they walked to their car, Seung’s father intercepted whatever Seung had planned to say by asking if acaponey would come to a wedding if Seung and I were to marry. Seung wasn’t sure if acap
oney was a Korean word or a bad version of an English one. He asked his father to repeat the word a few times before finally asking what an acaponey was. To which his father said, “Not what, who?” Seung, thoroughly confused, then asked, “Who is acaponey?” To which Seung’s father said slowly, “A Capone-y?”
“Your father asked if Al Capone would attend my wedding if we were to get married?” I ask. Seung smiles and nods his head. “Was he kidding?”
He was. Papa Chung had no other questions or demands or threats or promises for Seung. Father let his son go. And was making Italian jokes at him to boot.
I, on the other hand, am not sold. “They had no fears? No rules? Nothing?”
“Well, they had one,” Seung finally coughs up. In a gentle tone Seung explains that his mother said she was worried because I am an actress. Before I can say, “What ... an actress ... is this just an excuse to ...” I hold my tongue for one brief second and think of Lisa. I decide to just nod in understanding and wait for an explanation—careful not to say something that could seem mean. This pause does allow Seung to find his way.
However, he can’t even meet my eye as he says that his parents see magazines and gossip shows that actresses are always on the cover of or the lead story in—because they are getting a divorce. His parents have seen me on TV here and in Korea, and in magazines—both alone and with their son, too. They said to Seung that they hoped I “am different” and that his heart will be safe.
I not only find this to be a valid concern, but have worried about it as well. Seung is a good guy. If one of us was going to blow our union, even I would bet money the fault would be mine. Primarily because my job is a breeding ground for adultery, but also because I am the live wire in our twosome. Seung’s mother’s fear is based in fact and I imagine her lying in bed wondering if I am going to work over her kindhearted kid with my fabulous jet-set life, only to leave him in the dust when I run away with a soulless TV star. My heart is already in my throat, but watching Seung’s strange smile and an inability to meet my eye has me confused. As I’m trying to suss him out, Seung mutters, “They are pretty provincial, huh?”
I have dated very few actors, but my mother was particularly obnoxious to all of them because she wanted them to know she was completely unimpressed with their “terrific-ness.” My mother had the same fear that Seung’s did, only my mother attacked because of it and Seung’s mother humbly and bravely addressed the status variable.
I lean into Seung and whisper, “You know, your mom is a very smart lady. If I ever found myself close to a situation I should not be in as a married woman ... I will now be thinking of her. I don’t think she’s provincial. I think she is brave, Seung Yong, and her point is well taken.” Seung finally looks me in the face to check that I am being sincere. I then bite his ear to put that thought out of both of our heads forever and prove that I have no intention of being a good girl with him.
MY BROTHER WE ARE SEEING in New York has just moved in with his girlfriend, who was raised as a Hassidic Jew. Her family has just disowned her because of their union. And my mother, who was married to my dad for thirty years, has recently moved in with her first boyfriend since tenth grade—whom we jokingly call a “retired gangster” because he is so Sicilian. And of course I am bringing The Giant Korean. Where the hell can we six share an introductory meal?
At a Brazilian restaurant in midtown Manhattan, my mother gets plowed drunk over ceviche and steak. She is so nervous as she diligently questions Seung through our first course that she blows through three martinis in rapid succession. By the second course she stops asking and starts listening, before her ability to analyze Seung becomes impaired. And by the time I order dessert, and she her fourth drink, Mom was clearly thrilled with Seung and full-up on vodka.
She is actually downright jubilant about Seung. My mother is laughing so loudly at everything Seung says and does that my brother and I start calling her Mrs. Chung. Seung, having no idea how to respond to this, just smiles. To save him, I warn my mother that I am going to sit on her boyfriend’s lap if she doesn’t leave mine alone. I let this show of gigantic acceptance for Seung go on a little longer because frankly, he deserves adoration. Until the waiter clears the last dinner plate and my mom has a clear path to him. She immediately leans over and touched Seung’s head. “Oh, Diane, he has the most beautiful hair!”
I ignore her hand and go right for Mommy’s cup of vodka, taking it away.
“No touching the boyfriend, Mom.” When my mother comes closer to me, in an attempt to recapture her drink, I “Irish whisper” that we should give Seung a little break now because this really has been a lot of English for him tonight. Momma Farr earnestly shakes her head yes and smiles longingly at Seung. She then kisses me on the cheek, full of happiness. And the cultural war games are over.
At least with our immediate families.
And unbeknownst to me, Seung Chung has just cashed out a portion of his life savings and purchased an engagement ring. Please remain seated as we venture into deeper water now, as the waves of desperation to prevent change may otherwise knock you down.
CHAPTER 8.
A RINGER ON MY FINGER
“Your wedding is so inconvenient for everyone but you.”
—TAE CHUNG
SEUNG AND Ihave a little ski house together in Mammoth. We bought it right at the end of a ski season when the market was at its absolute most expensive. What we owe to the bank for it now is more than its total worth. But three major events—that will be among the most defining of my life—will take place in the three tiny rooms that comprise this vacation home, making it worth every penny.
Now, at thirty-six, I have been working nonstop for fifteen years, but still I don’t have quite enough money to buy a second home myself. I was very close to buying a party house in the ski town with friends, but I’m thinking my days of a share in a crash pad are numbered. I casually ask Seung, seven months into our relationship, if he has any interest in purchasing a second home as an investment because I’m considering ...
“Yes!” is Seung’s immediate answer. “Buy it! I’m in!”
“Really? Don’t you need to see it?”
“Nope.”
I love this man. He has so much faith in me, he is willing to go halfsies with me sight unseen—on a house. And it feels so poetic that we would buy something together here, on a mountain where we have so much history already. Seung and I spent our first New Year’s together here, and I taught him how to snowboard over the course of that week. The altitude also caused us to fart in front of each other for the first time, and he saw me throw a full-tilt fit when I got stuck in four feet of powder and could not dig myself out. And he still loved me after both incidents.
I bring my dad, who is visiting at the time, with me to sign the papers for this condominium. On the long drive up to Mammoth, my father asks how much I know about Seung’s finances. Not much, other than the amount of money I saw written on his down payment check for the place, I say. Cautiously, my father then asks how I would handle it if Seung suddenly couldn’t make his half of the mortgage. I have to smile at my daddy. Not because I have such blind faith in my boyfriend, but because I am nothing if not a pragmatist. Buying real estate with anyone is a terrific avenue to fight with them. Buying real estate with someone you’ve know for less than a year—whom you are sleeping with—warrants writing Dum Dum on your forehead if you don’t have an escape plan in place.
Before this drive to the deed signing, Seung and I have already filed side agreements with our attorneys about how we would disassemble our co-ownership of the condo if we were to disassemble as lovers. And this piece of paper, which was drawn up without fighting or funky feelings, feels just as romantic to me as everything else about this endeavor.
SO HERE WE ARE NOW in our little vacation getaway, just a week before the one-year anniversary of our first kiss in Mexico—and my life is so different because of what I share with Seung. I have left New York entirely and have a new TV j
ob, eighteen minutes from our L.A. home. Two days after quitting Rescue Me, I was offered a job on Numb3rs in Los Angeles. I play an FBI agent on the show, but it’s mostly behind a desk, as I am the resident psychologist. Which all means I can have babies while under this contract. And I get to actually live with The Giant Korean in both Los Angeles and our weekend getaway, where we have retreated today. I am laughing hysterically at Seung, who is right now pinned between the two-ton, possibly twohundred-year-old pullout couch and the nearly completed green wall we are painting.
The furniture in the ski house is not only left over from the 1970s and rustic (read: shitty), but also mountain and bear themed (super shitty)! We are painting one wall in every room to try to make a kitschy theme of this mess. But right now we are laughing so hard because we are trying to move the ancient sofa and it’s proving stronger than both of us put together. As Seung falls on top of me into the couch and an impromptu make-out session begins, life feels so perfect that I just have to stop it.
I pull back to look at Seung and confess that my life is not always as melodic as a top-forty music video where I stop what I’m doing to just laugh and kiss and smell the roses. As he starts unbuttoning my blouse, I feel the need to warn my man that my true nature is to paint every room in this condo and replace all the furniture in the same day, with no regard for food, going to the bathroom, or enjoying sex, especially if there’s a half-painted wall and a couch in the wrong place. Seung tells me this is why we make a perfect yin and yang: because he would sit on this behemoth settee and watch football until the entire season ends before finally noticing the walls or the furniture for the first time. But together he makes me work less and I make him do everything I say—and isn’t that what coupledom is all about?
