She is standing behind the record counter of a trendy dabang café in 70’s Seoul. She is beautiful. Prettier than the girl-next-door but still approachable and someone you can strike a conversation with. Someone you want to have a conversation with. Her hair is wispy and framing her translucent, glowing face, and her smile is accented with a hint of dimples. Her nose is high and pointed, an envy of the neighborhood girls who desperately want their noses to be un-flattened and sharp like those Western movie stars. Her eyes are a deep monolid; they are big and bright, like a doe’s and invite you to join her world. So many people try.
They brave themselves and walk over to the booth of the café’s record collection and shyly ask her to play their favorite song. She smiles brightly at their requests, validating their choices.
“I love that song, too!” She squeals.
She stands on her tippy toes and twirls this way and that to find the chosen LP among the hundred other records that are stacked on top of each other. Once she finds it, she carefully places it on the vinyl turntable, as if laying a crooning baby to sleep in her crib. She blows on the record to gently blanket away dirt or lint; making sure the sound is extra sharp and smooth. She has just made someone’s day by playing their favorite song.
There is a man who is a frequent customer. He is transfixed by this female DJ and comes up to the booth as often as he can. He asks her to play the same song each time. She recognizes him and always blushes slightly; he’s quite handsome. She thanks him for his song suggestion and assures him that once the other requests before his have been fulfilled, his song choice will be played next.
But she never plays his song. Because the truth is she can’t find the record. She’s new to the job. As much as she is naturally gifted in delighting the café patrons with music, her time, and her attention; she’s still learning on the job and overwhelmed at the sheer number of records on the shelves. No one notices because she is a master at hiding her anxiety, and her friendly smile makes you forget your troubles.
She feels bad that she can’t fulfill this man’s request, but each time he comes, she secretly hopes he’ll give up or choose another song or forget about this café altogether. But he never gives up. He continues to request the same song. He returns to the café whenever he can, always when it is her shift. And every time, without fail, she can’t find the record and doesn’t play his song.
One day, this handsome man with a strong, prominent nose that Korean fortunetellers say attracts wealth, and with skin that is dark, leathered, and evident of his hard life and his never-ending work ethic, approaches the booth again.
“Why don’t you ever play my song?” His accusation is filled with amusement and gentle teasing.
She stammers. “I’m so sorry. Actually, I’m, I’m new. New here. I just started the job a few weeks ago, and I’m still learning. I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” He grins, his eyes alight with mischief.
She’s confused. “You know what?”
“I know you’re new here. My friend DJed here before you. You’re his replacement.”
“Oh.” She’s taken aback. “Oh!”
“I’ll help you.” He suggests. “I know where the record is.” He hops and slides over the counter and makes himself comfortable in the record booth. Actually, he’s already comfortable, as if he’s done this many times before. He floats his hands over the records and in a corner that is difficult to maneuver and easy to overlook, he manifests a vinyl. Ta-da! He looks at her, triumphant.
She smiles. “Ha. Wow. I would’ve never thought to look there.”
“I know.” He laughs.
That’s how my parents met. Honestly, it’s one of the most romantic meet cutes I’ve heard of. No romcom, no Molly Ringwald movie, no K-drama can match the truly dreamy story my mom has told me time and time again about how she fell in love with my father.
When I was younger, I sat smiling, grinning from ear-to-ear, enamored with the story. I would blush at my mother’s description of this confident, handsome man, and I could imagine her in her twenties, looking rosy and smelling like a garden. No other parents had such romantic stories like mine did. They either met through arranged marriages, blind dates, or at school. Womp womp. But my parents? They were the lead characters in the sweetest, swooniest romantic story that not even Nora Roberts could conjure up. It made me hopeful about love, excited about marriage. It solidified my love of music, and I understood why my dad was so proud of his CD collection, masterfully displayed on his bookshelves. He had so many CDs; he might as well have opened a dabang himself.
As I got older, my feelings toward this story changed.
Sometime later in life, when I was probably in high school or in college, my mom had told me more details about her relationship with my dad. In the early stages of their relationship, my dad had lied to her, telling her they were the same age when he was actually two years younger. She shared this part of their love story with a glaze in her eyes, justifying his deceit as proof of how desperately he wanted to be with her. He wanted to impress her. Me? I immediately clocked it as a red flag that a man would lie from the get-go, so early on in a relationship.
Narcissists tend to lie to get what they want. Quite simply put, it’s manipulation. Oftentimes, this type of behavior is romanticized as a man willing to do whatever he can to gain the affection of someone he desires. We want men to chase us. We want them to go to crazy lengths to prove that they’ll get us to love them. Men WILL break down our walls. Ultimate love bombing. Think Noah from The Notebook. Sorry not sorry, but that movie is not romantic; it glorifies toxic relationships. But the toxicity is diluted by pretty people in pretty clothes in a pretty boat surrounded by pretty swans. My mom is the perfect audience for said film.
As soon as my mom told me about how my dad lied about his age, I recognized it as him testing her to see how she would react to this “harmless” fib. She “passed” his test. She took it “well.” She was understanding. Gracious. Even thanked him for finally telling her the truth. What an honest man he is!
To the average person, this test would be a red flag, highlighting the importance of having boundaries, honesty, and transparent communication in a romantic relationship. It would signal that it is unnecessary to “test” loved ones, and that “little lies” can lead to devastating, life-changing deceptions. To my dad, it was blanket permission to lie and distort reality about anything he wanted to, anytime he wanted to. To my mom, it was proof of my dad’s undying love for her.
My mom never stood a chance. My dad chose her. He saw her, floundering behind the DJ booth, trying to appear composed while frantically searching for records in the blackhole of LPs. He saw through her veneer and found a target. There’s a part of me that wonders if he delighted in seeing her struggle at something he was already privy to. He knew where the record was. He knew exactly where to look. He knew it was a record that would be difficult to find to the untrained, wide-eyed bushy tailed newbie. But he observed her the entire time as she struggled to mask her insecurities, and he didn’t tell her until he was able to pin her in a vulnerable corner, where she ended up profusely apologizing for her understandable confusion. He made it seem like he was her savior, when in reality he used his knowledge as a way to lure her to take his poisonous bait.
My mom was not equipped for this level of manipulative mastery. She was raised in a culture that applauded, praised, and loved men who were all-knowing. They’re so smart! They know all the answers! So meos-iss-uh!!! When really he was being a smartass, know-it-all, obnoxious mansplainer. But my mom was never given the tools, the environment, nor the opportunity to recognize this. Instead, she’d been programmed to believe that this is what she desires in a partner. That she’s lucky her husband is so smart and can tell her what to do. He’s successful at work! So, he gets angry once in a while? Come on, you’ve heard about how geniuses have tempers, it’s normal! He refuses to help you around the home? Why would you even bring that up in the first place? It’s your job as the housewife to do everything in the home front. Your husband has been working all day, and the last thing you should do is pester him about labor that women are born to do.
So, even though there was probably a radical, empowered woman somewhere in the depth of my mother’s soul, the same woman who chose to be a café DJ and go to junior college despite it not being normal in her generation, she fell victim to the times and to my dad’s sociopathic wiles.
My mom is a victim. She is a complex trauma survivor. She is also a survivor of my dad.
No, it doesn’t excuse her being complicit in my dad’s abuse. It doesn’t exonerate her from not protecting her child from an abusive childhood. But it explains so much. It explains her delusional belief that her marriage has always been a happy one; my dad has so expertly convinced her she can’t do better and that his money will keep her safe. It explains why she time and time again ended up choosing herself and this marriage, despite knowing her child was being harmed. There was a part of her who recognized that I could eventually leave, sometime in my adulthood, but she would be tied to him indefinitely.
It also explains why I’m not completely estranged from her. I am somewhat, partially estranged from her. I’m only a ten-minute drive away but refuse to visit her home unless I know my dad is not there and will not be there for at least a few days. I barely talk to her on the phone, and I text her maybe once or twice a week. On the occasion where she texts or calls me first, I pick up my phone with a dramatic sigh and bombastic eye roll before responding to her. I intentionally limit my calls with her to be less than ten minutes and make up excuses. I have a client in five minutes! My dog has to go poopoo, he’s butt scooching on my carpet! I am intensely angry at her and hate how she refuses to open her eyes and instead stays in her delusional world. I also hate that I seem to be victim blaming her, and I hate how she makes me feel about myself. I should be more empathic, why am I so mean to her? Sometimes, I straight up just hate her.
I am also extremely protective of her because I know she is a complex trauma survivor like me. But I had the privilege of growing up in a time where mental health is more talked about. I had the privilege of not only going to university, but also graduate school to attain two master’s degrees and a doctoral degree in Counseling Psychology. I have the privilege of living in a time where a woman can be single, have her own bank account, and start her own business. (Okay, right now with this administration, this all seems so close to be taken away, but for the time being, we still have these rights!) By no means am I minimizing my trauma (or the current political situation. What the actual shit.) I acknowledge how fucked up my upbringing has been, and I am truly traumatized as fuck. But I have the privilege of addressing my trauma in ways that my mom was never given. I have a therapist. I have a laptop to write down my stories. I have my own apartment where I don’t have to answer to anyone except my dog. I can listen to whatever song, at whatever hour of the day without someone telling me to play something else. I am living the feminist dream!
And that breaks my heart. I feel sorry for my mom. I feel pain for her. I see her, and sometimes she seems so pathetic and in need of protection, and other times she seems so fierce and strong, and I desperately want her to protect me. And I know that all of those parts of her are true, because those are parts that reside in me, a fellow complex trauma survivor.
Sometimes, I find myself fantasizing, in a dissociative state where Everything Everywhere All at Once is not just a movie but a real possibility, and that there are multiple universes out there. Or I imagine that a DeLorean appears out of nowhere and takes me back to the future. I’m disoriented at first and wondering, What the fuck just happened? But then I hop out of the car, and I find myself skipping to a retro café.
How cute! I imagine. What a realistic replica of what a 70s café must have looked like in Korea. I am dressed in exaggerated 70s garb – big bell bottoms that drown my size five feet, hair poofy and curly and tied in a polka dot bow, while my eyeshadow is a garish green. I am delighted. I am ecstatic.
I open the door to the café, and bells twinkle to let the owner know a customer has walked in.
“Uhsuh oseyo!” a bright voice greets me. “Coffee? Orange Juice?”
“Chilsung cider, juseyo. Thank you.”
“Neh!”
I take a deep breath in because I now know it’s not just a movie set. I’m back in time; in the same café my mom worked at as a DJ. The café smells like a mix of instant coffee and slight mold, and to me, it’s home.
I see my mom behind the record booth. She is so pretty. She should be a movie star. She’s too short to be a model, but her face screams melodrama heroine.
I hesitate. Do I go up and say hi? What song would I even request? What if I ask for a song that hasn’t been released yet? She’ll probably think I’m crazy! Or what about all those time-travel movies that warn against interacting with loved ones or your past self. Because you might seriously fuck up the timeline and before you know it, you Dr. Strange’d way too hard, and the sky is raining dinosaurs and you’re waiting for your head to blow up before the world ends.
But then I see my dad in the corner. He has a smirk on his face that some would consider to be handsomely brooding. I see it as him being condescending, cocky, and waiting for his next kill. He seems to ponder about talking to my mom and looks like he’s about to take a step forward. So, without another thought, I briskly shuffle to my mom. I am she, daughter and cockblocker of he, devil man father.
“Hi! This café is so cute, and wow, look at all these records!” I smile enthusiastically, and I’m almost yelling at my mom because I’m trying to stifle my sobs.
In the corner of my eyes, I see my dad. He’s pissed. Who’s this new bitch that just came out of nowhere? She looks familiar. Same bulbous nose. Familiar Stranger. Obnoxious brat. He hisses under his breath.
“Yes! Isn’t it amazing how many songs you could listen to here? What’s your request? The queue’s not too long so I can play your song pretty soon!” She encourages me, and I wish she could’ve been this encouraging and bright when she was my mom. Her smile is so lovely, and it strangles my heart because I can’t remember the last time she beamed like this.
My dad trudges forward, but before he can bark orders at my mom, I blurt out, “What do you think your mother would want to hear? I miss my mom. I let her go recently…I miss her.”
My mom is silently stunned and freezes for a second. My dad has heard my confession, and he knows he’s missed this opportunity and slithers away. I give my mom a sad smile and shrug awkwardly. Dammit, what’s wrong with me?
“You know what, my mom would like this one. Give me one second.” She gently holds up her index finger at me, asking me to wait. I see her gracefully reach for a record and she waves it victoriously at me, with so much warmth that spring has blossomed in the café and flowers have somehow bloomed.
I shyly smile at her, and I’m worried I’ve made her uncomfortable.
“This one. My mother loves this record, and I know your mom will love it, too.” She assures me. “I’m sorry for your loss.” My mom hesitates before saying, “You know what? Turns out there is no queue after all, let’s listen to this record now!”
I can’t stop smiling as I thank her, watching her gingerly place the record on the turntable. Dust flies off the LP and music begins to waft through the café like the welcoming scent of warm rice cooking in a stone bowl. I sit down at a corner table, and a server gives me the soda I ordered earlier. It is so nice here.
I hear a rough cacophony of bells and notice my father rushing out the café. I can tell he’s been huffing and fuming, but it’s no matter now. He’s left. My mom doesn’t seem to care that he’s gone. In fact, she seems relieved.
I sip my soda and close my eyes. I inhale deeply, and as I release my exhale, I let myself be lullabied. I like this record. It’s sweet. It’s calming. It’s my mom.
I look back at the record counter. My mom is busy organizing the LPs. She looks content. She has purpose. She is safe.
She must notice someone gazing at her. She looks up and gives me a smile and a small wave. There is a tinge of pity on her face. I’m happy.
