The Fade

by Ethan Chung (18)

I knew what was happening; a sense of awkward sadness came over me. I had answered the phone, and my grandfather greeted me in Korean with “Hello, good son!”  After a lengthy health update, a subject I never discussed with him in such detail, Grandpa began to speak of politics in Korea.  I went along with the conversation, for I was unsure how to tell him what I knew without embarrassing him.  I finished his sentences, waited for his delayed thoughts and mid-sentence attacks of amnesia, and finally he asked me about Ethan and Noah.  “Grandpa,” I said, “this is Ethan.”

My father describes the father he knew during his youth much in the same light as I see my own father--omniscient, sharp-minded, strong, resourceful, and fully capable of fighting and evil or harm that may come to his children.  I suppose both my father and I see the fathers of our youth as a type of super hero, always correct in mind and action, fighting evil and protecting the innocent.  

Every three years, we visit my grandparents in Korea in a neighborhood they watched deteriorate.  My grandmother is so strong, both spiritually and physically, and perhaps her strength compensates for so much of the intellectual and physical integrity my grandfather has lost.  We dine on the floor around a small oriental table, and Grandpa tells stories of the incredible hardships he overcame as a boy.  He tells about the humble roots, of being barefoot in the snow, about stealing food for his sisters and his mother, and of quitting sport to work for his family’s survival.  My brother and I have always felt uncomfortable when he tells these stories, for I feel as though I have led a haughty, pretentiously over-privileged life.  We say nothing. We simply cannot relate. 

My grandfather was a man who worked very hard in many simultaneous jobs and who always provided for my grandmother, father, and two aunts.  He was quick to think, the authority on everything, and the family’s overseer.  My father is the same way.  He has an incredible work ethic and a keen interest in his family’s welfare.  It seems that he is capable of everything, from explaining philosophies to being the best at every sport even at the age of fifty.  He is energetic; he works out at 5:00 every morning, which makes me feel regrettably guilty as I huddle under my covers for another two-and-a-half hours.  I wonder if he knows that I admire his integrity.   

On one particular late night, while doing homework, I felt a dull hunger pain in my stomach.  I decided to go get a snack or a slice of bread to eat. It was very late and I had not intention of revealing my procrastinating study habits. So, I was reduced to sneaking into the kitchen because my parents were strict about getting homework done at a reasonable hour.  As I tip-toed into the kitchen, I heard an odd sound coming from the basement.  I stopped and listened.  There was a series of muffled shouts and quiet murmurs.  My curiosity led me to crawl to the door leading downstairs and crack it open.  As I peeked inside, I saw a shadowy figure on its knees with its head kissing the ground.  It only took a moment to recognize this figure as my father.  

As I stared in silence, it seemed awkward that he would be “praying” at two o’clock in the morning.  It appeared even stranger when it occurred to me that I had never seen my father pray in this manner before.  I could not understand a word even though I recognized it as English, yet I could see that he was weeping.  He was in pain and was pouring his heart out.  As I sat there looking on, I began to feel uncomfortable myself as my own eyes began to swell.  I quickly got my slice of bread from the kirthen and ran back to my room.

I did not see my father the next morning.  It was not until that night that he reappeared from the basement.  I assumed that he had neither slept, eaten, or drunk.  He looked exhausted. He revealed that he had been laid off from his job. A few weeks later, he informed us that he had a job offer from another smaller company. However, since that one night, there was a subtle change in him. He looked older, weaker, more vulnerable.  He had humbled himself.  Something had been extinguished.    

Somehow I cannot imagine my father’s growing old with a sluggish mind.  I still reach for his hand when I am threatened.  I still look to him for sound advice, help with schoolwork, and a date to play tennis.  But I must realize now that my relationship with my father will not always be as it has been.  There will come a time when his physical strength will grow lesser, his spirit calmer, his sharp mind will grow blunted, and he will humorously question my children whether they have grown or he has shrunk.  When this time comes for my father, I will remember him as he remembers his father, as an overseer and a bodyguard, and I will treasure the irreplaceable sense of dominant security he has always unsparingly provided.