Understanding my Korean father was a complex task. He provided for our family by working tirelessly, but his stoic and distant nature kept me from truly knowing him. It wasn’t until we had a conversation about donuts that my perception of him changed completely.
My father relied on hand gestures and expressive facial cues to communicate, as English was a challenge for him. His struggle to find the right words made me realize the loneliness he and my mother must have felt. There was a deeper reason for his emotional distance – he had to create a barrier within himself. How can you connect with someone when you’re not even comfortable in your own skin?
In 1988, my father began working at a factory in Michigan after our family immigrated to the U.S. from South Korea. The factory was like a dark and isolated prison, disconnected from the outside world. Inside those cold walls, my father’s humanity became lost as he performed repetitive tasks day in and day out.
It wasn’t until recently that my father started sharing glimpses of those years, catching me off guard. One particular moment was during Thanksgiving dinner in 2021, when he told a story that had a profound impact on me.
“I know my parents worked hard to make a living for me and my sister. But what I never thought about in those years was how lonely they must have felt.”
After working at the factory for about seven years, my father developed friendships with some of his co-workers. One day, a friend brought a box of donuts – a quintessential American treat. The donuts, covered in frosting, glaze, and sprinkles, were placed on a steel table in the workspace. Without hesitation, my father took one and offered it to the co-worker next to him, taking one for himself as well. The room fell silent, and all eyes were on my father. He quickly learned that the donuts were only meant for a select few who had already paid for them.
Another employee bluntly informed my father that the donut wasn’t his to take. However, upon realizing my father’s genuine confusion, the coworker told him to keep it. Unable to explain himself due to his limited English, my father bowed his head and reached for some loose change in his pocket, insisting on paying for the donut he had taken. He quietly consumed it and continued working, overhearing whispers from others. What hurt him the most was being seen as a freeloader or accused of theft.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I listened to my father recount this experience. I understood exactly why he took the donut without hesitation.
My father took pride in his Korean heritage. In Korean culture, when someone brings something to the workplace, typically food, it is meant for everyone to share. Koreans consider themselves interconnected, belonging to each other as much as to themselves. This mindset was deeply ingrained in him. It could feel burdensome at times, but it was also his salvation. He offered a donut to his co-worker because it was in his nature to share, and he took one for himself to embrace the kindness of others together.
My father was someone who would go out of his way to help a stranger, never arriving at a friend’s house empty-handed – this was the Korean way. He would have been the one bringing donuts for everyone next time, but that opportunity never came.
“My appa was the kind of man who would go out of his way to help a neighbor he didn’t even know; he’d never go to a friend’s house empty-handed, because this is the Korean way.”
As my father finished his story, he asserted that what he did wasn’t wrong, and his co-worker’s response wasn’t wrong either. His calm conviction made it clear that he had made peace with the situation and many others that I may never fully understand. He had come to embrace the fact that no matter how long he lived in America, he would always be Korean at the core.
I also noticed how my mother, my umma, responded to the story. She didn’t react at all. She, too, had made peace with the unchangeable and undeniable.
Later that evening, with satisfied bellies from our traditional Thanksgiving meal, we silently sliced fruit for dessert. It wasn’t a cold silence; it was a warm embrace, carrying the weight of untold stories of separation and reconciliation that needed a safe place to exist.
For over 30 years, my father’s distance has remained a mystery to me. It wasn’t just his personality; it was also the result of immigrating to a new country. The trauma of that experience never left his being.
I’ve never had a taste for donuts – they’re too sweet for my liking. However, the lesson my father learned in that moment at the factory left a bitter taste in my heart that no sweetness could erase.
My father loved me, loved us, all along, but I never fully grasped it. He shielded me from his stories all those years. I’m not sure what it meant for him to finally share this memory with his family. What I hope is that he felt a sense of relief, that his voice was heard, and his story was told without any misconceptions.
Sometimes, love is about protection – enduring pain silently to shield your children from a world that misunderstands, a world that wants to erase your existence. And you continue to love and protect for as long as you can.
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