the heel press

There were always multiple remote controls in our living-dining-as-one-room.  One for TV, another for VHS.  Not one, ever, for a Stereo.  My mom and dad, or Mama and Papa as I call them, were not the type to listen to music at home, only at discos; and even then, they probably only heard it.

I don’t recall Papa ever reading a book or newspaper; he was only ever interested in the Derby section of the Spotsu-Shinbun (Sports Newspaper).  When he was home, he would turn on the TV with a can of beer as soon as he woke.  Automatic as a reflex.  He considered beer as his daily intake of water.  With the remote control in his hand, he would constantly change the channel, jumping from one program to another; symbolizing his aggressive, impatient nature.  And always turning up the volume to an unnecessary, almost painful level; epitomizing his overt exaggeration.  It was like he enjoyed the power he held right at the tip of his fingertips.  Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of my favorite cartoon like Doraemon or Sazaesan and beg him persistently, stubbornly, even pesteringly, to change it back.  Just like his channel-surfing, his moods were as erratic.  So, if I was lucky, he would grant me my wish, which was a rare occasion; and if I wasn’t, my constant nagging would irritate him.  On a bad night, this would somehow trigger a domino effect of escalating anger, targeting not me, but Mama; from his belligerent yelling to remote controls (or anything breakable in his reach, for that matter) being thrown across the room, to a blow in her face.  Even a fist never kept her quiet.  I can still see her crouched on the floor, carefully picking up those broken pieces, and hear her weeping.  Urging him to go ahead and break everything, if that pleased him.  Even in her whimpering voice, I felt her defiance, her strength within her tears.  And I watched her fight her own battle against him over many years.  Never afraid to cross that line of taboo and talk back to Him.  Never scared to voice her anger.  Never gave Him the satisfaction to take THAT away from her.  Her Voice.  Her Anger.  Which was Hers.  Rightfully Hers.

The next morning would be as any other morning.  Normal.  Like what happened last night never happened.  Like it was just my nightmare.  Were they blind?  Nothing was “normal” or “the same”.  The new beat-up remote.  Scratched.  Cracked.  All taped up as if to “hold it all together”.  Inevitably, some parts were missing.  Desperate strips of black duct tape camouflaged the damage, bandaged the wounds.  It never looked the same.  Never worked the same.  No easy, one-touch commands any more.  Now, it required multiple tries, with more pressure, even needed a little banging before it worked.  It just never healed.

And I can say the same for my family.  We were never the same.  Or, at least, I was never the same.  I resented this pretense of a “happy family”.  And like the remote, I was damaged.  I am damaged.  And I will always be damaged.  Maybe that is why I remember only in Fragments.  Stream of specific but seemingly unrelated images.  A montage of broken scraps.  Just like Papa’s sporadic surfing, nothing comes to an end; nothing is whole.  I feel incomplete because I am incomplete.  Without knowing what exactly is missing.  Without knowing what those nightmarish nights of fitful fights robbed me of.  Love.  Normalcy.  Self Respect.  Honesty.  Affection.  Dignity.  Truth.  Trust.  Memory.  Memory of my childhood I hardly remember.  Maybe to forget.  Maybe.  To hide. 

Ironically, now even oceans apart, living in a different country on the opposite sides of the planet, Mama and Papa still continue to camouflage the scratches and cracks of inconvenient truths with convenient ignorance.  They hold the seemingly new remote in their hands; and this time, they have chosen to turn me off, shut me out.  I can only hope, for now.  Furious with my decisions.  My choices.  Mostly, for who I am.  Or who I’ve become.  Ungrateful.  Selfish.  Even Disgraceful.  An Alien.  They are unwilling to compromise their expectations of my future.   Hopes of their dreams.  Of my marriage.  “We have let you do anything you wished, follow your dream and live in America; but on this (marriage) we cannot and will not compromise.”  Because they believe as Their Right and My Obligation to marry within our kind, meaning not Asian but only Korean.  Because, in their minds, Koreans are superior to any race; and they want full-blooded Korean grandchildren to boast and be proud of.  (However, they will grudgingly pass a Japanese, as they did for my sister since we were all born and raised there; and, ironically, we only speak Japanese).  Above all, they believe They hold the key to my happiness, not Me.

Today, you focus your attention solely on my sister’s channel.  Is her life that much better?  Or, more likely, her life is familiar and, therefore, comforting.  My channel, on the other hand, challenges you.  Challenges the force of habit.  Challenges the mundane ways of “how it has always been”.  Challenges the core of your security, where nothing changes and nothing ever will.  I Challenge you to Change.  You have chosen rather to ignore and deny than to face these challenges; Me.  Why?  Because you are threatened by Change.  Blinded by tradition, you only see through your narrow, partial perspective.  And I threaten this fragile world of yours you desperately hold onto. 

I wish that somehow I can be a convincing thought in their minds, for them to see my Life from an objective view.  In hopes to shed light on those hidden inconvenient truths, broaden their channels and understanding of what is “Right”.  Most importantly:  To see who I am.  To reveal that I have done nothing wrong, only chosen to take control of my life.  Only taken what was Mine.  Rightfully Mine.  My Right to Live My Life for Me.  Nobody else but Me.

There are countless “Right” ways to live, not just One.  And I just want to get through to Them.

Though they’ve turned me off, they still remotely control my life, here and now.  Desperate strips of tape still exist to “cover it all up”.  The pain.  The longing.  I miss this missing piece of Mama the most.  The woman I respect and love.  “I am going to marry Mama when I grow up,” I bragged as a child.  She’s the one I’ve always wanted to please.  I only ever wanted to make her happy.  Proud of me.  I miss you, Mama.  No matter how happy I am with the life I have chosen, there will always be an emptiness Mama can only fill; an empty channel in me.  Only for Mama.  A channel to record what we could share.  What I always dreamed of sharing.  My wedding.  I dreamsee your smile at the first sight of me in my wedding dress.  My first born child.  I dreamhear your cry as you hold my baby in your arms.  I dream a Dream of Our Lives as Women.