A group of us during camp decided to canoe and kayak to the middle of the lake. It wasn’t my first time, but I fastened my life-vest extra tight. I was–am—pretty scared of any body of water teeming with marine life. I half-joked, “There might be a monster at the bottom of this lake.” I’d immediately regret mentioning it as I looked down the murky waters.
After a few minutes of kayaking, I forgot my previous apprehensions and so we started to fool around. One jumped into the lake and flipped the nearest kayak from underneath. It took surprising minimal effort. Sensing their boyish hunger for prank, I cranked my paddle to flee. The only time people coordinate flawlessly is when they want to mess with a common target. One kayak blocked my path and two boys sped to topple me. As soon as they reached, I screamed,
“Wait! Wait! I have my glasses!”
Too late. I didn’t even think to grab onto them because my arms were flailing wildly. After I resurfaced, my wet face felt bare.
One friend felt bad so he dove and searched with his feet. After a few futile attempts, I told him to quit. It’s unfortunate but not the end of the world.
It’s still there. At the bottom of some random lake in Wisconsin. It’s amusing to think that there might be some sea creatures seeing the world with my prescription.
Well, old prescription since I got laser eye surgery. I don’t even see the world the same way. My glasses belong to the fishes now.
It was my 10th or 11th birthday. Young enough that I didn’t know better but not young enough that I needed supervision at the beach. My friends and I would charge the ocean when the waves pulled back and stormed the beach when the waves came crashing in. We’d cackle with pure glee. Nothing was funnier than seeing your friend trip on nothing except his own excitement and have a wall of water slap his face. Your prepubescent friend would fumble whether to cry because he swallowed some sea water or learn that some embarrassment in good company are laugh worthy.
Eventually, it was my turn to trip over. But it was a particularly strong wave that tossed and thrashed me. I got the wind knocked out of me. Losing my orientation, I couldn’t tell what’s up or down, where’s air or ground. I freaked. Primal fear of drowning flared in my genetic code. Eons ago, our ancestors made the irreversible decision to leave the oceans. We no longer belong in salty waters.
I just started kicking, hoping to touch some ground and resurface. After a few somersaults underwater, I was successful. I heaved delicious, life-saving air into my lungs. “I’m alive!” I screamed internally.
In reality, though, my life was not in any real danger. It was probably only a few seconds, and I was barreling towards land.
I shuffled back and told my friends. Unsurprisingly, as kids with no real concept of death or mortality, they brushed it off. Not because they didn’t care that the birthday boy almost drowned but that they had no way to connect to death. My (barely) near-death also didn’t make me an expert, so I also didn’t know what to expect. Still, kids can say the most random-ass and comforting things:
“You should eat a hotdog. I’ll go get you one.”
One summer I worked at this yuppie tapas restaurant in Wicker Park. So much shit happened.
I’ve never worked at a fast-paced restaurant before. On good nights, the restaurant runs as a well-oiled operation. The head chef as expo harks orders and garnishes the final touches; the line cooks sear, flip, fry, chop, sauce, and dish without respite; bartenders squeeze, blend, swirl, shake, and pour sensational drinks; the waiters break ice, joke, and ooze ambiance with breeze while the busboys (me) refresh plates and water. Like a symphony, our service sings in harmony with scrumptious delights.
But if one thing goes wrong, someone screeches. I got my first earful when I left my post to refill water because waiters were stretched too thin. The sous-chef ripped me a new one:
“Where the fuck were you? You don’t fucking leave your post until I fucking tell you, you stupid piece of fuck.”
I was too shocked to feel guilty, ashamed, or bad.
Later the sous-chef joked with the head chef: “I think Sooho popped his virgin ears. Finally got his first yelling in the kitchen.” Head chef giggled and said, “Welcome to the family.”
Was it verbal abuse? Sure. Was it toxic and manipulative that they brushed it off like that? 100%. Would I do the same? Maybe. Is it a funny memory now just like it was for them? Definitely.
But that wasn’t the most traumatic thing that happened that summer. No. I got hit by a car cross-walking right in front of the restaurant. Green light for me and left-turn yield for the car. I have no fucking idea how she didn’t see me since I was wearing bright yellow shorts on a bright summer day. The tire ran over my foot (I was wearing Rainbow sandals), and I tumbled as the car slammed against my right leg.
My coworker ran to the middle of the street, screaming, “Oh my god, Sooho just got hit by a car!”
Guess what the driver said.
“Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh! I… I served you coffee! Earlier from the coffee shop!”
I stared at her in utter befuddlement. “Oh… so you are.” Then everything kind of blurred.
Ironically, it was the summer I bought my first car. A white Scion tC 2006. Banged up sides, but drove faithfully for 54,570 miles. I wrote a short ode here.
But there’s something even more traumatic that summer. The night I got sucker-punched by a rando in the middle of downtown Chicago.
It was close to midnight and my friend and I were walking back to the train station to take the last train home. Before I got my car, I would commute by train from about 45 minutes outside of downtown. Usually, the walk from the Loop to the Amtrak station is safe with plenty of street lights and cops. But this one night, we missed our subway stop and had to walk the back-ish way. There was no one else on the street except this Asian woman – young, in her 20s — walking alone about 10 yards ahead of us.
Then out of nowhere, this dude runs across from the other side of the street and stops in front of her. His wild eyes drilling into her. Even though from 10 yards behind, I could tell she was terrified. He kept blocking her when she tried to side-step him. He looked hungry.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to do anything that could endanger me and my friend (another girl in her 20s). Without thinking, I just mad-dogged him. I locked eyes with him and didn’t break.
His hunger flipped into rage. He let the woman go, and she ran off. He stomped towards me and I to him. We didn’t break our glare. He kept walking and passed my peripherals. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Everything went black. I heard my friend scream. My hand filled with blood as I covered my mouth instinctually.
As soon as he was out of my sight, he spun and sucker-punched my front teeth. My friend later told me that he looked ready to attack again but decided against it and ran away.
“I think I’m going to lose this tooth.”
My front tooth was inward about 45 degrees.
I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have money. I didn’t want to scare my sisters, so I didn’t tell them. I haven’t talked to my dad in years. My mom had brain cancer. So, I did what I thought was the most logical at the time: take a shot of cheap bourbon and shove the tooth back in.
Fresh blood gushed out as I tried to force the tooth another centimeter. After nearly passing out from the pain, I finally broke down. I felt scared, ashamed, weak, pitiful. Not because I didn’t feel man enough, but I didn’t feel human. His violence stripped me naked of my humanity. I became a caged animal that a deranged man would abuse just because I dared to stare back.
Miraculously, the dentist told me that the x-ray shows no immediate threat of losing the tooth. For the past five years, it’s been hanging on a thread of nerves.
Did I possibly saved a woman from rape or, worse, death? I don’t know, but I think it’s foolish to assume he would only mug her. Especially with those eyes. Would I do it again? Honest to god, I don’t know. Was it worth it? I, I don’t know. I don’t want to glamorize suffering. I gained nothing but trauma that night. I’m just glad no one else got hurt, and I didn’t lose my tooth.
Plunge into the cold swimming pool to escape the heat.
Lay on warm concrete like freshly baked loaf.
Ham and cheese sandwich with potato chips, Capri-Sun, popsicles, Doritos and Goldfishes, cheesey fingers.
Rinse and repeat.
The walk back to my apartment from campus was about 10-15 minutes. On the way home, though, we would frequent Total Wine & More, a warehouse with great staff and greater selection of alcoholic pleasures. My roommate and I were entering our “craft beers” phase. Hazy IPAs, Belgians, wheats, pales, sours, goses, farm house ales, whiskey-barrel aged brews, stouts, and more. Every other day or so, we’d carry a new six-pack home.
Was it the most financially-sound (repeated) decision for us poor grad student and minimum-wage workers?
No. I’m sure some months we spent more on beers than groceries.
But there’s nothing like hearing your mate ask, “Want to try this one?” as he’s pouring you a glass. His girlfriend would join (I was the third roommate) with her choice of poison (often wine or cider and sometimes stout), and we’d move to his worn yet surprisingly sturdy IKEA table and just chat. Hours would go by. Sometimes we’d forget about dinner, so engrossed in talking about lore theories, what ridiculous things happened at work, what we’ve been reading and learning, that Sherlock game we obsessed about. These were the best of times.
One time, my buddy was getting into mixology. So we expanded our shopping cart at Total Wine to some liquors, spirits, bitters, and seltzers. Our home drink menu started to boast sours, negroni, martinis, gimlets, sidecars, and so on. Not every drink was a banger. But some were absolutely delicious. This was when whiskey sours with egg whites became my go-to.
After a few weeks, he wanted to host a group of our friends and just pound them with drinks. It was an excuse to get together, practice mixing, and get shit-faced. Well, we did all three spectacularly. He would make a drink, take a sip, pass it to us, and we’d do likewise. The last guy had the honor or burden to down the remains. There were only four of us, so the last guy was pretty much drowning half a cocktail in 5-minute increments. He got very drunk. Then all of us got giddy and a bit reckless. Someone recorded a video…
Sidebar: there was this professor who was a favorite among students, staff, and other faculty. Everybody fucking loved him. When our school had a lot of drama with racism, homophobia, politics, and drama, he stood out. Students confided in him; he finessed a number of uncomfortable conversations and situations and deescalated many potential disasters. In short, we all loved and looked up to him.
Okay, back to the video:
“To the greatest fucking white academic anybody could aspire to be!”
My very drunk friend bellowed with drink in his hand. Shortly after which he crashed on the couch. It was a 20-second video of us slurring and yelling our affections and adorations. We sent it to him.
He laughed and told us to be careful.
And guess what? My very drunk friend finished his PhD with that professor. Passed with distinction. In other words, of the utmost superior quality and little to no correction needed.
Summer magic means magical things can happen. But not all magic is good. Summer magic can also mean summer-what-the-fuck-just-happened.
You’ve just got to roll with the punches. Eventually, the good times will roll again. And when it does, hopefully you’ll cherish them more.
lee, sooho 
beautiful fucking read Sooho. You really are a poet.
otal Wine & More
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Haha, thank you!
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