The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers : An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 197

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers : An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal I am a writer. And ironically, I struggle with words. Despite publishing books, I often find more comfort in equations than in sentences. Perhaps it's because I come from a background in engineering and the sciences. This latest book, however, is about my father. Korean fathers, unlike their Western counterparts, are shaped by Confucian traditions. They are stoic, burdened with the weight of financial responsibility, and rarely express emotion. An emotionally detached son, like me, never truly understood his father. And now, this son is attempting to write about him. But much like the first paragraph of this text, this one also feels awkward. How can someone who neither understands the emotions of others nor expresses his own, write about family ties? It's a contradiction I live with every day. My father, every day as he left for work, wore a strange coat. And now, as his son—a man defined by an XY chromosome and an inability to grasp emotions—I find myself standing before his death, attempting to decipher our emotions through numbers and formulas. As you know, South Korea faces a grave demographic challenge, with low birth rates and an aging population. The youth are avoiding marriage, even shying away from relationships altogether. Why is that? Could it be, in some way, due to the "mysterious coat"? When I was young, Korean fathers seemed like towering mountains—imposing, distant, unapproachable. But when I faced my father's cold, lifeless body, why did those once-broad shoulders seem so small and frail? In this wheel of emotional contradictions, can we ever truly understand one another? This is the story of a son and his father, intertwined in the equations of pain and the waves of emotion. Have you solved the mystery yet?

Leseprobe

The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers :

An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

THE ENIGMATIC COAT OF FATHERS : AN ENGINEER'S SON'S EMOTIONAL JOURNAL

First edition. October 12, 2024.

Copyright © 2024 Yeong Hwan Choi.

Written by Yeong Hwan Choi.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers | An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal

<Prologue : Mysterious Email>

Chapter 1 - Question

Chapter 2: Pain

Chapter 3: Loneliness

Chapter 4: Void

Chapter 5: Wave

Chapter 6: Disorder

Chapter 7: Time

Chapter 8: Memories

<Epilogue : The Secret of the Coat>

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The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers

An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal

––––––––

Yeong Hwan Choi

<Prologue : Mysterious Email>

2024.09.20 / WEATHER: Cloudy 

> Dear Writer Yeonghwan Choi, Hello. I am XXX, an office worker working with your father, Mr. Jeongseop Choi, at the Yeongwol Substation in Gangwon-do.

The sight of my father’s name in the very first sentence... My heart skipped a beat and then sank. How long has it been since we last spoke? Months? No, maybe years? His presence wasn’t always warm; it was more like a cloud covering the sun. Since becoming an adult, I never once thought about repairing our relationship. I just lived, pretending we didn’t exist in each other’s lives. And now, news from one of his coworkers had arrived.

> It’s about the health of the division chief...

His health? An unfamiliar sense of anxiety slowly seeped through my body. When I was younger, my father was a man with whom emotions were hard to exchange. His world was so different from mine. We had grown so far apart that I lacked the courage to cross that invisible barrier. In the end, we never truly understood each other, and the emotional distance was never bridged. And now, I had to speak about his health "directly"? What could this mean? Had something bigger happened?

> I’m afraid this isn’t something to convey in writing, but should be discussed over the phone...

What could be so grave that it couldn’t be conveyed in writing? It wasn’t just a health issue, was it? A premonition of something more complex crossed my mind. I knew my father had been suffering from diabetes since his mid-30s, but for it to reach a point where it couldn’t even be written about... I could feel the unavoidable moment slowly approaching. My hand reached for the phone, and I began slowly pressing in the numbers. Meanwhile, all kinds of scenarios flashed through my mind.

> Please contact me as soon as you see this message.

When was the last time I actually spoke with my father? I couldn’t even remember. What could I say if I called? How’s everything? Are you feeling okay? Even a simple question like that felt awkward. Though I was aware of his worsening health, there was a lingering fear that I might regret missing out on the last moments. But in the end, I put down the phone without making the call.

The next day, I sat quietly, staring at my Naver inbox. Would I ever be able to make that call? Or was it already too late?

Chapter 1 - Question

2024.09.28 / Weather: Clear

The summer had quietly passed, and the world was slowly slipping into the embrace of autumn, known as the "season when the sky is high, and horses grow fat." The once heavy heat under the sun had quietly vanished, and in its place, a calm had settled in. The wind grew lighter, and the sky seemed endlessly high. People either grew accustomed to this change or continued without noticing. The trees proudly flaunted their last remaining colors as if preparing for their grand finale, and leaves began to fall one by one, covering the ground. As evening approached, it was clear that preparing heated mats was necessary; the nights were getting chilly.

I opened my eyes gently as sunlight filtered in and sat down in front of the computer. I stared blankly at the screen with a dull expression. It was 9 a.m. on a Saturday.

Days had passed since I received the email, but my head was still in a fog, and nausea gnawed at me. "What would I feel if my father died?" If he dies, will I be sad? Or would I feel... nothing?

My father was never good at expressing emotions. A friend-like father? Not at all. His tone was always commanding, and he was an absolute presence in the house. His patriarchal authority was almost like an unchanging law. Sometimes, our bottled-up emotions would explode into anger, and those arrows would pierce both our hearts. There was no room for compromise.

Under the guise of discipline, my father sometimes used physical violence as a tool for punishment. Each time his heavy, cruel hand landed on my cheek, the pain pushed me into a state of mental submission. “Why don’t you ever listen?” he would yell, but there was no room for explanation or understanding—just silent, violent demands for obedience. Every time, I would hold my breath and wait for the pain to pass. He never felt guilt or regret. “It’s for your own good,” he would say, a selfish excuse that would often end the violence for the day. He was my father, after all. He was a parent, so of course, he had the right to hit me. That was the logic I grew up with, the unjust selfishness I came to know.

Fathers in the West—when their children climb the stairs, they’re quick with a “Good, good, good!” showering praise generously. Their approach to parenting is bright, open, and effusive. But here, in the East, things couldn’t be more different.

Particularly between Korean fathers and sons, emotions are seldom displayed. Respect and hierarchy define the relationship, with walls between them as solid as concrete, walls too risky to tear down.

Fathers born in the 1950s were steeped in Confucian values from birth. The family wasn’t an emotional haven but a social unit driven by rituals, filial piety, and ranks. A father’s role? The steadfast provider. Love and emotional exchange were far down the list, if they appeared at all. To express feelings was considered an indulgence, a luxury no one could afford. Back then, South Korea was growing at an unprecedented pace, and the nation marched towards shared goals with unrelenting focus.

"The Land of Morning Calm"—a mere illusion. Such reverence for order and etiquette? A façade, upheld by the control fathers held over their households.

The distance between father and son often felt as vast as the silence that separated them. But if we were to point out one strength from that generation, it would be resilience, a quiet resolve far stronger than our generation’s. They bore storms of emotion deep within and still pressed on, heads held high for the sake of their families.

Simply put, they didn’t let emotions lead. Instead, they suppressed them, moving forward in steady silence. It was this unwavering focus that defined the strength of their generation. Our generation prides itself on flexibility and open-mindedness, but we fall short of the stoic perseverance that guided them.

My father, he always wore a mysterious coat to work. It was worn, heavy with age, but perhaps even heavier with the burdens of life he carried.

Every morning, the sound of the door closing behind him would ease the anxiety growing within me, though only for a moment. When evening came, and I heard his returning footsteps, that anxiety would double, filling every corner of the house.

As the front door creaked open, the weight of his coat seemed to smother the room. It became harder to breathe, as if the very air thickened with tension. “Are they going to fight again?” I would ask myself, my stomach tightening with fear. “What’s he going to destroy this time?”

The shouting always escalated, and when it did, objects flew. A fan would lift into the air, crash onto the floor, shattering into a mess of metal and plastic. The motor would whine before it sputtered to a stop. The violence wasn’t just loud—it was overwhelming, clawing at my senses, leaving my ears ringing long after the fight ended.

Once the anger started, there was no escape. I’d huddle into myself, my heart pounding in rhythm with their escalating voices. I wanted to run, but where could I go? There was no safe place to hide.

I’ve always been unusually sensitive to sound. When I’m immersed in study or lost in my thoughts, the noises of the house seem to pierce into the deepest corners of my mind. Even the ticking of a clock on the wall can sometimes get under my skin, but the volume of the television—it’s like thunder and lightning crashing through the room. The vibrations rip through my brain, tearing apart neurons one by one, as if a hurricane had swept through. To put it simply, "It felt like I was losing my mind."

Yet, even in the midst of this sensory storm, I continue to build my own world, a fragile sanctuary of my own making. Inside it, I am a lonely sailor on a voyage, searching endlessly for some sense of self. And when their arguments erupted, the intensity of the noise became even sharper, more unbearable. I still remember that one day in the kitchen when a knife appeared—those memories remain a deep scar to this day.

In a capitalist society, money is essential. That’s a fact no one can deny. I depended on it, my father depended on it, and my mother did too, even though we were tied to a currency as fragile as the won. We valued tangible things over anything intangible, after all, survival demands it.

If money poured out of the ATM endlessly, would my father’s existence matter so much? In many ways, my immature understanding of the world was shaped by my mother’s character. She was pragmatic, overly so. She was also profoundly negative, constantly suspicious of the future, always trying to cut off any potential uncertainties. Rather than offering hopeful words, her mind was always battling future anxieties, never leaving room for a single gap.

But that kind of approach is futile. Life doesn’t work that way—it doesn’t flow smoothly just because you’ve planned everything. Opportunities and crises appear out of nowhere, and our unpredictable fate will always cross paths with the road we’re on.

And that kind of relentless control, trying to eliminate every variable, only nurtures more anxiety, bottling up feelings that eventually burst forth. Steve Jobs is an example of this.

After being ousted from Apple in 1985, he found success with Pixar and NeXT, Inc., but his obsession with perfection is still talked about today. He was a man who would control every little detail, suppress every unpredictable outcome, all to achieve the very best result.

When Apple was struggling, even during the creation of the iMac, countless revisions delayed its launch. His team, under constant pressure, could feel the stress of his exacting standards. Apple’s fate was hanging by a thread. In the end, the iMac succeeded, but Jobs’ perfectionism became another source of tension and anxiety in the process.

The attempt to completely eliminate variables doesn’t always lead to positive outcomes. While it may work in success stories, for ordinary people, it stifles creativity and imagination. On top of that, my mother had strong narcissistic tendencies. “Do you know how much I’ve done for you? I bought you a car, paid for your tuition, gave you everything you needed to live like everyone else. So why aren’t you treating me like other kids treat their parents?”

That’s how she always was. In her world, everything she did was justified, and if she didn’t receive recognition, then clearly, we were the problem.

“Tell me, did I force you to become a government employee? What haven’t I done for you? Will writing change anything?” Her words wounded me, yet I realized that behind them, she was hiding her own cowardice. “You just talk, but you don’t take action. If you want to succeed, you have to work harder!

After all I’ve done, you need to show results!” The older she grew, the more erratic her voice became. She didn’t love me for who I was; instead, I was merely the proof of her sacrifice, the testament to her success. I was her tool, and she never praised me—not truly. She loved me, yes, but only as a means of validating herself. And in that love, I was always alone.

“Why would you eat the food I made when you don’t even listen to me?” My mother’s words echoed in my mind, and I could still hear my father’s words—“Leave the house if you won’t obey”—lingering in the air.

For both of them, threats came as naturally as breathing. “I bought this house with my money,” they would say, and if I didn’t comply, they’d demand I leave. Once, they even forced a check card into my hands, only to snatch it back in a display of power. When I was younger, it was even more cruel. They stripped me bare, down to my underwear, and pushed me out onto the cold, wind-swept balcony. That shame, that moment, is still carved into my memory, a stain that refuses to wash away.

Why was I even born? I wasn’t here to fulfill their desires or meet their expectations. My life was nothing but the product of their biological urges and decisions. But in their worldview, I was always secondary.

As I wrote, a surge of anger began to bubble up inside me. My head grew hot, and I could feel my skin flush as if a boiling liquid coursed beneath it. I bit down on my lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Damn it!” I slammed my fists against the keyboard. Just like my father, I had inherited his temper, and when that fire ignited, it consumed me completely. I didn’t want to be like him, but the behaviors I had witnessed all my life were hard to unlearn.

“They say praise makes even a whale dance.” No matter how harsh or bitter the world gets, a kind word can change everything. Yet in my family, no such words existed. Only arrows of criticism and judgment flew between us. I was not a whale. I was a stone, sinking deeper and deeper into a sea of unexpressed emotions.

They provided material things, sure—a house, food, a car. But is that all there is? Isn’t life about more than just possessions? No matter how expensive the gifts were, they held no value without emotional connection. I was destined to live as an empty shell, a zombie drifting through life, not by accident, but as if it were my fate.

Still, I don't want to blame everything on my parents. My traits and flaws aren’t solely their fault. But they undeniably shaped who I am. After all, children are said to be mirrors of their parents.

Especially my mother. Does she ever realize that she might be a narcissist? I doubt it. She doesn’t express emotions. It took me a long time to recognize that, but once I did, I stopped trying to talk to her. I just wanted to become that stone.

I live under the same roof with my mother, and at thirty-five, it stings that I’m not financially independent yet. Is this fate too? Yet I know this isn’t the end. Someday, no matter how much I’ve turned to stone, I’ll leave this place. Until then, I just have to survive in her narcissistic world without losing myself.

Raised in a household where cold skepticism flowed from my mother and stern patriarchy governed my father, I lived with my emotions tightly bound, locked away. During the endless quarrels between them, it was said that if they ever divorced, I should call my grandmother. In the chaos of fights that often ended with a knife laid back down on the counter, I realized my fate was to confront the tangled, mysterious emotions locked within, like the secrets of Pandora’s box.

Yet if there was one common thread between the two, it was undoubtedly their shared financial philosophy. Despite all the visible clashes and turmoil, their approach to money was the bedrock that sustained our family’s foundation. The stability of that economic base was unexpectedly solid, even amidst the storm.

South Korea is a country deeply obsessed with comparison. Unlike Europe, where people seem more content with their place in life, Koreans are fixated on rankings. Words like "middle class" and "gold spoon" flood the internet, but to be honest, my family never really fit into that "gold spoon" category. Sure, by internet standards, we might meet the definition, but we lived a simple, ordinary life.

We saved and scrimped. My father never splurged on clothes or shoes, and he wasn’t particularly interested in cars either. He drove an Excel, then a Sonata, and eventually a Tucson.

They were the kind of people who understood where money should go and were firm believers in not living extravagantly. Their guiding principle was clear: understand the value of money.

Others might buy new clothes or luxury brands to treat themselves, but my father always wore the same worn, heavy coat. He believed in saving, and any unnecessary purchase was, to him, meaningless. When it came to buying new appliances or furniture, their rule was simple: only when absolutely necessary.

But they weren’t stingy. We always ate well, and they took our education seriously. The dinner table was often filled with expensive seafood—plump oysters in season, tender abalone, and fresh prawns. For other families, these might be a rare treat, but for us, they were a regular part of life. We even had premium beef and ribs frequently. But there was a missing piece. We ate well, but we never learned to laugh and share stories over our meals. Eating out meant going to the local tonkatsu joint, and we never experienced the warmth of a cozy restaurant playing classical music. If we could appreciate everything we had, we wouldn’t be human. Let’s just skip over this part for now.

This was the economic philosophy they passed on to me. Children learn their spending habits from their parents. Growing up, I absorbed their restraint and frugality. Sure, there were times when I wanted to indulge in something luxurious, like the latest gadgets or a designer watch, but I rarely gave in to the temptation. Even after quitting my government job, trying to make a living through writing, and facing several business failures, our family never experienced financial instability. That’s because of my father’s silent sacrifice. He never gave me warm words or encouragement, but his stoic silence gave me the foundation to stand on. It’s something I’m truly grateful for.

Of course, I couldn’t rely on that forever. I had to become independent, both financially and mentally. Perhaps this was his way of supporting me—providing financially without showing emotion. It’s a lesson I’ve carried with me throughout my life.

When I think back to the day my father collapsed from his diabetes, the memory is still vivid. I was about six years old, and he was in his mid-thirties. I thought he was healthy, but there he was, being rushed to the hospital. I remember sitting at the far end of the emergency room corridor, staring blankly at the white walls. When I finally reached his room, the sight of all the monitors flashing numbers and his pale face struck me. He was in pain, yet he looked at me with that same, unchanging expression. Maybe that’s when I first learned how to hide my feelings—just like him.

Years later, when I became a civil servant, I learned more about his health. When I applied for a leave of absence to study real estate appraisal, I needed to attach his medical records. Meeting with his doctor for the first time, I realized how serious his condition was. The doctor’s office was unremarkable, with cold machines and papers scattered everywhere. As I sat down, she began explaining my father’s condition. "We’re concerned about complications from diabetes," she said, gesturing to her eyes. "If it worsens, his vision will deteriorate." She furrowed her brow slightly and mimicked the narrowing of sight with her fingers. “It’s called diabetic retinopathy. It can damage blood vessels, blur vision, and eventually lead to blindness.”

She paused and pointed to her feet, leaning forward to indicate the lower extremities. "In extreme cases, we’re looking at gangrene, starting with the toes. If circulation is compromised and the nerves are damaged, he might lose sensation and develop infections that won’t heal. In the worst case, amputation might be necessary. If not managed, diabetes can damage the heart, kidneys, and nervous system—conditions that accelerate as he ages."

After the serious discussion, our conversation turned casual. She asked about my work, and we talked about real estate appraisal. It was awkward at first, but then her smile softened, and we ended up talking for over an hour. I think she enjoyed talking to a healthy young person, rather than just dealing with patients all day. Strangely enough, I felt more at ease as we talked.

Even with such a serious condition, my father never let us see him falter. If I’m being honest, he wasn’t transparent with us. If he had opened up about his vulnerabilities, maybe it could have brought us closer. But that was just as much a part of his nature as the diabetes was.

My father worked at Korea Electric Power Corporation, back when securing a job at a public company meant a lifelong career. He embodied that promise, never letting go of work, even after retirement. Today, in his mid-sixties, with a body long worn down, he continues as a project supervisor in the countryside. I wonder why. With enough savings for retirement, what keeps him tethered to his job? Is it because of me, his unsteady son? Because I quit my stable government job and still haven’t found solid ground?

His health is nowhere near good. The last time we heard from the doctors, the prognosis was severe. Yet, each morning, he dons that same old coat and heads out the door, his steps heavier each day. Why won’t he stop?

He was undoubtedly an intelligent man. While a university degree doesn’t tell the whole story, he graduated from a prestigious university in Seoul, and my mother was no less accomplished. Although I never blindly trusted anyone's opinions or arguments, I recalled a passage from a book on the paradox of intelligence—how the higher the intelligence of parents, the less likely their children are to find happiness. The thought lingered in my mind.

With a soft click of my keyboard, I opened a browser and typed in "high intelligence parents children unhappiness." As I scrolled down, the words leapt out at me, piercing my consciousness as if they were aimed directly at my own situation. The screen filled with statistics and graphs, and I found myself nodding along in silent agreement. It made sense; if parents are too brilliant, their children often feel crushed under the weight of their expectations. My fixation on complex concepts such as philosophy, the universe, and quantum mechanics was not merely a product of curiosity. Deep within me lay an incessant urge to analyze and dissect. According to the MBTI framework, I identify as an INTP—dubbed 'the Architect,' a type known for heightened imagination and creativity, yet notoriously lacking in execution. I can envision countless ideas, yet only a fraction see the light of day. And in areas of keen interest, I dive in with reckless abandon, revealing hints of ADHD tendencies.