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.