Chapter 24
24
MALCOLM
I ’ve been sitting in my truck for nearly ten minutes, staring at the house I grew up in and trying to find the willpower to get out and go inside. The words of my father and the sounds of my mother crying play on a loop in my head as if I’d just heard them yesterday.
‘How could you do this to us?’
‘You can’t quit school, an education is important.’
‘You’ve disgraced our family.’
‘Get out and don’t come back until you’re ready to live up to your potential.’
Coming back here was a practice of mental strength and self-control seeing as how part of the reason I became an addict was because of the harsh expectations that were set for me growing up. While my parents and I were second and third generation Korean-Americans and had adopted many American traditions and practices, there were still some strongly clung to values that lived on inside our family home. Respecting your parents wishes being the biggest one—and I hadn’t done that. Well, I tried to, but so much so that it caused me to self-destruct in a pretty big way. Looking at the front door, I know I’ll be welcoming in painful memories and opening old wounds by staying here. But I’d made a promise to Umma and while he might not admit it, I know my dad will appreciate that I’m here for the holiday.
‘Your father loves you, Malcolm.’
I scoff at the thought and shake my head. I give my dad five minutes before he makes some backhanded comment about my tattoos or asks me when I’m going to ‘leave that bartending gig’ for good. Just like he did when I was growing up, my father will never outwardly tell me he is disappointed in me. Instead, he chooses a more passive route of letting you know that you aren’t living up to the expectations set for you. One that, when you speak to him, you are silently asking yourself if he just insulted you and by the drive home you know that he did. Reaching behind my seat, I grab my overnight bag and sling the backpack in the front seat over my shoulder. It knocks into my back with a heavy ‘ thumph’ since I’d packed it full of books and other essentials I knew I’d want while I was staying at their place.
“Hello,” I call out as I step inside, kicking off my shoes by the front door.I snort when I see that a pair of plain black slippers have been left out for my arrival. Just like always. Stepping into them, I set my stuff down at the base of the steps and look around. A simple wooden cross hangs on the wall next to the front door with pictures of our family hanging around it. My eyes breeze over them having looked at them hundreds of times before. Three people with the same dark eyes and jet black hair looking at the camera without smiling. My mom with her arm draped over my shoulder, holding tight to her only child and my dad with his arms by his sides, there but disconnected. I start to move down the white painted hallway, looking at the pictures as I go when I hear hurried Korean spoken to me.
“There he is, my beautiful son,” Umma says in fluent Korean. Growing up, she always spoke to me in Korean, helping me learn the language and stay tied to my ancestral roots. My father, on the other hand, thought it was important for me to speak English and sound as American as I could. According to him, I would be offered better jobs and get more opportunities that way. As a kid, I always found it annoying that one parent would only ever speak to me in Korean while the other hardly spoke a word of it. As an adult, I love the gift my mother gave me of knowing another language. While I might not use it outside of our family home, it’s still comforting to walk in and hear the language that makes up part of who I am.
“Hello, Umma,” I reply, speaking in the language I know she’ll expect. I lean over so she can give me a hug and a peck on the cheek. She pulls away and presses the palms of her hands into my cheeks, frowning, and I wait for whatever comment she’s going to make about how I look.
“You’re too skinny. Come inside and let me feed you.”
I laugh and shake my head at her, holding onto her wrists. “I’m not too skinny, I’m fine, Umma. Look at how strong I am, you think a skinny guy has muscles like these?” When I flex she laughs and waves her hand at me, encouraging me to follow her into the kitchen. She flicks a finger towards the table and I take the same seat I’d always sat in growing up. Before I can tell her I’m not hungry or even take a breath, she’s setting several platters of food in front of me. She must have been cooking the last few days as many of my favorite childhood dishes are fully prepped and ready for me to consume.
“Umma, I’m not hungry,” I try to tell her but she ignores me and places a pair of chopsticks in my hand. Grabbing a plate, she sets it in front of me and starts to fill it up with various dishes, fussing over me under her breath in Korean. Knowing that this is how she shows me she cares, I place a hand on her back and smile at her. She pauses to look at me and I lean in and give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Umma. I love you.”
Her face softens into a smile but only for a moment until the padding of footsteps on the stairs reaches the two of us. Standing up straight, she moves into the kitchen leaving me sitting at the table and in eyeshot of the hallway. When he rounds the corner and looks at me, it feels as if the temperature in the room has reached subzero temperatures. I set my chopsticks down and stand from the table to meet him in the doorway.
“Hello, father,” I greet him in English with a respectful bow. When I rise, he looks at me through metal framed glasses with his lips pulled into a tight line. My heart pounds against my chest as I wait for him to respond and I try to brace myself for what he might say.
He bows in return. “Son. Thank you for spending the holiday with us. We’re happy you’re here.”
I blink a few times and try not to look as surprised as I feel. His words almost feel genuine and I wonder what kinds of conversations took place before my arrival.
“Th–thank you. I’m happy to be here.” My heart rate starts to slow and he gives me a curt nod before moving towards the table and taking a seat. Just like she did for me, my mother sets a plate in front of him and starts to give him sizable portions of the various things she’s made. He waves a hand at her and thanks her in Korean before picking up his own chopsticks.
“So how’s that bar you work at doing?” he asks, not looking up from his plate as he takes a bite.
“The bar I manage is great, thank you for asking. We have a really good group of people who work there and it’s always busy. I’m never bored, which I like,” I reply. His eyes shoot to mine when I emphasize the word ‘manage,’ reminding him again that I’m not just another employee. I hold a leadership role that I worked hard to earn and was proud to have.
“So much potential just wasting away in a bar,” he gruffs, speaking into his food. Five minutes. It took him five minutes.
I set my utensils down and cross my hands on top of the table, looking at him. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”
Something I’d learned while going through the program is that it’s always better to get things out into the open instead of letting them fester. And since my family are the reigning champions of just brushing everything under the rug, I figure we can try something new for once and face things head on. He glances up at me, clearly surprised by my question, and sits up straight in his chair.
“I’m sure you have a good time cutting loose and mixing drinks on the weekends, but playing bartender isn’t a real living, Son. We raised you for bigger and better things than hanging out with a bunch of addicts and losers and calling it work.”
The back of my neck starts to warm even though I expected this exact thing from him. I know how much he disapproves of my life, but hearing him speak so poorly about the people I work with is too much for me.
“What do you hate more, Dad, the fact that I work with a bunch of ‘addicts and losers’ as you say or the fact that I’m one of them? Or do you need to be reminded again that I, too, am an addict in recovery?” We glare at one another as an uncomfortable silence falls over the house. Instead of responding, he takes the easy way out and continues to eat his food. Not one to let things go, I continue.
“I’m proud of who I am, Dad. You might not be, but I am. I know I screwed things up and I didn’t go down the path you wanted me to but I managed to pull myself out of a really bad spot. I’m proud of that and I’m proud of who I’ve become.” He doesn’t look at me. “I’m proud of the people I work with and I’m proud to be a manager at Butcher and Block. Those people are like my family, we look out for one another. I worked really hard to get to where I am today and work really hard everyday to stay on track. I wish you would see that. I wish you would be proud of me too.”
A sense of relief washes over me as I say the words and finally vocalize what I’ve wanted from him all along—for him to accept me as I am and to be proud of the work I’ve done to get to where I am in life. Needing to do something with my hands, I take a bite of the food that’s been patiently sitting in front of me. Awkward silence hangs over the room as we both eat without another word. Umma, who had taken a seat next to him, cautiously takes a bite as she waits for the stalemate to come to an end. Once he is done, he stands from his seat and heads for the stairs once more. Before crossing the threshold, he turns and looks at me where I sit.
“I wish for so much more for you because I know how much potential you have.” My eyes cast down, waiting for another sideways insult to come my way. “But I am proud of the man you’ve become. You’ve come so far in your recovery and that shows true strength.”
I scurry to my feet to match his bow and wait to stand until I see that he’s turned on his heels and left for good. Rising slowly, I think about what he’s just said. A smile threatens to form on my lips as I sit back down, allowing his words to sink beneath my skin. Umma grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, not looking at me but smiling softly at her plate.
“This food is delicious, thank you for making it,” I thank her, speaking in Korean once more. “I was hungry after all.”
She chuckles to herself and nods, glancing her eyes towards me. “A mother always knows when her son is hungry.”
Shaking her hand in mine, I smile at her again and take another bite of food. Maybe being home for the holiday won’t be so bad afterall.