Once Upon a Time . . .
. . . there was a father who insisted on discipline, which he applied with a belt that obediently slipped with ease from the loops of his jeans and folded over on itself one fold for even greater ease in handling, and when he was concentrated on instilling discipline through the belt that he liberally applied, he did not appreciate his word being "sputed."
One day, the wash that had been hung out in the basement to dry was discovered to be still wet and lying upon the very dry and dusty basement earth and therefore even dirtier than before its washing.
The father glanced at the fallen clothesline and the dirtied sheets, then turned to his older son and asked: "Did you knock down the wash?"
The little boy of about five years replied: "No."
The father turned his fierce attention onto his younger son and asked: "Did you knock down the wash?"
The little boy of about four years replied: "No."
The father posed this second child a second question: "Did you do it on purpose?"
Confused, the four-year-old replied: "Yes?"
Instantly, the father's fierce face turned cruel as he pulled his belt from its loops, and the little boy, turning terrified, protested, "I didn't know what 'on purpose' meant! I didn't know what 'on purpose' meant!"
But it was too late. He knew what he had done. And it wasn't going to change a thing.
Labels: Family
posted by Horace Jeffery Hodges @ 4:14 AM
2 comments
2 Comments:
In my household, the belt-user was Mom. Dad rarely physically punished anyone. Mom took out her anger on me, which may be a lucky thing; she never did to my little brothers the things she did to me. It wasn't just a belt: sometimes, it was a cold shower that I'd be forced to stand in. Sometimes, it was objects she'd throw at me. Once, she even bit me on the shoulder. And on many occasions, it was a silent treatment that could last as long as a week. Much of what Mom did when she and I were much younger created issues that festered between us over the ensuing decades. By the time I was in my thirties, some of the issues had been "worked out," albeit not in a way that involved words or definite closure. And by the time Mom died of brain cancer, some issues had been left unresolved. Life and death are messy that way, I guess, defined by torn and jagged seams, not by neat and tidy folds.
"By the time I was in my thirties, some of the issues had been 'worked out,' albeit not in a way that involved words or definite closure."
That's Korean culture in a nutshell. Words never work things out. To talk about a problem is to make a problem.
Jeffery Hodges
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