Thank you, Sabs

So for those of you who don't know why my Sabumnims are so cool and why I admire and respect (and fear) them so much...here's a look. I remember reading this article that S Sr wrote, maybe 4 years ago. Back then I didn't really know who they were, but I remember being inspired in particular by this one.

And as I think back on this past weekend, and what it was like to be one of the few Koreans in the predominantly-white, possibly anti-Korean setting, and how antsy they were that I was being treated fairly, how indignant they were when it seemed like I wasn't, and how excited they were when I made the team - I realize that I see in them the Korean-American balance that I want to have. To get the best of both worlds. To be American (heck they lectured me about voting more than anyone else, and the ones that ultimately pushed me over the top to register) but to know and cherish and be proud of who I am.

Thank you, Sabs.

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Thank you, Dad

Dad was a diplomat for Korea, so my twin brother and I grew up all over the place. We were born in Tokyo, and grew up in Korea, the Philippines, Argentina, Japan and the U.S. So I remember my childhood as a series of separate lives with different friends, schools, languages, foods, tastes and smells.

I also have some very vivid memories of certain incidents in my life which I remember just because they came to define who I am.

My brother and I were four when we moved to the Philippines. When we were six, we enrolled in pre-school. It was a Filipino school, and we were the only Koreans in our class. In fact, we were the only Koreans, Japanese or Chinese kids in school at the time. We were also scrawny little kids - so small when we were born that my mother did not even know she was having twins until I was born, and the doctor regretfully informed by mother that there was one more left. My mom's reaction was to faint (from joy she claims, although knowing what I know now as a parent, it was probably from sheer terror at the prospect of trying to raise 4 kids at the same time).

Kids being capable of brutally honest cruelty at that age, at the end of school one day, as we were waiting to be picked up, a group of about 20 of our schoolmates surrounded us in a tight circle and started closing in on my twin and me. They started chanting in unison, louder and louder, "JAP!!! JAP!!! JAP!!!", all the while using their hands to spread their eyes to make the moronic, but universally accepted symbol for "slant-eye".

At this point I would like to say that we used our Taekwondo skills to dispatch the ringleaders with a few spectacular kicks to the head, and send the rest of the gang scurrying away with their tails between their legs. Unfortunately for us, our first Taekwondo lesson was still a month away. Instead, my brother and I just squatted down in the middle of the circle, side by side, and started to cry...Alright, let's be honest, we started to bawl. The chanting around us just went on and on.

After what seemed like an eternity, out of the corner of my eye I saw salvation. Dad!!! My hero, come to save the day. He quickly approached us, and the band of thugs dispersed. He took my brother and me by the hand. Instead of comforting us, however, he was strangely cold. The ride back home was completely silent. When we got home, my father ordered us to go upstairs, change into our pajamas, even though it was 3 in the afternoon, and in one of the rare expressions of anger he has ever displayed, slammed our bedroom shut without saying a word to us. Why, I wondered?

A month later, we signed up for Taekwondo lessons with Master Young Man Park, the first Korean Master sent from Korea to teach in the Philippines. I remember the day after my first class, as I was going to sleep, my Dad came to tuck me in. He asked how Taekwondo class was. I said it was fine, but that my thighs hurt from the stretching. He just smiled and turned out the lights.

Two years later we moved to Argentina. We enrolled in a Scottish boys' school. As if we hadn't stood out enough in the Philippines, where at least the kids for the most part shared our black hair, here we were now among Scottish, English, American and Argentine kids. Blond hair and blue eyes was the norm. The names and the cruel funny eyes started immediately, with "JAP!!! JAP!!! JAP!!!" becoming "CHINITO - JAPONES!!! CHINITO - JAPONES!!! CHINITO - JAPONES!!!" chanted in a sing-song, almost catchy way. Just as quickly, my brother and I took out the kicks and punches. We settled scores every day for the first month with anyone who made fun of us because we were Korean. Big or small, it didn't matter, we took them all on. They all backed down after a kick or a punch. They became our friends. Some even became our best friends.

Dad never sat us down and told us why he was mad at us, and over the years I've wondered what went through his head that day, and on the day he signed us up for lessons. I know Dad well enough to know that he didn't enroll us in Taekwondo to create two belligerent fools who would try to settle every score physically (heck, we both became lawyers). But on the other hand, he never told us he enrolled us in Taekwondo so that we could learn to stand on our own two feet. He never gave us a pat on the back congratulating us for fighting for and winning our right to look Korean in a non-Korean world. And I've never thanked him for giving me the gift of Taekwondo.

Thank you, Dad.