The morning after my father attended my high school's PTA meeting, teachers stopped me in the hall to say, "Your father is a remarkable man." By third period, I'd heard from two other teachers that my dad was cool.
I thought my father, who rarely went to PTA meetings, was an embarrassment. He was a Korean minister and also worked for Voice of America's Korean Service. I was a 1968 hippie 11th-grader. My dad was smart, hardworking, his round head topped with thinning gray hair, sonorous on the pulpit and gullible for direct mail charity appeals. He wore black suits from Penney's. A staunch anti-communist, my dad believed in the necessity of the Vietnam war. My dad was not cool.
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