"Why are you reading 'Che Guevara' when you should be studying for your SAT! If the book hadn't been from the library, I would have ripped it up!" shouted my father at me. But in all probability, if he had found 'The Wealth of Nations' in my bag, he would not have been so mad at me; in fact, he might even have been obliged to discuss the book with me.
Being a leftist in Korea, a country with a communist enemy just to the north, is not at all comfortable. One gets constantly accused of being a 'commie' or an 'agent of the north'. Fortunately, KMLA people are more open-minded and I can make jokes about my political orientation without any ill-feeling. Still, I would not be ashamed to admit my political outlook to anyone - that is, except my father.
Although my father and I do notsee each other too often as I have been in boarding schools for over five years now, we are not the most distant father and son either. Not at all. Yet somehow, we have landed on the opposite ends of the political spectrum. He bears all the marks of a middle-class conservative Korean - he graduated from Seoul National U. with a degree in business, served in the officer corps (which prides itself on being the forefront of the war against communism), and finally, reads the Chosun Daily, which I regard as the propaganda machine of rich, corrupt rightists and exploiters of the poor).
When I was a little and I looked up to my father as a role model, as most kids do, I did not notice all this. I saw only an ambitious businessman working hard to support the family. However, as I grew older, I also became more politically aware. The turning point came when I was 'recommended for expulsion' from Harrow for not being able to pay the tuition - that got me thinking a lot. It sounds a little childish now, but at the time I was a fifteen-year old kid angry at the world. At the same time, I began to discover the real state of the world I live in. We had to sell our house and moved to a smaller one, and it so happened that just across the street from my new home lay the last vestiges of Seoul's shanty town. Although most former residents had already taken the recompensation and moved away, some still lived there. From my balcony I could observe, albeit at a distance, the squalor of life there. All that was needed to tip me over now then were some books to confirm the that there were numerous others who were also indignant at the state of the world and hear their stories.
If I am sure of my beliefs, then why I am afraid to tell my father about it? Because my father will always be my father, and I will always be a son. I do not want anything to come between us, especially something as silly as politics. That is why I nod reluctantly whenever he asks me if I agree with his opinion on such and such matter. I know not if this arrangement can last; certainly right now it feels like having a tall wooden block for a pillow.