“I only spent 7 years, a fraction of my life, in this part of the city. Everything from that time is so vivid. When I come here, they flash by me like everything happened yesterday. Those were the hardest days of my life.”

Dad had always been a phenomenal storyteller. He built his career on telling stories. Three weeks ago the winter winds from the East Sea and Korea Strait had sprung on Busan. Dad, my brother, and I abandoned any ambition about walking along the sea. We met at the original downtown in Busan where Dad grew up. The three of us gazed over the city from the rooftop of LOTTE Department Store Gwangbok.

Dad rambled. None of what he shared were snappy. He recollected, out loud, those memories he had kept near and dear for decades.

Birth

Grandma was born in Osaka to Korean parents during the Japanese occupation. Her first language was Japanese and that’s all she spoke until she returned to Korea following V-J Day. Growing up, her parents drove into her the fact she was Korean, but Korea and Koreans didn’t welcome her. Not because of ill intent. There was not enough of anything to share. Society didn’t wait to make room for an ethnically Korean but culturally Japanese stranger. She struggled.

Grandma married Grandpa, who was decades older, when she was still in her 20s. It was her second marriage. That’s just how things were back then.

Grandpa was a chipper gantry crane operator to whom Dad was the crown jewel of his life. One day, there was an accident at the container yard where a crate fell and damaged Grandpa’s head. Life changed. Home, Grandpa would beat Grandma. Because he wasn’t in his right mind, he threatened to kill her with french knives.

She couldn’t take it anymore and ran away—abandoning Dad in the process. Fear overwhelmed her, and she didn’t have the bandwidth to look out for anyone other than herself.

Life gave Dad’s family lemons and they rotted.

Death

Dad now had an insane father and a missing mother. His relatives took him out of his home to go live with them. He was a burden—one more mouth to feed— for a family with their own biological children.

Dad heard from somebody who heard from somebody that Grandma was in a different part of the city. He visited the address and found out that Grandma had gotten remarried. He saw his mom from a distance, preoccupied with taking care of the children of a strange man. She would clean up after them, saying words and caressing them like how she did for him a couple months ago.

Dad buried his childhood innocence and his unspeakable pains then and there.

Burial

During holidays, my family visited 3 places: Grandma on my mom’s side, Grandma on my dad’s side, and a third Grandma.

Dad reckoned he had a better chance to survive growing up as a orphan than to return to his uncaring Dad or his relatives. He visited the nearest police station.

“Where are your parents, kid?” the officer asked. “They died” he fibbed. It was a time where too many people died for all kinds of reasons. Deaths went unreported. The police wasn’t going to push further to confirm the veracity of this fifth grader.

That clear afternoon on the rooftop, we could see off in the distance the iconic Bongnae Mountain. We were told Dad’s orphanage, Cheonghak Nongyewon, was on the other side of the mountain from our line of sight. Well kempt and dilapidated houses went up and down the hill like the barriadas in Peru.

When Dad decided to become an orphan, he knew where all his “guardians” lived. Yeong Island was familiar to him because he grew up with his parents there. He knew full well he was hitting the reset button.

No one heard anything again from Grandpa. Dad mentioned in passing Grandpa most likely passed away alone while Dad was at the orphanage.

I’d love to tell you that my father lived happily ever after. That didn’t happen. After the lemons came the limes.

Decomposition

Dad pointed to a location on the seashore.

“Winter was the season to make kimchi. The orphanage bought the cabbage but didn’t have money for salt. I couldn’t feel my fingers washing the cabbage in freezing seawater on a windy day like today.”

I was getting agitated. The stories weren’t well woven with lessons skillfully tucked in. This was so unlike him.

“They used to give me a weekly allowance to commute to my school on land. Since I was starving most times, I would spend all my allowance to eat to my heart’s content in the beginning of the week. Then I’d walk back to the island the rest of the week. Food from Jagalchi Market was heavenly.”

It’s been a couple weeks since I hung out with Dad. Thankfully the passing of time clarified the feelings I felt that day.

I had no idea what Dad wanted to share, but intuitively knew what he unearthed from 60 years ago was guaranteed to be heavy. And I wasn’t ready. At least give me warning before plunging in. Let me ease into things.

Anyone, anytime can pick up and watch a romantic comedy on a whim. Instead, I got caught offguard with first row seats to a long parade of familial dysfunctions. There was nothing I could do to look away. I couldn’t do anything to soften the fear, mortification, and rage that swept over me. I felt uncomfortable and insecure because I had zero clue how to soothe Dad.

A couple months ago, I was on the phone with my parents after my counseling session. At my counselor’s suggestion, I was sharing how they traumatized me. Mom tried to defend herself but Dad kept quiet. Then he spoke:

“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. I unintentionally passed down my agony when I didn’t mean to. I’m glad you’re talking to your therapist and thankful you’re sharing this… Who can I go talk to about my pain?”

Therapist? Yes. But all Dad’s perpetrators are long dead and gone.

I realized the person who stood next to me that afternoon wasn’t a waning sixty seven year old man. I had somehow spent time walking, listening, and holding space for a fifth grade kid.