No daughter or son really knows their Korean father. The father nourishes his child by working and providing for the family. This is how it was with me and my appa until one conversation about donuts changed everything I knew about this man who was so stoic and distant.
My dad used gesturing hand motions and overly expressive facial cues to communicate without words. He said English just didn’t want to come out of his mouth no matter how hard he tried. I know my parents worked hard to make a living for me and my sister. But what I never thought about in those years was how lonely they must have felt. There was a reason for his distance from his own family: He had to find a way to be distant with himself. How do you get close to someone when you aren’t even comfortable in your own skin?
My appa worked in a factory in Michigan starting in 1988, after we immigrated to the U.S. from South Korea when he was 37 years old. The factory was a kind of windowless prison, closed to the outside world. There, his body became trained to perform monotonous tasks, with each movement further and further removed from being human. Within those dark, cold walls came forced laughter and chitchat to get through each long day.
It wasn’t until recently that Appa would speak of those times in snapshots, often out of nowhere. One of these occasions was Thanksgiving dinner in 2021, when Appa told a story that changed me.
“I know my parents worked hard to make a living for me and my sister. But what I never thought about in those years was how lonely they must have felt.”
Appa had been working at the factory for about seven years, and over time he and some co-workers became friends. One day a friend brought in a box of donuts — an American staple. The donuts, a mixture of frosted, glazed and sprinkled, were placed on a steel table in the middle of a common workspace. Without hesitation, Appa grabbed one and offered it to the co-worker next to him, and then grabbed one for himself. The room went silent; suddenly, all eyes were on Appa. He quickly learned that the donuts were not for the community, but only for a select group who had already paid for them.
Another employee bluntly told Appa that the donut was not his to take, but after noticing how genuinely confused Appa was, he said to just have it anyway. Because my dad couldn’t speak English, he couldn’t explain himself. With eyes cast down and red cheeks, Appa bowed and reached into his pocket for some loose change, insistent on paying for the food that was not rightfully his. He choked down his donut and worked in silence for the rest of the day. He could hear whispers from others. What bothered him the most was being seen as a moocher or being accused of stealing.
I held back tears as I listened to Appa share this story. I knew exactly why he took the donuts without a second thought.
Appa was proud to be Korean. In Korean culture, when people bring something to the workplace (usually food), it is intended for everyone. Koreans belong to each other as much as you belong to yourself. This interconnected mindset was something he truly believed in. It can feel like a burden at times, and it can be the thing that saves you. Appa had offered a donut to a co-worker because that’s in his Korean nature — to share. And he had taken one for himself to enjoy the gifts from others together.
My appa was the kind of man who would go out of his way to help a neighbour he didn’t even know; he’d never go to a friend’s house empty-handed, because this is the Korean way. Appa would have been the one to bring in donuts for everyone next time. But that next time never came.
“My appa was the kind of man who would go out of his way to help a neighbor he didn't even know; he’d never go to a friend’s house empty-handed, because this is the Korean way.”
As I listened to his story come to a close, Appa asserted that what he’d done was not wrong, and how his co-worker had responded wasn’t wrong either. Appa’s calm conviction told me that he’d made peace with the situation and many other incidents I may never know. He came to understand that no matter how long he was in America, he would always be Korean first.
What I also noticed on that Thanksgiving Day is how my mother, my umma, responded to this story, which she had heard before. She didn’t flinch one bit. She, too, had made peace with what was unsolvable and undeniable.
That evening, with full bellies from a very American holiday dinner, we had cut fruit for dessert in silence. It was not a cold silence, but one that wrapped us up in warmth for each other and all the untold stories of separation and reconciliation that needed a place to go.
For more than 30 years, my appa’s distant nature was a mystery to me. Yes, I am sure personality had something to do with it. I also believe immigration had a lot to do with how much he held back. That trauma never left his body.
I’ve never liked donuts — they’re too sweet for my taste buds — but the American lesson my appa learned in that moment at the factory leaves a bitterness in my heart that no sweetness could melt away.
My appa had loved me, loved us, all along but I never knew. He had protected me from his stories all those years. I am not sure what it meant for him to share this memory with his family. What I hope is that he felt a sense of release, for his voice to be heard, for his story to be told without misunderstanding.
Sometimes, love is about protection — long enduring pain that you don’t want your children to see. Love is protecting them from the world that misunderstands, a world that wants to erase you. And you want to love and to protect as long as you are able.