Unspoken

I wish I could tell my dad I love him.  The words come easily for my husband, son, and friends, but I can’t summon them for my father, even as he drifts closer to death.  Instead of resenting him, I want to love my dad the way a daughter should: with admiration, fondness, and a closeness developed over decades of shared memories and experiences. Instead, I go through the motions that a good daughter should as her dad dies: help him walk, eat, and use the restroom. 

My parents, like other Koreans who emigrated to America in the 1970s, were struck with migukbyung, or, American Fever.  They fled Korea to escape their parents’ disapproval of their romance.  It didn’t take long for them to realize that the American Dream was a sham. Their college degrees were worthless here, and the only skill they could put to use was their scrappy drive, motivated by a thirst for money. Joining other Korean entrepreneurs, they opened a string of businesses to support their family: a Jewish deli in New York, a Scandinavian buffet in Los Angeles, and finally, a liquor store in the projects of Los Angeles.  In spite of the language barrier, they did well for themselves, making a home for our family in a middle class suburb. My siblings and I had our own bedrooms, and a large backyard with a swing set. They did whatever it took to subsist in their new country. Ever the hustlers, my parents especially took pride in gaming the system, and sought out opportunity at every turn.

A trip to McDonald’s was a rare treat, but we were never allowed to order anything other than 4 plain hamburgers, one order of fries, and a soda to share. I ducked my head in shame when my parents pocketed  fistfuls of napkins and ketchup packets. We took turns sipping the soda, but eventually I chose not to be part of the scam and guzzled water from a plastic cup instead. My dad, shaking his head, told me I was stupid. I longed to be like other kids in the PlayPlace with Happy Meals that came with their own order of fries and sodas. 

In 1989, I was 11, and we needed to fly to New York for my cousin’s wedding. Flying from LAX to LaGuardia was expensive, but my mom had a plan. She found out that a grocery chain was hosting a promotion: provide proof of spending $500 of groceries in exchange for a travel voucher. After school, she sped to the grocery store, parked in the lot, and barked at us to collect receipts. My siblings and I scavenged for discarded white slips on the steaming black asphalt that had been baking in the sun all afternoon. My sixteen-year-old sister refused to beg, so my six-year-old brother and I approached shoppers as they exited the store. After about half an hour, we piled into the car, thrust the receipts into an envelope, and sped to the next grocery store. We did this every day for weeks until we collected $2,000 worth of receipts. My mom took us to New York without my dad. 

My dad was absent from our family shenanigans. He stayed behind to man the liquor store because closing the store meant no income. Dad’s role was to provide for us. On weekend mornings, my dad woke me at 6am, to work at the store.  I would have rather been at the mall with my friends like a normal teenager, but, resigned to my fate, I tried to connect with dad, asking about his childhood, hoping for a light of interest in his dull eyes or a rise of excitement in his voice. His terse responses gave me the impression that follow-up questions were unwelcome. And he never asked me questions about what was happening in my life, so our time was spent in silence. I longed for a Hollywood dad like Mike Brady or Danny Tanner. I’d even take a stern and disappointed Philip Banks. Instead, I was ashamed of my dad, which festered into dislike. Many young people trade parental contempt for fondness as they mature, but I am 43, and I have yet to experience this magical shift of perspective. Looking back, I realize that my dislike might have been a defense mechanism to stop being hurt by my father’s lack of interest in me or my American youth. Either way, I wish I’d learned how to bridge the divide. And now my dad is dying of stomach cancer.

Once burly, he is now skeletal, his skin stretched taut. A man of few words, he’s gone silent, motioning with a flick of cloudy eyes, a dismissing wave, a slight nod. Breaths come unevenly, heaving when he tries to rise from the hospital bed in my parents’ living room. My mom makes jook, Korean rice porridge, scrambled eggs, stew, and other mushy foods to encourage him to eat. He struggles to stand, wobbles to the table with his walker, and attempts to feed himself, a two-hour feat. Most of that time, he stares, gurgling sounds reverberating from where his stomach used to be. Though I don’t want to be there, I come every day, as a good daughter should. 

As an American-born Korean-American, I see choice and freedom as options in my life. My parents are still shackled by their Korean upbringing that put duty and sacrifice above all else. My dad did not see pleasure as an option; his life has been propelled only by obligation. Did he ever pursue fun? What did he enjoy? I can’t remember him laughing or smiling, only the serious look of a man committed to work. When my mom signed us up for golf lessons, he rolled his eyes and said, “Only nitwits play golf.” He liked fishing, but would never go to the water, even when we asked. Yearning to understand his strange decisions, I’d ask for explanations, try to get to know this man who gave me life, but he simply shouted, “NO CHOICE!” 

Why couldn’t we go on family vacations? “NO CHOICE!” Why did my parents work seven days a week? “NO CHOICE!” Why did we have to work at their store? “NO CHOICE!”  Why did we drive American muscle cars when everyone else had moved on to fuel-efficient Japanese vehicles? “NO CHOICE!” When I took over their finances and insurance, I suggested they upgrade their plan to something with more coverage so they could see better physicians, but my father refused. “NO CHOICE!”

After being diagnosed three years ago, my father endured surgery to remove his stomach, followed by radiation and chemotherapy. Naively, I thought this might change him. Even when weakened by chemo, he strove to fulfill his obligation to work: he pored over ads in the paper for business opportunities with his morning coffee. When his rentals had a plumbing emergency or needed a tree cut down, he refused to hire help, and instead did it himself. His most recent stint was working as an Uber driver, in spite of us voicing our concerns about declining driving skills. His lead foot and sudden braking landed him a 3-star rating. There was a window of time when he was strong enough to go on excursions with my family. One day, we visited a science museum my son loved, and as we left, my dad shook his head and said, “That place is a waste of money. You always waste money.” 

The cancer spread, leading to emergency room visits and hospital stays. After a stint in the ICU, a surgeon delivered the bad news. A tumor the size of a loaf of bread sat in his abdomen, and there was nothing left to do. Although the doctor predicted a quick death, Dad rallied. Each day, I woke up thinking, “This is it. Today is it.” It’s been  four months and counting. Why is Dad holding on? Is he waiting for me to say the words I never could? Somewhere under that gruff exterior, does he believe there is unfinished business between us? 

Now, the tables have turned. I care for him as I did for my son, spooning frozen Gatorade into his mouth, holding bottles of Ensure to his lips, urging him to eat. I’ve changed his diapers, stood by his side at the toilet, cleaned up when his bowels  exploded all over the walls. Reduced to a barely functioning patient, my father has no shame. He stands by his bed, pulls his penis out and pisses into a jug the hospital gave him, then holds out the carafe, indicating I should empty it. I divorce emotion from these tasks, performing them with robotic efficiency. 

Most of the time that I am there, my dad sleeps. I sit with my mom as she sobs. “I wish I could die, too,” she wails. I remind her that she never really liked my dad, and once he passes, she will have the freedom she yearned for, but she glares at me and tells me to shut up. “But what kind of life will I have all by myself?” She doesn’t want words of comfort or logic. She just wants to suffer, which my parents believe is the basis of their existence. I disagree. And that’s why I wish I could say I love you, if not for him, then for me. I want him to know that his sacrifices were not all for naught. 

I search for tender moments, but can’t find any. Only his heavy hand slapping my cheek, the time he stood my siblings and me in a line and beat us with a 2x4, while his mother shouted, “Dyeahruh, dyeahruh!” Hit them, hit them! 

When I left for grad school, our interactions were limited to favors: Dad asked me to file paperwork, print documents, or translate something. My visits diminished to holidays or birthdays, which I would rush through, pleading conferences, dinners with friends, or studying. We never hugged or kissed. My dad waved from the couch, as I yelled, “Bye!” Once I left, I chased the life I had longed for: I lived in an apartment with roommates, traveled to San Francisco, Mexico City, London, Miami, Scotland, and Chicago. I explored the city on weekends, loving all the museums, concerts, book readings, art galleries, new restaurants with budding chefs, old LA bars, haunts of 1960’s movie stars, and of course, people from all corners of the world, each with a story I yearned to hear. I cracked open the walls my parents had erected around me. I learned that curiosity was allowed, and asking questions was not an act of defiance. I tried to share my new insights, but they didn’t want to hear it. And yet, I still craved their approval. 

When I met the man who would become my husband, I was amazed by the closeness he had with his father. Why couldn’t I have that with mine? Once, I found him cradling the phone to one ear, laughing. He ended the conversation with “I love you, Dad,” and a tightness gripped my chest. I envied the way Mike sought advice from his father, bantered with him, and had deep conversations about current events. When I met Mike’s parents, I was in awe of the love they shared. Jokes and hugs abounded, and they radiated happiness. Jeff declared, “You’re so smart (funny/ clever/ creative/ thoughtful), Mike!” and Mike practically shone with joy. 

I know my dad is proud of me. Once, after receiving my mail by accident, his eyes shone and he smiled as he said, “It's for the doctor.” When I ran a marathon at 36, he and Mom cheered me on. A few years ago, Dad attended my son’s preschool concert, beaming at the four-year-olds on the stage. Afterwards, while walking to my car, he teared up. “I wish I could have seen my kids do things like this, but I had to work,” he said. 

Instead of seeing his regret, I seethed with anger. It was easier to keep him in the box of people I dislike, and hold on to resentment than to see him as a whole person. Anger protects us from the painful range of emotions that come with grief. I was grieving the father-daughter relationship I never had. 

I recently found some old photos of my dad. The sepia pictures show him young and handsome on a motorcycle, cross-country skiing in a black beret, wearing a military uniform while brandishing a rifle, holding bouquets of flowers while wearing a cap and gown, playing the clarinet in a marching band. He was so many things before he was my dad. 

In many ways, we are alike, which was a harsh realization for me. I am also dynamic, and skilled. I also lead a rich and full life. I also have interests and passions. I don’t want that part of me to die, the way it did for my dad. 

My dad lived in a different time and culture where once you had kids, you closed the door on your former self, and shifted your focus to surviving and helping your children succeed. Was it resentment that made him remind us again and again of the sacrifices he made for us? They left their life in Korea, so we could grow up as Americans. They saved to afford our education. They skipped leisure, rest, and self-care to provide for us. In exchange, I was to repay them through my achievements, financial successes, and helping them when they demanded it.  Bottomless debt is a heavy burden to bear.  

Yesterday, my dad struggled to open a can of soda. I grabbed it, flipped the tab, and poured its contents into a glass of ice. Was that showing him my love? I wish I could say the words. Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to utter them to my dad. I love you. Would it be like turning a release valve on a pressure cooker? Would my dad pretend not to hear me, refuse to return the gesture? Would he turn his head away, as he did with my brother? 

 I am not ready to find out. Instead, I bring him lunch, wipe his nose, blot his mouth, and change his soiled clothes. Each day, he fades a little more—sleeping longer, eating less—and grows more confused. I rub my hand over his knotty vertebrae, squeeze his bony shoulders, stroke his hair, soft as the feathers of a newborn chick. 

Maybe I don’t need to tell my dad that I love him, because he doesn’t need those words. He and my mom often said, “Only white people say I love you. Words are  empty. We show you love.” But they raised me to be an American, so this logic doesn’t satisfy me. Why can’t we do both? Then again, they also refuse to say other things, like “I’m sorry,” or “Thank you.” Love was expressed through obligation and sacrifice, contrition and gratitude were conveyed through gifts or food. To them, words were unnecessary signs of weakness. My dad will leave this world having never told his wife or children that he loves them. Even though I know he loved us in his own way, I don’t subscribe to their verbal constipation. I tell my friends, husband, and son that I love them daily. I give them the physical affection that I craved. And I hope that one day, I can find the courage to tell my dad I love him too.

Julie Song is a Brooklyn-born professor by day who practices her passion for creative writing late into the night. She completed her PhD at the University of California, Irvine, where she studied immigration, race, and ethnicity. Julie is passionate about issues of social justice, feminism, and racial inequality. She lives in the Los Angeles area with her husband, son, and two furry children, Lola & Chloe.