My Korean Deli_ Risking It All for a Convenience Store - Ben Ryder Howe [17]
For a family like Gab’s, however, nothing could be more normal than parents living with their adult children. Koreans, like many Asians, have a strong tradition of filial piety—that is, of dutifulness to one’s parents. In America, kids are supposed to antagonize their parents: they’re supposed to torture them as teenagers, abandon them in college, then write a memoir in which they blame them for all their unhappiness as adults. But in Korea they serve them forever, without a second thought. They take care of them, support them, and frequently orient their entire existences around them. For instance, almost all of Korea’s elderly cohabit with one of their children, usually the first son, whose wife is expected to essentially become a live-in servant to her in-laws. These obligations aren’t etched on a tablet. It’s not like Gab ever said to me, “I am a dutiful daughter from a Confucian-based society and must honor my parents,” the way she would in a Hollywood movie. She just did things that to me seemed above and beyond the call of duty, even for a devoted daughter, like bringing Kay and Edward on vacation with us, or sharing our income with them even when they didn’t need it.
Of all people, I assumed my father, the authority on culture, would understand this, but he seemed as baffled as me. “You mean, Gab wants to do all those things for her parents? She’s not being forced? What a system.” At the same time, it’s not as if the Paks don’t value independence. When Gab was growing up, her mother pushed her to become as financially independent as she had been forced to become at her age. “Never depend on a man,” she would say. “Always be able to take care of yourself.” And the Paks are independent—they’re the ones living in a foreign country, after all, while my family stays as immobile as Plymouth Rock.
“DON’T LET IT KILL YOU”
THE NEXT NIGHT I COME BACK TO BOERUM HILL SO I CAN inspect the neighborhood and make sure the store isn’t near any slaughterhouses or toxic waste sites. It appears as if dealing with the challenges inside Salim’s building will be more than enough.
Before I do that, though, I stop by the store so I can meet Salim.
The first time I see him he’s standing at the checkout counter, a tired-looking Arab-featured man not that much older than me watching a TV show and eating his own inventory.
“Salim?” I say, sidling up the counter.
“Yes?” He guiltily puts away the BBQ-flavor chips. “How can I help you?” His voice has a Middle Eastern accent, but not very strong.
I introduce myself as Gab’s husband, and behind his heavy-lidded eyes I can him trying to retrieve information from his memory about Gab, like Wasn’t she Korean? What are you?, before he cautiously extends a BBQ-chip-stained hand.
“Yes, she called and said you’d be coming by.” There’s a hint of relaxation, but the suspicion lingers. Who calls the shots—you or your wife? Or that mother-in-law of yours?
“So have you owned the store a long time?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“Ten years,” Salim says, seemingly wincing at the thought. And you? What were you doing the last ten years? Brushing your pony?
“Are you familiar with the neighborhood?” he asks.
I explain that Gab and I used to live in Fort Greene, just a mile or so away.
“FORT GREENE?” he virtually explodes.
“Yes … I … but it wasn’t for a long time … and I really didn’t like it.” What could Salim possibly have against Fort Greene?
“YOU MEAN FORT GREENE, BROOKLYN?” he repeats, leaning across the counter.
I nod fearfully.