Children May 2, 2007 11:35 am 10960 Views Someone asked me a ridiculous question over lunch the other day. “Which of your children do you treasure most?” Innocuously meant, perhaps. How is it possible to choose? Faced with a Sophie’esque choice whom would I choose? I have two lovely daughters and one son. But I contemplated this question later in the day and I gazed long and deep into the pictures of each one – one by one – and I imagined myself having to give up one of them to some evil. Unnervingly intense despair shrouded me even though I was merely fantasizing about the sickest of hypotheticals. Flashbacks of memories, voices, feelings, the joy, the laughter, the disappointments, the upliftments, the victories, the hurts, the pains, the days of yelling and screaming, the days of exuberant “I love you, dad.”coupled with soft hugs, and the tough slap in the back, the unseeing formation of camaraderie as they grew older, my desire to shepherd them into adulthood, my desire to spill all of my knowledge and experience into their open palms so that they would be great people, to be rewarded with the greatest words that a man could ever hear, “Mom, I miss dad.” when I am away from home. 8 Comments

The Killings Apr 19, 2007 12:14 pm 11387 Views The killings. My heart is hurt. I have a brother who is mentally ill, and the disturbances that go through his minds – how could anyone know it? I saw him being wrestled to the ground by LAPD, I saw his contorted face as he heaped venom on me, and I saw him close to dying because he thought everything in the world was dirty so he starved. Cho now flows with McVeigh, Harris, Klebold, Kaczinski and the gruesomely disturbed others who are merely on the cusp of a decline to come. That Cho has an ethnic commonality to me is meaningless. I can understand his daily life. I, too, came to this country when I was 8 years old. My family was also poor. But the similarity ends there. He existed as a crazed soul in a cruel, corrupt world. That he happens to be Korean is a mere coincidence. South Korean president offered to send his diplomatic team to the U.S. to issue an apology on behalf of the Korean people because Cho was a Korean. U. S., of course, rejected the overture because they do not want to make a racial or political issue out of this tragedy. Never before has the cultural ideology of the Korean mentality been on such clarion display as this. The people of Korea actually feel that they owe an apology to the world for the rogue behavior of a single defective baby loosed from its loins. Americans (me included) cannot understand this heightened and unnecessary sense of responsibility because America is an individualistic society. American credo is that I am not responsible for other’s actions. Period. This explains a lot. My thoughts and prayers are with the VTech folks. What a senseless and utterly unfathomable way to lose a life, a child, a brother, a sister – a friend. The lost soul of Cho knew no such love as this. 7 Comments

Just wondering Mar 24, 2007 4:41 pm 11647 Views I am a 45 year old man. I went out for a jog the other day. Afterwards, I stopped by our local Trader Joe’s supermarket to pick up some eggs, juice, carrots, cereal and so forth. I was at the check-out counter. This is the conversation: Cashier: “Hey, how’s it goin’, man?” Me: “Yea. I guess it’s time to eat.” Cashier: “Know what the results are?” Me: “Huh? Oh, you mean the NCAA tournament?” Cashier: “Yea. I just want to know how USC is doin’” How is it that wherever I go, African American or Hispanic people are very friendly with me in this very casual manner? I am pretty sure that the cashier would have used a different tone if he were talking to a 45 year old Caucasian man. In fact, when I was working in government about 10 years ago, almost all of the time, the black workers would call me, “Hey, Kim”, which is my last name. But as I turned around, the same people would call my friend “Yes, Mr. Furman.” I don’t mind it. I like the informality. It warmed my heart to be addressed in such an endearing way. But I was just curious. Is it that black and Hispanic people find some sort of kindred spirit with us Asians or is it just me and something about my mannerisms? And why do these guys always call me “Kim” or more like “Kiiiiiim”, and not my first name? What’s up with that? Has anyone else felt the same way, and do you even know what I am talking about? 16 Comments

Boarding school results Mar 13, 2007 7:42 am 11033 Views Well, as a follow-on to my earlier blog on my son's application to boarding schools, he got in to several. Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania Loomis Chaffee in Connecticut Peddie School in New Jersey The Hotchkiss School in Connecticut (wait-listed) I am very proud of him. He is smarter, taller, much much more handsome (resembles his mother, thank God), and has better personality than me. And I couldn't be happier. 2 Comments

kiwi - the bird in a death drop Mar 5, 2007 2:58 pm 1773 Views My 13 year old son showed me this video from youtube. It is called “kiwi”, a profoundly sad piece, but beautifully rendered. The video is about this bird (kiwi) that cannot fly but so deperately wants to, its purpose in life not having been fulfilled. She cantilevers together a series of trees so that they stick out horizontally along the side of a deep cliff. There are many trees, so she is a determined creature. In the climax, she dives off the cliff, whizzing past the trees beneath her as if simulating real flying . . . only, she is headed for certain death as she speeds to the bottom of the canyon in a death drop. The film closes with slight beads of tears emanating from the bird's eye - in sadness because she is going to die, but partly because of happiness because she has achieved the one thing that she was meant to do in life but thus far had failed, i.e., to fly, but she had managed to succeed in her own unique way. As I was seeing it, I saw the human condition flash before my eyes. If you want to see it, go to youtube and search for kiwi. 0 Comments

Running Feb 27, 2007 9:35 pm 1649 Views I ran today. I joined a running club. Since I was a beginner, the coach told me to take it easy – walk a little bit, sprint some, walk again, and then power walk. And repeat. About 20 or so were there. A friendly bunch. A few were seriously training for the L.A. Marathon coming Sunday March 4. It’s been awhile since I actually belonged to a non-Korean club of any kind. I think that if my wife were either non-Korean or a fluent English speaker, I would probably be more immersed in the average cultural things that Americans do, like book clubs, college alumni activities, neighborhood governance, and so forth. Sometimes, I wonder if by not involving myself more, that I am unintentionally marginalizing myself. But then, is there really a truly American anything? Isn’t whatever Korean type thing that I am involved in just as American as anything you see people do on TV? For instance, being involved in KFF, isn’t this just as mainstream a cultural activity as anything else? Anyway, back to running – it felt really good to get some good exercise. I have been fairly athletic all of my life. One of my crowning achievements was catching a Hail Mary pass thrown by Mr. Adler to win a touch football game in my 6th grade gym class. I was the hero for that day. Everybody loves a hero. I also remember striking out the sides against the Giants in Little League. In college, I took up squash. A marvelous sport. I used to play almost every day with my thesis adviser when I was in graduate school. Even though he controlled my future destiny, not once did I ever consider going easy on him. I was very nimble then, in my 20’s. I could chase down just about any ball without tiring. Signs of age come suddenly. One day, on the tennis court, I noticed that I could not get to a ball that in my mind clearly I should have been able to reach. I was tripping over my legs. This was when I was 30 years old. It’s been all down hill since as I have slowly come to accept as fact that I am not as fast or strong as I once was, and I must choose to only remember those early moves and not to try to reenact them. Back to running . . . but there are not that many squash courts anywhere. So, recently, I decided to take up running. Running, I think, if done right, is a very efficient sport. You can run anywhere for a quick exercise. You don’t need to carry around clubs, racquets, balls or any other appendages . . . or so I thought. Today, I stopped by a running store, and ended up spending over $300 on running accoutrements like shoes, clothes, water bottle, bag, hat, gloves. Geeeez. You can’t even run anymore without buying some gear. How do those guys in Kenya do it? I hear they run barefoot. 0 Comments

Can you act? Feb 23, 2007 2:06 am 1782 Views I just have to tell this story. It was a bizarre moment. By way of background, in Northern Virginia, there is a Route 66, which connects the Virginia suburbs with Washington, D.C. During rush hour, the entire highway SHUTS DOWN for single drivers. In other words, the entire highway turns into HOV for inbound to DC in the morning and outbound from DC in the afternoon. Years ago when I was living in Northern Virginia and working in D.C., not being aware of this, I got on outbound Route 66 during the afternoon rush hour time, and cops were waiting as I exited. When they pulled me over, I genuinely had no idea why I was being stopped. They told me about the HOV highway and I was flabbergasted. If Route 66 is shut down, it is just a pain in the neck to find an alternative route. So, I assumed, surely, they could not simply close down the entire highway to single drivers. In any event, the bottom line is that I got ticketed for being on Route 66 alone that day. So, I knew about this peculiarity of Route 66. Fast forward four years. I had just moved to Los Angeles, and I came back to D.C. area almost within a month of having left Virginia to attend a conference. I stayed with my friends who live in Manassas, which is far out in the Virginia suburbs. I got a late start that morning, and considered taking the Route 66 into D.C., even though there was a good probability that cops would likely be waiting for me when I exited out of the highway. But taking an alternative route was just too painful. And I decided to take my chances on the 66. Sure enough, after having driven for awhile, my heart sank as I exited out of 66. Cops were pulling people over left and right. The following is the conversation that ensued between the police officer and me as he approached my car after having been pulled over: Cop: “Do you know why you are being pulled over, sir?” Me: feigning innocence “No, I don’t. I have no idea why I’m being pulled over.” Cop: “Well, sir, this highway is closed to non-HOV drivers during rush hour.” Me: “What!? You are kidding. That’s ridiculous. How can they shut down the entire highway. I am from Los Angeles, and they don’t shut down the entire highway. Only certain lanes are marked for HOV. It’s crazy to be shutting down the entire highway!” Cop: “Well, just a minute sir.” (I am thinking – uh, oh, he’s going back to his car to check me out, and find out that I was living in Virginia as recently as only last month. . . man, am I going to be in trouble.) (About 5 minutes go by.) Cop: “Well, sir, your driver’s license checks out. I believe you that you are from California. I realize that things are a little different here. By the way, you are from Los Angeles, right? Can you act?” Me: startled, weakly “What do you mean!?” Cop: “Can you act?!” Me: stammering “I don’t know?” Cop: “Well, would you mind pretending to sign this ticket and throw it back at me? It’s just that if the cars behind you see me letting you go, they might be asking me all kinds of questions. So, if you do that for me, I won’t have to worry about these guys behind you.” Me: relieved “Oh, sure. I can do that. No problem.” I pretend to sign the ticket and practically throw it at him, feigning disgust for all the cars behind me to see. Cop: “Thank you, sir, and have a good day. Do you know how to get into D.C. from here?” Me: “Thank you officer. I'll be fine.” Vroom. Vroom. 4 Comments

How to treat a woman Feb 21, 2007 11:23 pm 2009 Views I had a poignant discussion with my wife the other day. She said she doesn’t want to live with me any longer. . . unless I change. She says I am not affectionate. I don’t have a - I don’t even know how to translate this – “bae-rae ha neun ma eum”. She says I don’t know how to treat a woman. She stated that I am no good in bed and I should study up on techniques. Perhaps I should . . . hmmm. She is right. I agreed with her on everything. I am a lousy husband. If I were married to me, I would have run off a long time ago. I resolved to do better. On Valentine’s day, I bought her a $2.98 rose and a card that said I will remember her forever. And I made a spaghetti dinner for us. What more can a guy do to save his marriage? 16 Comments

Father Feb 19, 2007 1:35 pm 1348 Views This morning, I awoke at 4 am and drove to my parents’ house. My dad is going on a teaching engagement in New York, and he asked me to take him to the airport. Mom and dad were already up. Mom made some kong-na-mul gook (soybean sprout soup) and we had an early breakfast without my brother. My brother was up all night, so I heard, rushing in and out of the house under my parents’ wary and weary eyes. I had not been feeling well since I had come back from Korea and even though my thoughts were with them constantly, I was physically not able to visit with them until today. My dad and I arrived at LAX airport and I said good-bye as we hugged. He is 72 years old -not old by today’s standards, but nevertheless I could see the man who in my mind was forever 42 ever since the day I asked him what his age was when I was in high school, drooping a little, balding a bit, and slower paced. After our hug, I saw him walk away, his stride still purposeful – no worries, I thought, he’ll be alright. He won’t get lost. And with a final wave, I drove away. He stopped paying for our meals in restaurants whenever we dined together several years ago when I got my first job out of grad school. He had loaned me his credit card through grad school. I was already married with two kids then. At that time, he would literally get mad at me if I offered to pay. But now things are different. I have grown older and more established and he had gotten older and acquiesced to life. He is a courageous man, I thought. Living with a disabled son, sometimes it must feel like hell. But my mom called me the other day, and begged me to never hit my brother again. I promised. I had already decided I wasn’t. I glanced at my dad as I drove away. He walked into the terminal and I briefly wondered what my life would be without the foundations that he had laid for me. 2 Comments

Contemplative Feb 7, 2007 6:46 pm 1320 Views Bolero on the KTX from Daegu to Seoul – sitting in Car 3, Seat 5A, I look out the window, focused in the distance, a 3,000W coffee cradled in my hand, sipping the hot sultry sound of Ravel’s Bolero on my iPod. I stare out into the open fields as they whiz by the train, not a depiction of picturesque countryside of the old European vintage, but we pass land, first and foremost, the Korean kind, functional not pleasing to the eye, and who gives a damn about aesthetics anyway. I was passing through my mother land. Bolero in my earphone began to be audible, and groaning louder by each repetition of its theme, and I started and I heard the rat-a-tat-tat, and I was drawn into the sorcery and its mesmerizing rhythm of the Korean spirit as they passed before my eyes. I heard the wild climax of the trumpets thrashing dissonance, and I saw the color green flashing before my eyes. 2 Comments

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