Dad,
In high school, I remember being the only one among my friends who actually wanted to go to parent-teacher conferences. Most of my friends said they wouldn’t dare imagine the embarrassment of being with their mothers and fathers. They would avoid the awkward middle of merging family and school life. Ironically enough, those were the friends whose parents insisted on meeting their kids’ teachers. I was jealous of each and every one of them because those moms and dads wanted to be involved in their children’s life. It did not seem to matter if the teacher mentioned a trend of bad test scores, or noteworthy marks of improvement; they wanted to know.
“They’re a waste of time. Time is money. I’m busy, Sue.” You were too busy to hear what my teachers, who I saw more of than you during the week, had to say about me and my work? How could you tell me that I’m a waste of your time? Is money that much more important to you? Do you ever fully think about what you’re going say before you say it?
The only way I could get you to come to a meeting was to say that it was Mrs. Deal, who taught my Calculus class, who wished to meet you. She wasn’t going to be the only one you’d be acquainted with that evening. I was going to make the most of my efforts after finally succeeding in dragging you to school on a weeknight. Oh, and I had to say “Calculus” because you believe that math and science are the only respectable subjects learning, because “they’re the only subjects that will get people jobs. You’ll be living on the streets if you study something otherwise.”
For every single person I introduced to you that night, you showed the same, false interest in my work. After walking up to the teachers, you’d transform into a completely different person. It would begin with a handshake where you’d use your left hand supporting your right elbow, as you would in Korean customs. You would even bow just enough to slightly surprise and embarrassing them into lowering their own heads, too. Instead of doing it to showing respect, you lowered yours in a shameful manner, with your back hunched over, as if you were shameful of me. The tone and pitch of your voice sounded like those of a stranger’s, and your eyes squinted far more than usual as you stretched fake smiles on your face. “Thank you for teaching my daughter,” is what you always said. You didn’t say that in an appreciative tone; it was more like you felt sorry for all the people who helped my l me, as if I was some sort of difficult burden for them. You saw that I spent all of my time doing homework and studying. You know that I respect them and would never talk back. How could you think I could’ve ever been troublesome to these people that I greatly admire? Do you really not know me?
After my teacher showed you my grade report, you would look at it with unemotional expression. You’d then turn to teacher, and your teeth would show again. My teachers generally shared positive comments with you. The only questions you asked them concerned my flaws and my capability to improve. I didn’t notice their significance in the way you looked me until one of my closest teachers told you with assurance, “No. There isn’t anything she needs to improve on, Mr. Choi, nothing, nothing at all.” I know that it’s good to improve, but how much of a difference will one percent make if my grade is already at a 98%? If the grade wasn’t 100% in a class, it wasn’t good enough. It was never enough for you. You always found the most trivial flaws in my grade reports. Couldn’t you have just told me that you were proud of me for what I had already accomplished? If you were actually trying to be interested in my grades, could you have tried to give me a little praise and encouragement?
I brought you to the parent-teacher conferences to show that my grades were good, but more importantly, that I was good enough and that other people knew it. I needed someone to tell you that, but all the good things they had to say about me weren’t enough to move you that night.
-Suejeong
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