Happy Dog

Sometimes, I come across images that really makes me laugh...this is one of them.

Yes, that's my name

When I was about 11 years old, my parents confronted me with a dilemma which I had to live with for the rest of my life. I had two months to choose a name… an English / American name that would be registered on my U.S. Citizenship papers. Immigrating to the US, meant transitioning to our new way of life….which included choosing names that did not sound “Asian”. Taking suggestions from family friends, my older sister Sonya was named after Sonja Henie, three-time Olympic champion in skating, while my younger sister Grace, is named after Grace Kelly – movie actress and princess on Monaco. Meanwhile for my name, a friend of the family, suggested Greg, named after Gregory Peck, the black and white war movie actor… so in essence, my name would have been Gregory Pak, sounding very similar, if not identical to the black and white war movie actor himself. I couldn’t take the name…it didn’t fit me. It wasn’t the fact that I didn’t like Gregory Peck, but there was another reason. Around that time, my sisters and I were addicted to watching the Brandy Bunch – Marsha, Jan, Cindy, GREG, Peter, Bobby. The true reason I didn’t take the name was because I would be referenced with Greg Brady…or I would reference myself to Greg Brady. Even today, if I hear the name Marsha, I think of Marsha Brady. Sure, I could have taken other names Asians favored – David, James, John, Peter, Paul, Michael – but I didn’t. My father even suggested Rusty…Rusty?? When the day came, when I had to announce my chosen name, I told my parents that I was keeping my original Korean name. They seemed a bit surprised but didn’t make too much of a fuss.

I’m glad I kept my name, because… it’s my given name. Of course having an Asian name has its moments, such as, always having to explain to everyone how to spell or pronounce it. On the phone, I would tell my name and have to repeat it about four times and spell it out. Once, calling a sophomore I wanted to ask out on a date, the girl’s mother answered the phone. She took a message and told her daughter that Tom called. The girl didn’t know any Toms so she just assumed it was me. How do you get Tom from Sung??…odd…we never did go out on a date.

Many years later, when my wife was pregnant with our first child, we plowed through a zillion names to pick one for our son. In the process, I realized I hated any names that conjured up any references to faces I was not fond of - Marsha, Jan, Cindy, GREG, Peter, Bobby…oh, I think I would add Ginger and Maryann to the list.

I'll Page You, When I Need You

Shortly after receiving my NY and CT massage therapy licenses, I began to peruse job postings to see if there were demands for massage therapists in the area. I was already working a full-time job in the corporate world but considered taking on a part-time position to fine tune my newly learned trade. I was sort of half serious in my attempt, until one particular classified ad in the Norwalk Advocate caught my eye. The ad read:

CT (Connecticut) LMT (Licensed Massage Therapist) wanted, good pay, in Stamford and Greenwich CT.

Figuring I had nothing to lose, I called the number. A woman with an accent answered the phone - I recognized the accent - she was Korean. She asked me some questions – was I licensed in CT, how long I’ve been practicing. When she asked for my name, she immediately recognized that I was Korean. She told me that I could call her Mrs. Kim and wanted to meet right away since her current LMT is moving out of state and needed a replacement CT LMT. She asked to meet, 10pm, Dunkin Donuts on Route 7, in Norwalk. My first reaction was that 10pm seemed a bit late but curiosity pushed aside my logic and I agreed.

A whiff of spent frying oil, sugar glaze and coffee greeted me as I set foot into the Duncan Donuts. Beside for a guy holding a coffee cup and fumbling for change in his pocket, the shop, brightly lit by florescent lights, was empty. Walking down a gray tiled floor of a narrow dining area, I sat down, facing the entrance, on a small wall mounted table for two with swivel chair. Shortly after 10pm, I heard a swift sound of a door opening as an Asian woman in her early 50’s, looking like the typical Korean shop owner, walked in. Being curious and a bit skeptical at the same time, I decided, right then, that I would only speak English and not let her know that I speak and understand Korean. I stood up from my swivel chair and after a cautious and brief handshake, we both sat down to discuss business.

“Do you speak Korean?” Mrs. Kim asked, with her Korean accent.
“No.” I said with a straight face.
“Do you understand Korean?”
“No.” I lied again and then asked “So how many nail salons do you have?”
“Well, it’s not a nail salon… it’s a spa.”

A SPA??? The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt blood rushing to my head. I knew what I was in for. I played stupid and asked what type of service her spa provided and she stated that most of her clientele are men and that she does full body massage and “things like, body shampoo”. I thought, what the hell is body shampoo??!! I’m sure there were some other services, but I got the point. But she stated that this was not the reason she needed me. According to Mrs. Kim, she needed me for my CT massage therapy licenses and if her spas were ever raided, or as she put it “inspected” by the state, she would need me to be available during the inspection. All I had to do was to tell the state inspector that I was out to lunch. As I listened to Mrs. Kim explain, in Connecticut, these “spas” are allowed to operate as long as there is a state licensed massage therapy practitioner on site. Mrs. Kim said that she would give me a pager and would pay me $500 per week to be “on call” just in case she was “inspected”. All I had to do was to allow her to display my licenses at the spas and be available when I get paged. She sated that her current LMT, who has been with her for the past five years, was moving to Colorado.

About 15 minutes into our conversation, another Asian woman walked in the donut shop and headed towards our table. We both looked at her as I said hello. The other woman, who spoke in very broken English, asked me if I can speak Korean.

“He doesn’t speak Korean”. Mrs. Kim answered, in Korean, to the other woman
“How is he?” the other woman asked, speaking in Korean.
“He checks out okay”.

We chatted for just a few more minutes, as the other woman sat motionless, staring at me as if I was an unwanted stray dog she would have to house train for the next several months. Watching her ugly gum chewing face, my feelings were mutual. Suddenly, I had the urge to get out of the stale donut shop air. Weaving through the narrow dining area, heading for the exit, I noticed that we were now the only ones in the donut shop. Walking to my car, I noticed a man waiting in a green Chevy Suburban, with the motor running, in the parking lot. He was Caucasian, but I knew he was in somehow connected with the two women I left in the shop.

Driving home, I kept thinking to myself, I don’t have to do a thing and I can make some money, but what about my reputation? If all goes bad, I could lose my licenses, what shame I would endure. What made the other CT LMT to allow her licenses to be used? Did she not have any morals? Was the money that attractive? Does everyone have a price where they will put aside all morals and ethics?

I got home and told my wife about my meeting with Mrs. Kim. Without hesitation, my wife stated that although she does not support the idea, she will allow me to make the ultimate decision.

I didn’t sleep well that night. The idea kept running though my head in different scenarios. What if I got busted….What if I didn’t get busted? At one point, greed got the better of me and I was thinking about a counter offer, by asking $1000 cash per month - $500 per spa…that’s $52,000. per year… then reality sank in. The following morning, I called Mrs. Kim and told her that I was not interested and she seemed surprised and very disappointed.

“You’re Korean and I’m Korean…we help each other out!….We’re all hardworking!” Mrs. Kim pleaded.
“Yeah, but I just don’t want to get involved.” I said, holding back my true feeling.
“Okay, I understand…I have a son in college...in Syracuse...he's just like you.”

Not knowing exactly what she meant by her last comment, we ended our conversation. Mrs. Kim asked me that if I knew anyone who might be interested, to let her know.
_____________________________________________________

August 2006, a sex ring operation was discovered and arrests were made in NY, NJ & CT. The owners, all Koreans, were charged with prostitution, human trafficking, and illegal immigration. Upon hearing the news, I wondered about Mrs. Kim.

Ga-lu

In 1973, my parents, along with my two sisters and I, immigrated to the United States, headed for Greenwood, Indiana…yes, Greenwood, Indiana...I’ll write more on that later. Anyway, when we arrived, my sisters and I did not speak a word of English, except singing the “ABC’s”. My father; however, did speak English…not by much…typical survival phrases like ordering food for us at McDonald’s. In fact, when I was enrolled in the third grade, my father wrote on my school notebook, in Korean, “Rhae-suh-two-rum” – another survival word. (Notice that a two syllable word became four). I guess in some ways, the word “restroom” was my first English word.

Years passed and with my English improving, I started to lose the Korean accent. In fact, I began to have difficulty understanding Koreans with heavy accents and those who would add extra syllables to words, when they spoke English.

Can you guess these five words? It’s written as it sounds

Tee-ahs poh phi-ahs
Ga-lu
Mong-ga-mary wa-du
No-ru-dhon bu-lu-ba-duh
Ma ma roh nek Lod

Answers at the bottom of page

About eight years ago, when I was living in our circa1840 saltbox in Newtown, Connecticut, my parents, Michelle and I were in the kitchen, cooking and chopping away, preparing our evening meal, when the phone rang. Michelle picked up the phone but with all the commotion in the kitchen, she put the phone on one ear and her hand over the other. Listening to the caller, her lower jaw dropped, as if words were stuck in her mouth, and with a puzzling look on her face, she yells out,

“Indiana Police!!??”

“Whaaat??!!” my mother yells out as all bangs and clatter in the kitchen now silent.
“Why would Indiana Police be calling??!!” Michelle questions, pulling the phone away from her ear, shrugging her shoulders in question.

I jumped in, immediately taking the phone from Michelle’s hand and without a word, handed the phone to my mother.

I knew it right away. The caller was my mother’s Korean friend, calling from Indianapolis. In Korean, when someone refers to themselves or is calling out to another person, they will announce themselves from their location (as in this case) or will say that they are the parent of the name of their oldest child. For example, my mother is known as Sonya’s mom. As a child and even now, I don’t know the names of any of my parent’s friends since we always called them by being the mother or father of their oldest child.

That same year, Michelle and I were talking about starting a family and much discussion pursued. My mother let it be known, that she wanted a boy and began feverishly cooking exotic Korean dishes to make sure that Michelle was fertile, strong and best prepared to increasing the odds of having a boy. One night, while I was walking into the kitchen, I saw Michelle and my mother standing close and whispering, like two middle school girls gossiping in the hallway. Michelle, being much taller than my mother, hunched over to hear my mother whisper.

As I arrived in the kitchen, I hear my mother say,

“…you know… so the woman has to…uh…what’s the word…organism, first.”

“Organism?” Michelle replies, looking puzzled.
“Yeah, you know… women...organism.”

“Ohhh, you mean orgasm!” Michelle yelps, trying to choke back her laughter.

Essentially, my mother, with her old wives tale, was trying to communicate that, for a woman to increase the chances conceiving a boy, the woman needs to orgasm first.

Pam
Paper tower
All (soup)
Honey

My Costco shopping list from my mother
“Soup” is “soap”- laundry

So ten months later, after taking my mother’s advice and eating all her exotic Korean cooking, we ended up having a boy.

Answers:

Tee-ahs poh phi-ahs: Tears for Fears, the ’80 new wave hair band.

Ga-lu: Glue. Heard first time from my friend Kwang’s mother.

Mong-ga-mary wa-du: Montgomery Ward, department store. This one is from my mother.

No-ru-dhon bu-lu-ba-duh: Northern Boulevard in Queens, NY. Ironically, this is THE hub of Koreans in New York.

Ma ma roh nek Lod: Mamaroneck Road, in White Plains, NY. Spoken from a Japanese sushi restaurant owner, when I asked for directions.

But I Didn't Throw It!

In summer of ‘87, The Pan American Games were held in Indianapolis as a default location after Santiago, Chile withdrew, followed by Quito, Ecuador. And in typical Indiana Hoosier fashion, the opening ceremonies were held at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, where, I envisioned athletes marching around banked turns and gathering at the pit stop. My older sister, doing her patriotic Hoosier duties, volunteered to work the event, but I decided to attend the events – cycling in particular.

My friend Jeff and I, two cycling fanatics, drove to Brown County State Park, located about 50 miles south of Indianapolis, to watch the men’s road race. Due to the flat topography of Indianapolis, the park was a logical choice for the road race, since it provided much needed hills for a challenging race course.

As we drove closer to the park, the traffic began to slow and at times, we came to a standstill as we neared the north entrance of the park. Soon, a line of cars gathered in the far right lane and as the entrance came into view, the single line split into two, where three people were collecting entrance fees from the incoming cars. The ticket booth which was attached to an office sat to the right and makeshift bright orange barriers separated the two lines of cars. Running in between the cars, there were three women, in their white Pan Am polo shirts, frantically collecting and returning change to the hands, reaching out from car windows. Standing motionless, in front of the ticket booth stood a Brown County Sheriff, in his mocha colored pants with dark brown half shirt with shiny badge and pins and trinkets. The sheriff, who overfilled his extra large pressed shirt, wore a dark brown brim hat, which shaded his dark aviator’s sunglasses and his thick wide triangular shaped mustache. In the Sheriff’s hand sat an inch wide shiny black leather leash which was hooked onto the collar of a full grown German Sheppard, panting, exposing his teeth and stretched out red tongue.

Just imagine Jesse with aviator sunglasses

The sun rose higher, as did the Indiana humidity. The three women collecting entrance fees, now sweating, were moving quickly as the line of cars extended beyond the hills, near the entrance, and in anticipation, I pulled out five dollars out of my wallet. As we were about two cars back from reaching the three women, the burly sheriff, with his German Sheppard by his side, marched towards our car. With my window open and my arm hanging out the window with the five dollars in my hand, the sheriff and his German Sheppard approached and I gave him a smile, thinking he was going to make light conversation with me.

With a face with only the lower lip moving, the sheriff asks, “Are you going to pick that up??”

“Uh…pick what up?” I said, totally thrown off guard.

“That (soda) can” says the sheriff, pointing with his hand with the black leather leash.
“But…I didn’t… throw it”
“I saw you throw it” nodding his head once and leaning toward the car.
“I didn’t throw it”
“He didn’t throw it”, says my friend Jeff, as he leaned toward the passenger side window.
“But I saw you throw it…Now, do I have to make you get out and pick it up!!??” shouted the sheriff, leaning his face closer to mine.

A quick assessment of the situation left me with two options. Option one: I stand my ground and play hardball. But this option left me thinking that this burly man could quickly have me by my neck with my arm twisted behind my back reaching for my scapula, dragging me to the soda can, which he was accusing me of throwing onto the ground…. Besides, do I fight with a man with a gun and a German Sheppard? My other option, the easy option, was not to argue and just get out of the car, pick up the can he was referring to and throw it in the garbage can.

I took the easy way out.

After handing the woman the $5 entrance fee, Jeff and I drove about a quarter of a mile to the parking in silence. Jeff parked the car and turned off the ignition. We sat there for a brief moment in total disbelief before our conversation began.

“What the hell was that about??!!” I yelled. (of course, I yelled a few other choice words at the time).

I felt my face pulsing with the beat of my heart. By picking up the can and throwing it away, I have just admitted my guilt - that I had actually had thrown the soda can; plus allowing the sheriff the satisfaction of catching a lawbreaker, that’s me, in action.

Jeff and I, now out of the car and continuing our conversation, a car pulled up, parking next to us, and two guys got out of the car, rather quickly.

“Hey, we told the cop that you didn’t throw that can” the guy says to me. Apparently these two guys were behind us in line, waiting to pay.
“Really? What did he say?” I asked
“He felt really bad and he was gonna come looking for you to apologize”
“Yeah, the woman told him that she threw it” the other guy says.

The woman, the guy was referring to, was one of the three women collecting money at the entrance. In fact, while the woman was trying to get a control of all the loose dollar bills in her hand, I saw her pitch the green 7Up can toward the ticket booth, so when the sheriff asked me about the can, I knew which can he was talking about.

I wanted to march back to the sheriff, with my finger pointing in his face, screaming, “You….you, son of a bitch… you owe me an apology!” But I didn’t. I wanted to, but I didn’t. And had he found me, would I have nuzzled my crying eyes into his burly arms, pounding his chest and saying “But I hate it when you guys are so mean”… sniff…? Absolutely not. Now, our moods soured, we only watched two laps of the race and decided to leave. As we were leaving, we drove out the same entrance where we met the sheriff and I made an effort to see if I could locate the burly man. Had he been there, I might have had enough courage to ask for an apology, but gone was the sheriff, as well as, his full grown German Sheppard.

21 years later: Since the incident, I’ve been to many races, as a spectator and a racer. I’ve found the race-going crowd to be rather mild mannered, fun loving people; therefore, I wasn’t sure why the sheriff was there with his German Sheppard. Did he think the race crowd would become unruly and disobedient? I guess I’ll never know.

It’s Just Priorities

Driving home after lunch, the cloudless afternoon sun shining though the driver’s side window began to irritate me. I roll down the window halfway. For the moment, I’m not angry but rather stressed, as if I was constantly running to catch a train that has just pulled into the station. It’s an unusually warm day for April and I’m in a full throttle, pedal to the metal mode, preparing for the Bethel Spring Race Series, which translates to always fighting and struggling to find time to go out and ride – not for joy, but rather to put in some hard training miles.

Weaving through traffic in town on this particular Saturday afternoon, my mood began to turn into anger when I realize that my weekend was already packed with other events – birthday party to attend, food shopping, cooking dinner. I wouldn’t have time to go out and ride. I tried to force myself to change my mood. Nothing worked. My body language and perhaps my forceful exhale of my breath, expressed my mood clearly to my family.

“Is everything okay?” my wife, Michelle, asks and I paused before answering, knowing that I would not be able to hide my true feelings.
“I’m fine!” I answer, gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Are you sure?” Michelle asks, and turns her body towards me.
“Yes!” I say, with the muscles in my jaw tightening.
“Man! Why don’t you go out for a ride, or something!!” Michelle commands, at which time, my son chimes in, “Yeah, Daddy, you’re being a real meanie.”

I looked through the rear view mirror to get a glimpse of my son. He looked at me with a convincing disgust and truth telling expression, only a six year old could muster.
Michelle leans over to the driver's seat and tells me that she would take both kids to the birthday party of my son’s classmate and would also do the food shopping. Suddenly, I felt like a five your old, who has been told to go outside to play, after being bottled inside the house all day. My mood lighted and a smile began to grow my face. Arriving at our house, Michelle switches to the driver’s side and drops me off on the sidewalk in front of our house. After giving each kid a kiss goodbye, I kiss Michelle.

“Thank you.” I say, with the muscles in my face, now relaxed.
“You owe me.” Michelle says with a smile.

I’m alone now. I headed into the house, rush upstairs, strip off all my clothes to put on my cycling short and shirt, savoring each second, I’ve been given. I fill up my water bottle – half Gatoraid, half water, put on my heart rate monitor and head to the basement to prep my bike. I pump the tires to 120 psi, a quick check of the chains, spin my front and rear wheels…check, check, good to go. Now, it’s socks, shoes, helmet, sunglasses and gloves and I’m out the garage door. I’m free and on the road.

Three hours pass on my usual training route and I’ve settled into the repetitiveness of constant peddling, as pain and fatigue begins to ooze into my lower back and legs. I began to think random thoughts, in order to numb the suffering my brain was telling me that I was experiencing. One random thought, linked to another.

Did I put on sun block before the ride today? Michelle hates it when I don’t put on sun block and I get burned… oh yeah, Michelle…What just happened today? Why was I so angry? I have a great life. I have a loving and supportive spouse, who understands my obsession with cycling and racing and we have two beautiful children. I have my own company and I love what I do. So why am I always feeling so stressed out and depressed? Let’s break this down… What is the single most important thing in my life right now? Cycling. What is the one thing that is causing all my stress and anxiety? Cycling…. Cycling?? Wait… I put cycling as the most important single most important thing in my life….and most stressful?? Cycling was more important than my family??? My order of importance is, cycling, family and career.?? Something is really wrong.

I began to slow my pace on my bike. My order of importance struck me hard like an ear piercing scream. Without a doubt, I need to put family first. I realized I was putting too much emphasis on my cycling and training schedule, perhaps on the verge of being obsessive. At that moment, I decided to take an easy approach with my cycling. Perhaps “fire” my cycling coach… I wanted to bring the “fun” back into cycling. As I continued to ride and realizing my new paradigm, I felt as if a huge weight lifted off of me and a surge of new found energy took over my body. I want to go home. I miss my kids. I miss my wife.

I pulled my bike into the garage and noticed that the house was unusually quiet. I walked upstairs, threw my sweat soaked shirt and shorts into a pile and showered. The spattering of water against the tub seemed curiously loud today. I felt lonely coming home to an empty house. For the next two hours, I sat on the sunny spot of the living room rug and read the newspaper, eagerly waiting for the arrival of my family. Family, career and then cycling….now I’ve got it.