It was my grandmother’s hope that my father would become a professor. After my father married my mother and left Korea, together they set on doing just that. So for a very long time, it was my father’s job to study, and my mother’s job to have me and my sister and raise us.

My parents immigrated to the United States in the late 80s and moved to Philadelphia. My father was studying for his M.Div and during this time my sister was born. In 1991, my father graduated from Westminster Theological Seminary and decided to move the family to Pasadena, California where Fuller Theological Seminary is located. And this time I was born. My father received his Th.M in 1994 and moved the family back to the City of Brotherly Love to enroll at Westminster as a Ph.D student. My father, being the adventurous type, wanted to take a road trip back to Pennsylvania. This is when we bought our dilapidated Lincoln. Contrary to the image a classic Lincoln car may stir in your mind, our Lincoln was beat up and old. But it was good enough for our family to venture through the American landscape. With regret, I say this is the end to the Californian chapter.

When we arrived to the suburbs of Philadelphia, my parents realized that a second car was needed. It was about time my sister started kindergarden, and my mother began her first job as a preschool teacher which is about 30 minutes away from our then home. And because our Lincoln wasn’t old enough, we decided on an Oldsmobile as our second means of transportation. I was very little at this time so I had no objection to the Oldsmobile. Only when I entered elementary school did I realize the horror of a car that it was. We affectionately called the Oldsmobile 똥차, poop car, and the Lincoln was plain old, 하얀차, white car. Every day my father drove himself to Westminster. Because we lived in the suburbs, if I missed the school bus in the morning, my dad had to drive me to school. On such mornings I would ask “Dad, poop car or white car?” Inside I would plead, “White car, white car, please, white car.” If that particular morning he decided poop car, I would quietly exit our apartment building trying my “best” to conceal my frustration and annoyance at his car choice. Whitemarsh Elementary School had a car-pool section where all the parents drove up to the secondary entrance of the school and dropped off the kids. The line of cars consisted of BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, Lexus’, and Audis; it was the epitome of the kind of neighborhood our family lived by. Our poop car incongruously lined up behind these cars and my father oblivious to my embarrassment happily whistled on to the Christian music playing on the radio. As our car approached the entrance of the school, I tried my best not to make eye contact with my school-mates. I was terrified at the thought of my friends seeing our poop car. All of my friends came from upper-middle class families. Just like their luxury cars, their parents had luxurious occupations: Doctor’s kid, lawyer’s kid, or businessman/woman’s kid. I was just a pastor’s kid. First grade was when I met my first group of school friends. A classmate named Katie Weidman asked if I wanted to be her friend and then introduced me to all her friends. At first I didn’t know the many differences between them and me, but soon I realized that they were white, Jewish, and rich. I won’t get into the specific events which led to these realizations, but this is when I began to categorize my friends. There were school friends, home friends, and church friends. The boundaries were rarely crossed. When my school friends began to realize that I separated them from my other friends and my “other life,” they were confused. They only had one set of friends. They went to the same school, they met at the same synagogue they casually attended once a month or two, and they all lived fairly in the same neighborhood. I knew I felt different from them, and I knew they knew I was different. At home however, the Fort Washington Apartments kids felt the same as me. We were all children of immigrants and economically not too well off. Most of the time we stuck close to Fort Washington and played kickball or tag. Once, my school friends confronted me about my exclusiveness. I had a birthday party which they had not been invited to. They invited me to their homes and their parties, but why didn’t I invite them to my home and my parties? To me it was obvious. Their parties were at ice skating rinks, rented swimming pools, and restaurants, while mine were at home. My mom made all the food, the cake, and we watched TV and played tag outside. Our apartment was the size of their basement. Why would they want to come? I didn’t understand. And I didn’t allow them the chance to understand. We eventually drifted apart and on June 14, 2003, the last day of school, my dad came to pick me up one last time in our poop car. My father finally graduated from Westminster with a Ph.D and received a job as head pastor at the First Korean Church of Brooklyn. That night we left the poop car and white car at Fort Washington and drove down with FKCB’s church van to New York.

You would think the morning anxieties would have ended now that our poop car was gone for good. But my nerves were once again alarmed when one day I was late for (middle) school, and my dad said to my mom, “Oh don’t worry about it, I can drop her off on my way to church. I have the church van.” Like Whitemarsh Elementary School, Mark Twain Middle School, had an area for parents to drop off their kids. The school security guard and several teachers stood outside each morning to make sure this process went smoothly. This scene was all too familiar. Except instead of luxury cars there were “normal” cars and my ride was a van with “Church Bus” stamped on the side and back in large, white, korean and english letters. As the years went by my father grew more fond of praying. And so of course before I was allowed to leave the Church Bus, my dad stopped traffic to lay his hands on my head and prayed for Christ’s wisdom and strength to be with me. Although I now can much appreciate his prayers and his discipline, when I was that age, I was embarrassed of this religious act in front of my secular peers. My hand was at the door handle getting ready to push the door open and close and run inside the school.

These morning car rides ceased for good when I entered high school. Brooklyn Technical High School was 40 minutes away from my then home and regardless of my tardiness, I would have to take the train to school. Just like I didn’t need to worry about the poop car and Church Bus, I didn’t have to worry about “being” a Christian. When I left home, all signs of who I was at home dropped. I didn’t have to tell anyone who I was. I didn’t have to feel the burden my faith gave me. But as I learned more and more about Christ and who I was in Christ, these burdens came from my heart and mind instead of vehicle that said CHURCH. Many times I was conflicted between doing the right thing, and doing the acceptable thing. Acceptable looked like an atheist who partied and ironically, was “different” from the other kids in school. It is true that it is in Brooklyn I felt the most at home. There, the minority is the majority. It is cool to be different. It is cool not to have come from a wealthy family. I felt accepted and at ease. My sophomore year of high school, my father finally became a professor. The university is in Korea so my parents moved back to the motherland and my sister became my guardian at 19.

The next chapter in my life, I think I can fairly say, was the period I learned and matured the most. The new kind of freedom we had… we may have abused it but it also taught us how to be wiser. She did things and I did things. And we both said mad things to each other. Although we hated each other 99% of the time, I also remember the joy rides we had together. She would drive me to school in our Camry so I could hand in a late paper or project. She’d pump the YeahYeahYeahs to top volume with the bass at its limit. We would sing loudly with the window down and dance while the other drivers watched. Cheesy I know, but I remember the wind, my smile, and the sun. I remember being happy with something so simple.

Before I arrived to college, my sister and I moved again closer to Manhattan. Unfortunately we had to sell our car. Though the Camry is gone, and for now we have no car, the memories these car rides gave me are pure joy. And now I wait for the next car to enter my life.