Chapter Three: Change is a Constant

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. —Confucius

 

            “So Dad, Umm. Uh, what do you think about Jenette and me going to Korea?” I ask without thinking.

            Dad smiles. “I think it’s great. Did you know I took two hundred trips for Boeing?” He staggers along the neighborhood cul-de-sac, pushing a Rollator—an updated dark-blue four-wheeled walker for balance. Dad’s hair has turned completely white, emphasizing loud green eyes. As he grasps the handles for balance, he slouches so that even though I’m only five feet tall, we’re practically at eye level. Our journey together has been long. When I was growing up in the 1970s to early eighties, Dad was a perfect swan. He was a Christian teacher, elder, youth group leader, choir director, and Boy Scout leader for a small community church. He preached the moral values of yesterday where followers lived toward a vision of success and problems got solved in a day’s episode. You can’t get any more glorious than that.

            That is until Dad reached the age of fifty-four, when he began hang gliding. On October 20, 1984, he unintentionally “flew the coop.” His life changed for the worse—or for the better—depending on how one chooses to look at it. On his seventh high-altitude flight the glider folded during mid-flight, causing him to fall 100 feet through a tree, hitting his head several times on the branches. Thus began his life as a “disabled” person. He was forced to retire early from his engineering job, where he was employed for thirty-two years. Due to his newly inflicted disability, his schedule was reduced to mainly reading and watching television while confined to a recliner. His motto went from, “Don’t just sit there. Do something,” to “Don’t just do something. Sit there.”

            From the age of twelve, my twin and I have been emotionally supporting Dad throughout his recovery, providing care as he learned to adapt and accept his new physical limitations. We figure that if our family can overcome such a large life bump, we can pretty much overcome anything. Although Dad isn’t completely independent after his injury, his mind and heart are in sync, and he listens to issues of mine without brawls or snarls.

            “Umm. Uh, Dad? Uh, what do you think . . . .” Trudging beside him on the South Seattle cement, I study him, not knowing how to ask the question without putting it bluntly. “What do you think about Jenette and me finding our birth parents?” It’s a topic we’ve never discussed.

            “What?”

            “What do you think,” I ask, now shouting, “about us finding our birth parents?”

            His smile collapses and he jerks and jiggles the Rollator to a stop, almost losing his balance. “I don’t like it.”

            I’m surprised by his quick response. “Why?” I ask. By this time in our lives I thought my sister and I had demonstrated our loyalties to him and so, I hoped, he wouldn’t feel so vulnerable.

            He’s silent for a moment and then shakes his head. “I just don’t.”

            “Can you give me a reason?”

            “I don’t like it.” He rolls again. “I’m your father.”

            “Yeah. I can understand your feelings. I mean . . . I know I wouldn’t be able to talk to Mom about this if she was still alive. But I always thought you were so much more open minded.”

            “You’re right, Janine.” Dad’s light ivory face stiffens and forehead creases appear. “She wouldn’t like it either.”

            “There’s no way I would look for my birth parents if Mom was still around,” I stutter, suddenly feeling childish. “Or, at least, I’d have to keep it a secret. And I would feel guilty too. But now it’s the Gathering in Seoul. Adoptees from all over the world are coming together for the 50 year reunion of overseas adoption. Our birth parents might be looking for us.”

            Dad lurches to another gallant stop. “I’m your father,” he says, then starts rolling again.

            I watch him push the Rollator around—each step choppy. He’s seventy-three but I’ve been told he could pass in age from anywhere between sixty to eighty years old. I think it’s because of his injury.

            Long ago, before Dad’s injury, he was strong and forthright. He’s probably the only person I know of who had the audacity to chase a state cop down a street for about a mile all because the officer pulled out in front of my parents and, as Dad tells the story with a laugh, “forced me to skid and veer to the next lane. The cop was totally in the wrong! He almost caused an accident and it would have been his fault! If I had a ticket book, I’d slap him with a ticket!” This type of self-righteousness, blended with a hearty sense of humor over the cop’s immediate apology, is the type of person Dad used to be. If someone did something wrong—according to the rules belonging to the “Top Swan.” Dad was determined to call the individual on his mistake and make him pay. My parents were good old-fashioned right-winged swans intent on flying the “right” way! The type of folks who would fluff their feathers at a Billy Graham revival meeting and sing about giving all power back to the “Great Big Bird,” then go home and peck at their ugly ducklings for veering off course during the hour long lecture.

            The afternoon breeze rustles Dad’s loose-fitting red T-shirt and Navy sweatpants as he circles the cul-de-sac at a snail’s pace. Going around and around seems to reflect our lives together. Life seems to have always revolved around him. It’s not easy to fly away when I see that’s he’s been grounded for the most part. I wouldn’t complain though. Our family now laughs a lot. I like being there for him, just as he’s been around for me.

            Dad’s statement echoes in my mind, I’m your father.

            I nod and nudge his elbow. “You’ll always be my Dad. No matter what. But, don’t you think. Don’t you think that the Korean population. When they hear what a great father you’ve been. How open minded you are. Don’t you think they’ll find honor in that? Don’t you think you’ll get respect for that?”

            Dad digests my words as he continues to push his Rollator along the sidewalk. Giant houses in the latest Pacific Northwest colors of rust, cocoa, evergreen, and sunflower gaze down at us. Wobbling ahead, he focuses on a bumper sticker on the wheeled walker. It was a Father’s Day gift Jenette bought at the Boeing Museum of Flight that reads: “I’d rather be flying.” For thirty-two years, he had been employed as a mechanical engineer for Boeing, working on satellites, airplanes, the secretive “black box,” and other projects he’s not supposed to talk about. After his injury, that part of his life came to a shocking halt, prompting twenty years of searching for the way out of suffering, which led to a move beyond Christianity and an expansion of awareness that includes world religions and spirituality.

            “Don’t you think our birth parents will be grateful? And who knows?” I shrug. “Maybe we can even take you to Korea so you can meet them.”

            “Oh, no.” Dad grimaces. “I don’t want to go to Korea. I should stay in America. Nothing beats the United States.”

            My parents have always been proud to be Americans and with that came the impression that South Korea was a horrible country—a place that would have treated Jenette and me with disdain. Korea is a place where we would have either starved to death or become prostitutes. No one even needed to say this verbally—although the implication has been made. It was felt in the air by our parents’ unintentional arrogance. Their disregard for other flocks, when we were kids, implied that we should deny our heritage and never consider making a voyage to such foreign soil. It’s been my curiosity that makes the trip more appealing rather than appalling, like Dad sees it.

            If I were any younger I wouldn’t go; just the thought would have seriously jeopardized my relationship with my parents. To think that I belong to another flock—a Korean family—would have caused my adoptive parents to feel bad, risking potential pain for all of us. I can’t even imagine bringing up the topic of other parents around my late adoptive mother. Our relationship as a “real” mother and daughter would have been questioned. Nope. Out of respect for my adoptive mother, I wouldn’t go if she was still alive. Making a search would be a serious violation and dishonor for all Mom did for us. I would hate to jeopardize our relationship by following up on my own curiosity.

            I nudge Dad’s arm a little disappointed that he is so afraid of what I’ll find. It’s not my intention to replace him, if that’s what he thinks. “Don’t you think Mom understands now?” Trying to make him feel better. “She’s probably watching us from heaven. I’m sure she’s cheering for all of us.”

            “What?” My dad hollers without realizing our neighbors can probably hear our conversation.

            “Mom understands now,” I say discreetly.

            “What?” Dad blares.

            “Now that Mom is in heaven, she sees us from a more loving perspective. She understands!” Embarrassed, I scan the neighborhood, hoping no one is listening.

            Dad nods but doesn’t say anything and we continue to walk in large cul de sac circles. I assure myself that going will be the right thing. My husband had told me that he would take care of Dad, the kids (including Jenette’s two), the house, and the dog. “I think it’s time,” he had said even though he worried for me. “You should go. Don’t worry. I’ve got everything under control.” He had also encouraged me years back to become a U.S. citizen when I found out upon Mom’s death that my parents never applied for Jenette’s and my citizenship—it wasn’t required upon adopting us. According to documents, we were still “alien immigrants” and foreign children—floaters between two nations. Throughout my twenties I had been more loyal to Dad than to myself. Now, in my early thirties with my own family it might be time to think about me, at last.

            As I round another circle with Dad, I promise myself that I will definitely make the trip with Jenette even though Dad is a bit unsettled at the thought. I enter the house through the garage door, while he turns away from me to enter the side gate, a route with less bumps and barriers. Upon taking our separate routes to get inside, Dad shouts one of his most popular words of wisdom, “One thing is for sure, Janine. Change is the only constant in life.”