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The Enigmatic Coat of Fathers : An Engineer's Son's Emotional Journal
I am a writer. And ironically, I struggle with words. Despite publishing books, I often find more comfort in equations than in sentences. Perhaps it's because I come from a background in engineering and the sciences.
This latest book, however, is about my father. Korean fathers, unlike their Western counterparts, are shaped by Confucian traditions. They are stoic, burdened with the weight of financial responsibility, and rarely express emotion.
An emotionally detached son, like me, never truly understood his father. And now, this son is attempting to write about him. But much like the first paragraph of this text, this one also feels awkward.
How can someone who neither understands the emotions of others nor expresses his own, write about family ties? It's a contradiction I live with every day.
My father, every day as he left for work, wore a strange coat. And now, as his son-a man defined by an XY chromosome and an inability to grasp emotions-I find myself standing before his death, attempting to decipher our emotions through numbers and formulas.
As you know, South Korea faces a grave demographic challenge, with low birth rates and an aging population. The youth are avoiding marriage, even shying away from relationships altogether. Why is that? Could it be, in some way, due to the "mysterious coat"?
When I was young, Korean fathers seemed like towering mountains-imposing, distant, unapproachable. But when I faced my father's cold, lifeless body, why did those once-broad shoulders seem so small and frail?
In this wheel of emotional contradictions, can we ever truly understand one another?
This is the story of a son and his father, intertwined in the equations of pain and the waves of emotion. Have you solved the mystery yet?
I am a writer. And ironically, I struggle with words. Despite publishing books, I often find more comfort in equations than in sentences. Perhaps it's because I come from a background in engineering and the sciences.
This latest book, however, is about my father. Korean fathers, unlike their Western counterparts, are shaped by Confucian traditions. They are stoic, burdened with the weight of financial responsibility, and rarely express emotion.
An emotionally detached son, like me, never truly understood his father. And now, this son is attempting to write about him. But much like the first paragraph of this text, this one also feels awkward.
How can someone who neither understands the emotions of others nor expresses his own, write about family ties? It's a contradiction I live with every day.
My father, every day as he left for work, wore a strange coat. And now, as his son-a man defined by an XY chromosome and an inability to grasp emotions-I find myself standing before his death, attempting to decipher our emotions through numbers and formulas.
As you know, South Korea faces a grave demographic challenge, with low birth rates and an aging population. The youth are avoiding marriage, even shying away from relationships altogether. Why is that? Could it be, in some way, due to the "mysterious coat"?
When I was young, Korean fathers seemed like towering mountains-imposing, distant, unapproachable. But when I faced my father's cold, lifeless body, why did those once-broad shoulders seem so small and frail?
In this wheel of emotional contradictions, can we ever truly understand one another?
This is the story of a son and his father, intertwined in the equations of pain and the waves of emotion. Have you solved the mystery yet?