Potholes
One of Chicagoans’ favorite pastimes, in my opinion, is complaining about potholes. And rightfully so; they can cause a lot of damage. What exactly are potholes? Essentially, they are circular holes in the ground, be it the road or rocky beds. Have you ever noticed that even after potholes are filled, they are not perfectly smooth? There is a bit of unevenness that results on the ground and sometimes a new pothole forms in the same location. Can you ever return that particular spot on the ground to its original wholeness?
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There was one small Korean market in the town I grew up in. We would go there on the regular, and every time my sister and I piled into the car to go with my mother, I was ecstatic. Pulling into the huge parking lot of the plaza, the market was just another store amongst the cleaners, taekwondo gym, insurance company, and more. But to me, that store, “Boo-Koh-Shik-Poom,” was different. The second I walked into the store, the owner would run out from behind the counter and scoop up my toddler body into his arms, with a smile from ear to ear and a tight squeeze to express his care. He asked me about my day and offered me candy. He would then place me back on the ground, and I would meander to my mother and sister. For the remainder of that trip, I held onto the hem of my mother’s blouse, eating the candy I was gifted as we finished grocery shopping. My mother would chat with the owner and his wife for a bit after we made our purchases, and then my sister and I would bow in respect to say goodbye as we left the market. And I felt pure joy. That store was sunshine.
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There was one small Korean market in the town I grew up in. We would go there on the regular, and every time my sister and I piled into the car to go with my mother, I was ecstatic. Pulling into the huge parking lot of the plaza, the market was just another store amongst the cleaners, taekwondo gym, insurance company, and more. But to me, that store, “Boo-Koh-Shik-Poom,” was different. The second I walked into the store, the owner would run out from behind the counter and scoop up my toddler body into his arms, with a smile from ear to ear and a tight squeeze to express his care. He asked me about my day and offered me candy. He would then place me back on the ground, and I would meander to my mother and sister. For the remainder of that trip, I held onto the hem of my mother’s blouse, eating the candy I was gifted as we finished grocery shopping. My mother would chat with the owner and his wife for a bit after we made our purchases, and then my sister and I would bow in respect to say goodbye as we left the market. And I felt pure joy. That store was sunshine.
A few years later, my father re-entered my life permanently, without drifting away again to Korea or wherever else he went. This man, who was a part of me, felt so foreign to me. This man wanted to scoop me up and ask me about my day, but I did not want to tell him. This man wanted to give me endless airplane rides, perhaps for all the ones he missed out on. I did not know this man who wanted to know me, who sat at the kitchen table with his newspaper in hand muttering under his breath about events happening in Korea. There was an excitement to this person, who seemed to have knowledge and passion yet was maintained a reserved distance from me. I was not sure about sitting on his lap or allowing him to embrace me. This man and I were forever connected yet he did not know parts of me. And even in my toddler heart and mind, I knew that I had no knowledge of him. My mind was confused, resentful, and bitter while my heart desired to know more about my father.
This tension persisted through the next 15 years, generally marked by silence. Silence in car rides to and from dance class; silence at the dinner table; silence while we watched Korean dramas. At times, there were glimpses of a spray patch truck, turning the corner to fill the pothole that loomed between us. Different circumstances brought up questions, which turned into conversations. Different events brought up a smile, a pat on the back, a compliment and an affirmation. Different experiences brought up lessons and a mild scolding. Time made space for strangers to become more familiar and for layers of cold-patch to lessen the depth of the hole.
As I explored colleges and considered the next phase of my life, there was a felt shift in my soul. We began spending time in conversation, asking questions of one another, commenting on the political climate of America and Korea, completing house projects; I would call my father to ask his opinion and advice on certain things, a decision I was trying to make. Perhaps the shift had nothing to do with my father and all to do with me. I recognized the gap which still was marked by hurt and absence. Yet perhaps I realized for the first time that I am able to summon that spray patch truck as much as my father could.
Forgiveness, while necessary, is less of the moral here. Forging a deep understanding of the other allows space for that pothole, while never perfectly smooth, to be amended to its best ability. While I am still learning to forgive, forging has softened my icy shield to understand the gravity of how trauma lives in all of us. Forging prioritizes listening to his story as I seek to understand my story. Forging humanizes the man who is my father.
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