My father’s youngest brother, Uncle Chul, shared the Lee family’s famously bad reaction to liquor. In spite of this, he was always happy to stay up late at family gatherings. After a few glasses of whisky he would loosen up, and with the notable exception of my mother, we all appreciated his rough language and stories. Only when Mother came in from the kitchen would his talk soften, for he knew he had always fallen short in her eyes. When they were alone together, he used the most decorous(得体的) voice in asking for a glass of water or a fresh bucket of ice, and even offered to run an errand(差事) to the store.
On one of those nights we drove off together, both glad for a break from the long evening. He asked me about my daily life, but the conversation inevitably(不可避免地) turned toward my parents, and particularly my mother—how much she had invested in me, and how I was her great hope. I found it strange that he spoke this way, like my other relatives, and I answered with criticism, saying she was anxious and overbearing(专横的). He stared at me and, with a hard solemnity(严肃) I had never heard from him before, said that my mother was one of the finest people one could ever know.
As he kept his grip on the wheel, the ensuing(随之而来的) silence of the drive revealed how deeply conflicted he felt. I sensed that he both admired and despised(蔑视) her. In many respects, my mother was an unrelenting(不屈不挠的) woman. She measured people by a few strict principles: never ask for help, always plan for the long run, and treat others better than oneself. By these standards, Uncle Chul failed repeatedly.
In the weeks following our drive, my father debated whether to lend him $10,000 to start a business. After dinner, my parents would sit beneath the harsh glow of a fluorescent(荧光的) kitchen light, speaking in Korean. My mother, in many ways the director of the family, questioned my uncle’s character and will. Hadn’t he performed poorly in school and failed to finish college? Hadn’t he devoted his youth to tae kwon do trophies and billiards rather than a profession? Wasn’t he, at heart, a poor risk?
My father defended him weakly. Uncle Chul had a history of working hard only when reward was clearly in sight. Unlike his brothers—respected professionals—he had left Korea after failed ventures and arrived in Canada broke, with a wife and infant daughter still waiting in Seoul. My mother insisted that lending him money was a naive(天真的) hope that he had somehow changed. Even now, he complained about hauling and cleaning produce for a greengrocer, rising before dawn each day in a struggle that offered little promise of success.
