short.

2. Father, in fear of.

Sometimes my father and I sit in silence. From across the kitchen table, I steal glances at him, waiting for him to speak. But all I see is his facial expression- one I have come to recognize over the years. He is sitting sideways in his chair, with his chin cupped in his left hand, his dark eyes staring straight ahead of him. I know he is in some distant land, maybe the open countryside or up on the tallest mountain in Korea, perhaps dreaming of an easier life. I remain quiet and wait for my father to come back to me. He stirs slightly and I watch him as his fingers trace letters onto the wooden table top. I have watched him do this ever since I was a little girl. But I have never been able to read his invisible ink. And I have never asked, in fear of interrupting his train of thought. He looks up at me with a puzzled expression, probably because he forgot I was sitting there at all and says, “Bring me our atlas.” I retrieve our world book and set it down in front of him. He puts on his bifocals and rifles through the gold lined pages until he stops at a map of Africa. He turns the book sideways so I can look on with him. With his index finger poised over Ghana, he says to me, “I remember the red fire ants in Africa. If you walked on top of their ant hills, thousands would file out and chase you.” I raise my eyebrows in skepticism and reply, “Is that why you have all those little scars on your legs daddy?” His booming laughter causes the crystal chandelier to rattle and he says, “No babo*. But I once saw someone covered head to toe with those fire ants. One minute later, there was nothing left of him.” Like most of my father’s stories, I take this one about the flesh devouring ants with a grain of salt. To present day I am still unsure of what my father was doing in Africa for over a year. But I do not ask him, in fear of discovering something I do not want to know.
The only times I remember my father intervening in my life were the times when I had fucked up. When I was 13, I got caught forging my seventh grade report card. The scene replays in vivid detail:
I am reading a book in my room when I hear my mother calling my name, “ANNA!” We were taught to always answer “Yes!” and never “What?” I walk into the living room where both of my parents sit side by side puffing on long white cigarettes. I understand there is tension in the room and stand awkwardly in front of them, avoiding eye contact. I hear my father speak first, in a low grumbling tone, “Face the wall, kneel down, arms straight above your head.” I follow his instructions without hesitation, but I feel the tears building up in my chest. I hear my father get up and leave the room. I count each time I inhale and exhale to prevent the salt water from tumbling out. I get to 20 breaths when my father returns and tells me to stand up and lift my pants above my knees. I stand there facing the white plaster, my calves bare. “Why did you try to cheat me?” My father yells. I provide only silence. Without warning, I am shattered upon the first lash- leather whipping raw skin. I stagger forward an inch and my father tugs me backwards by the ends of my hair. I give in and allow two tears to escape. “I didn’t raise you so you could lie to me!” I feel the second explosion of searing pain starting in my calves and spreading to every nerve ending in my body. I do not stumble this time. My arms are still above my head but I do not register the numbness because of the stinging burn pulsating through me. My father is silent during the next three lashes. He stops and growls at me, “Get back on your knees and keep your arms up. You will not move until you see my face in front of you.”
My father is telling me to kneel here until I begin to hallucinate. I sit on my feet for three hours until I am given permissions to stand. I know I am not able to stand immediately and so I lean back on my hands and massage feeling back into my purple feet. That was the first and last time my father whipped me. I never asked him why he had to whip me with his leather belt, in fear of another whipping.