When You Hate Your Father’s Appearance

I stared at his sunken eyes, graying hair, and wrinkles on the forehead. He was tall and had thin features, with glasses perched on his narrow face. This had made him look so scholarly at one time, but now, they constructed an image of a tired and worn out man. Then, I felt a silent rage. Who made him look so old and weary? What took away his title as the educated, the intellectual, and someone to be respected? What made me feel even more wretched was the fact that this man was my father, and I was one of the people who made him sacrifice all he earned in his life.

            Raised in a strict Confucian family, fulfilling filial duty of a son by studying hard was the most predominant part of his life. He endured ridicules from the rich city-dwellers who called him “the country boy whose pocket contains nothing more than a dust,” and graduated from a top university in Seoul. In his bank, his superiors acknowledged his potential and gave him chance to work in the United States, and I came along with him. Like every other girl in the early adolescence, his strict moral principles and emphasis on education were frustrating to me. I confess that I ignored his thoughtful advice on regular basis and considered them obsolete, the doctrine of the past that did not have any power over my youthful free spirit. Instead of being concerned about my grades and becoming involved in various activities, I enjoyed going to the movies with my friends and was carefree about everything that was related to school.

            In the middle of my seventh grade, the administrator in my father’s department secretly embezzled the company's finances. When it was discovered, the whole department had to take responsibility for failing to keep a vigil on their superior. My father’s order was to go back to Korea earlier than he was supposed to, but he decided to go back alone and leave me, my brother, and my mother in the United States mainly for educational purposes. He would not be able to come back for the next three years, and when he did, he would have to give up his life career in order to obtain permanent residence card. My mother took various part-time jobs which left her exhausted by the end of the day. All of the house chores became my responsibility, but nonetheless, the Confucian order firmly engraved in my family’s conscience obliged me to fulfill the filial duty of being a good daughter; that is, being a good student.

My father’s salary diminished as it crossed the Pacific Ocean since the U.S. dollar was so strong against Korean Won. I aggravated over my diminished allowance and yelled furiously at him over the phone, “I have dishes piled up in the sink, I cannot believe I have to do all this, and how do you expect me to keep up my grades when I am doing million other house works?” He only said “I am sorry.” I detested his apology because it made him appear so powerless. I could not accept the reality that my life plunged so suddenly from the comfortable, middle-class life to what I thought would never happen to me.

One day, after he came back to America, I saw him packing away something that had been part of him for the last two decades of his life. It was his suit. He carefully folded his grey summer suit, black winter suit, various neck-ties, and white-collared business shirt. Then, he placed them one by one in a closet, and I could see the grief in his eyes. He knew that he would not need them again, nor have chance to wear them except for few occasions such as his children’s graduation and marriage ceremonies. He understood he was an immigrant now and nobody acknowledged a 47-year-old man’s past achievements here. I could not help feeling enraged at this helplessness and his gaunt appearance. I hated every streak of his white hair, creases on his face, and myself for apathetic to his hardships.

             He is now trying to open a store. My sense of guilt for being lazy and naïve may never leave me. However, I learned that there are lessons to be learned even at the moments when it seems like the fate is working against you. The house works that I abhorred so much are now part of my daily routine. As I slice some onions to make soup for my brother, I wonder if I had grown at least a little toward being an adult. When I clean the dishes and organize them in a pile, I hope that my adolescent superficiality and stubbornness do not take up so much space in my character, as it did few years ago. Life has rewards for you at every single twists and turns, and those are necessary steps to be taken to learn how to appreciate everything taken for granted.