• Dad always carries his camera around with him. Night or day, rain or shine, he loves taking pictures. He likes going back through the old pictures stored in his camera as well. It was a black Leica V-Lux 1, the digital kind. If he’s not on the computer, doing some maintenance or reading the Korean news online, or fixing things, he’s itching to take a candid picture of me, my sisters, or my mom. He’d upload the pictures too, on the computer, and sometimes print them out, if he really likes them. One time, he printed two or three pictures he’d taken of me without my knowing about it. When I found them on my table the next day, though, I was really embarrassed. I know he means well, but those pictures were beyond embarrassing. Until very recently, I thought my dad was one of those businessmen who thought about nothing but money and the economy. I never knew he had an interest in art, well other than photography. He did draw something that was pretty good in my sister’s sketchbook, but I didn’t really think about my dad being able to draw.

    The things we carry vary from person to person: Mom carries a blue diary, her Samsung phone, cosmetics, keys to the house and the car, and credit cards – most of which is expired, but she rarely ever thinks of throwing them away. Makes me feel happy, she explained. Cinji carries her phone, her journal, and a pen, with which she would write lovely narratives about her day at school or how she learned the difference between a crocodile and an alligator. Sojung carries her books, which she spent digging her nose into whenever we went out for dinner. Especially when we have dinner with other people, she would prefer reading a book than to actually talk. When I feel like carrying something, I carry my iPOD touch, which contains over 1000 songs that pretty much describes my bouncy personality, and weighs less than a kilogram. Besides his camera, Dad always carries around his wallet, pack of cigarettes, and his lighter – his three, important “necessities”. He can’t live without them. We tried making him quit smoking over and over again. We once poured soup into his pack of cigarette and he got mad, really mad. My dad was – and I know it would mean no harm to him because I got this from him – stubborn. And when he found out about the soup prank, he bought himself another pack and smoked one right in front of us, the same week, to prove a point. He could not – would not – ever quit, we noticed. In a way, I hate him for it. I hate him for not even trying to quit his nasty habit, but of course, at the same time, I loved him for his boldness. I think it’s funny how he would risk the chances of dying early.

    When did you start? I decided to ask him one Saturday night.
    When I was seventeen, he said. Damn. Same age as me.
    Why? I asked.
    Why not? My friends pressured me into doing it so I tried a puff and that’s how I got started.
    Peer pressure is a deadly thing, Dad.
    Yeah, I know.