I Watched John Cho’s Latest Movie And It Made Me Think About The Son I Don’t Have
A 26 year old’s words for his non-existent child
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I recently went to go see Columbus, director Kogonada’s beautiful film debut. The movie features a character named Jin, a Seoul-based translator who finds himself stranded in the Indiana town where his estranged father, a renowned architecture scholar on a lecture tour, lapses into a coma. While there, Jin befriends a young woman named Casey, and the two develop a friendship built on their estranged relationships with their parents. The nuance of film’s handling of generational tensions and personal ambitions was subtle yet powerful. The movie brought me to reflect on my own relationship with my father and the prospect of fatherhood that lays before me. Read on.
Son,
About a month ago, I had dinner with your grandparents and your Aunt Samm in the Catskills. It was July 4th weekend. We had left behind the honks and fireworks of the city in favor of spending a weekend filled with the whispers of the upstate New York. The restaurant’s wooden floors creaked underneath our feet. On this cool summer night, we laughed over sips of white wine and old jokes. I had recently left my job at an advertising agency to pursue my passion for writing and filmmaking. I was scared to take this step, unsure of what was to come, but I was excited by the prospect of taking a chance on something that I loved. So, when your grandfather asked me what my plan was once I returned to the city, I felt a weight as my shoulders slumped a little and the tension tingle in my throat. As I glanced at your aunt’s encouraging smile, I sat there stoically and leered into my parents’ expectant faces.
It was a fair question. The topic of my leaving my advertising career had been brought up many times in the past few months. This move was a big decision. I was forgoing the comforts and benefits of my office job in favor of a career path that is statistically improbable, likely to be filled with pain and failure, and, at least in the early stages, devoid of significant means of income. I had grown accustomed to reciting my boilerplate answer to colleagues of how I would be filling my days and where they could reach me. But in a snap of a moment, the cool summer air turned warm. My fingers clenched into balls that pressed into my thighs. The pace in which my chest rose and fell quickened. Hearing my father’s question, I felt the familiar arms of frustration embrace me. I readied my defense. I rattled off words like “timelines,” “status sheets,” and “swimlanes.” The room got warmer. I proposed that I could treat my parents like clients and set up weekly check-ins with them so they could monitor my progress. My voice rose with each sentence. Was this the answer that they were looking for? As I prepared to enter a new life filled with uncertainties, how could they assume that I was taking this moment seriously? How could they? Throughout it all, a dim sadness pulsed within me.
You are twelve now. I write to you at a time when many things are changing in my life, as they are in yours. Right now, the concept of fatherhood or the idea of having a child is very far from my thoughts. However, these notions are not as distant as they used to be. More and more, I see the world through the lens of the person I want to be, rather than the person I am. The person I want to be is who I imagine you will one day observe and use to define your own identity. If you are anything like me, the women in your life will loom large and shape who you are. Your mother, Aunt Samm, and your grandmother will guide and light your way, as they have mine. They will mold and form you. But, if you are anything like me, the men in your life shall dictate who you will not be as much as who you will be. In your observations, you will see parts of these men in you and choose to keep or excise those elements from yourself.
You are descended from great men. Both of my grandfathers have passed within the last year, but their stories will surely be present in your life. They were both worldly, accomplished, and devout men. My father’s father emigrated from many countries — South Korea, Singapore, Malaysia, Jamaica — to establish his life in America. My mother’s father served South Korea dutifully as a high ranking official in both the military and the political arena. Quiet, strong men. But these men always had smiles to share with me. My broken Korean was never at the level where I could ask them about their stories. Instead, I held their hands in silence as the news would play in the background. I accepted extra helpings at the dinner table. I took pictures, so many pictures, so that I would remember their faces. In a sense, I barely knew them. And yet, I could only hope that my life, my existence, would be worthy of their legacies. No one will tell you to feel this. No one will demand this burden of expectation of you. Your ambitions will not be motivated by idols that you’ve been taught in schools, for there will be none that look like you. You will not see your future in the movie theater or device screens. It will not be rooted in your community or your neighborhood block. For now, your wide-open future will be firmly grounded in your personal past, and you won’t even know it.
With each passing year, I am thrilled by the similarities that your grandfather — my father — and I share. Maybe these similarities were always there, but as I grow bolder and ask him more questions about his childhood, his relationships, his anxieties, I am both excited and worried at how we, through no purposeful intention, share idiosyncracies and values that I previously believed were only reserved for me. Our penchant for stories of idealized romance and moments unsubtle vanity. Our habit to resort to hard gazes and silence instead of striving to articulate our flash-in-the-pan anger. It is more than likely that you will possess these attributes as well, for that I am both sorry and ecstatic. Regardless of our flaws, your grandfather has endured his share of tests that challenged the direction of his career, the bounds of his marriage, and the trust of his children. Over time, I will share these stories with you. They will not be provided with words of warning or lessons learned. These tales will be for you to listen and to decide who you will one day be. You will feel the need to be better, to be more. More than he was, more than I am.
That cool summer evening in the Catskills, with my family, at dinner, I attempted to provide an answer that I believed my father expected. As a child, my growth was often measured by levels of achievement. Grades. Leadership roles. The college I attended. The job offer. Promotions. There was always more to be gained, a higher title to own. In my mind, the burden of expectation is always there. So when my father cut me off and told me that he didn’t need to be treated like a client and that he didn’t need status sheets, I didn’t quite know how to react. He carefully explained that he wasn’t trying to challenge me, or test my thoughtfulness, he was merely curious. Genuinely curious. Because he was interested in how this story, my story, will play out. He was interested. My fists unclenced. My breathing slowed.
My son, I am scared for you. Scared that you may take the worst of me and make it the biggest part of you. Uncertain of the fights we may have and the fallout that may ensue. Worried about the ways in which people — those who would call you friend, neighbor, or enemy — will treat you differently because of your last name. Angry that there will be times when I will hold myself back from rushing to your side in those moments, because I know that the experience of enduring that pain is necessary. But I promise to always be interested. Because you are my fascination. I believe in your greatness, not in the expectations that you may one day fulfill. Yes, I want the best for you, in all of it’s definitions. Still, the reward I truly desire is to marvel at your growth. To see you make mistakes, learn from them, and fight for the principles that you believe in. And that as you learn more about the men from whence you came, you are not bound by our history, but free to be who you want to be.
Thank you for reading! If you’ve read this far, please consider recommending it.
If you want to chat more, you can reach me at the two accounts below:
I tweet about indie movies, the cross-section of Asian-American and pop culture, and my millennial failures at @its_willyu.
You can follow my visual, never-ending journey to #SeeTheNew at @its_willyu.
About the writer
William Yu is currently a freelance writer and former advertising senior strategist. During his experiences at TBWA\Chiat\Day and SapientRazorfish, Yu worked on brand strategy and digital projects for brands like BNY Mellon, Accenture, Verizon, and Mastercard.
Yu created #StarringJohnCho, an award winning (2016 Shorty Award for Best Use of Hashtag and the 2016 American Advertising Federation Mosaic Award for Multicultural Digital Campaign) social movement that literally shows you what it would look like if today’s Hollywood blockbusters cast an Asian-American actor as their leading man. The project has garnered over 1 billion impressions worldwide and continues the conversation regarding the lack of Asian-American representation in film.
His work has been featured domestically and internationally from major media outlets such as The New York Times, BBC, CNN, NBC, CBS, The Huffington Post, Buzzfeed, and The Hollywood Reporter, and more.
He is based in New York City.
