Memoir flashback: The time my dad got shot
I’m thinking of including this scene in my memoir.
In chipping away at my memoir, I’m reliving parts of my life that doesn’t exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy. From my soul-crushing days of working in Silicon Valley to my divorce to conjuring up weird childhood stuff, it’s both a reminder of what I’ve been through and how much I have to be grateful for. Writing it all down has been therapeutic, and also, I’m often surprised and delighted by my elephant-like memory.
Today I’m remembering the time my dad was shot in a robbery at our store. I was in seventh grade. I thought I’d share it today because this day is forever seared in my memory, like a branding iron marking a cattle’s rump.
Also, I started writing it as a prompt in last week’s Writing Class Radio group (a weekly writing group), but since we’re only given 30 minutes to write, I didn’t get to finish it.
So here it is, polished and ready for you to read, complete with a few old pics of my dad. (Frustratingly, I couldn’t find any photos of the store, but these are a few from that era.)
I got ready for school that day, just like any other junior high school morning. I could smell the Pillsbury Doughboy biscuits in the oven—a staple breakfast item in our household. My mom always stuck a slice of American cheese in the middle of each hot, fluffy disc.
My baby brother was playing on the living room floor with his toys while Barney sang and danced on the television.
I made my way down the stairs when the phone rang. My mom picked it up. Then, I heard her repeat my name a few times in a tone that told me something was wrong. I sensed the panic in her wide eyes and the blood drained from her face. She said the hospital called to inform her my dad was shot in a robbery at our store and was currently in surgery.
“Stay home from school and watch your brother, I have to go. Call your uncle and tell him what happened,” she instructed, as she rushed into the garage.
I nodded but I couldn’t move. It was as if my feet were nailed down to the floor. I stood there listening to the garage door open and the sound of my mom’s minivan backing out.
As I heard the garage door close, her shaky voice stayed with me, vibrating through my body like tinnitus.
As a kid, I rarely saw my mom cry, much less freak out. Her normal state was always warm and kind, so whenever I’d her face take the shape of sorrow, it made me feel uneasy. Whenever she cried, I did too.
I wondered if she shed any tears while driving to the hospital. Her sadness affected me so deeply, but today, her fear had completely transferred to me. I could feel her panic lodged in my gut like a rock.
Then I thought about my dad. Was he going to die? Where had he been shot? If it was above the chest, I knew it would be bad. What if he is paralyzed and ends up in a wheelchair?
I looked at my brother, blissful and oblivious in the living room. He had created an audience of toys around him as if he were starring in his own show. I knew he’d get fussy if he didn’t eat soon and I had yet to call my uncle. So I picked up one foot and put it in front of the other in the direction of the phone.
I knew my uncle’s phone number by heart. It was the number to his liquor store in Koreatown. Just like his older brother, he was also a business owner. Unlike my dad, he would sleep in the back room after he closed for the night.
Our store, a junior market, didn’t sell liquor like my uncle’s. We sold plenty of beer though. We also had a hot dog machine, which was really just a sweatbox for twirling sausages. (My entire family still talks about how disgusting those damn delicious hot dogs were.) My dad even had a soft serve ice-cream machine that I gladly abused when I accompanied my mom to the store.
After a few rings, my uncle picked up. As soon as I heard his voice, I started sobbing uncontrollably. I could barely get the words out.
“It’s me, your dad, he’s been shot. I mean, my dad, robbery, hospital…”
Somehow, he understood my blubbering and calmly asked, “Which hospital?
“I don’t know, my mom left to go to the emergency room.”
I told him I’d keep him updated when I heard from my mom. I hung up and crumpled onto the couch.
Hammer’s Junior Market was located in Compton—one of the poorest neighborhoods in the L.A. area. And back in the ‘80s, it was rough. In the seven years my parents had owned it, we became increasingly aware of how dangerous it was.
A few years before, my mom was held at gunpoint. It was in broad daylight. The thieves figured out when my mom went to the bank each day to return with wads of cash. They waited for her in the parking lot and stuck a gun in her face when she stepped out of the car.
After that incident, my mom bought a Levi’s jean jacket vest that she wore every single day to the store. She customized the inside of the vest with “secret” pockets—as if these pockets could magically make the wads of cash appear less visible, or better yet, completely disappear from the bad guys.
She knew that vest was nothing more than a cool jean jacket with lots of inner pockets, but it was her way of controlling the situation to feel safe.
In elementary school, my sister and I sometimes went with my mom to the store. I always dreaded it. We’d jump in her minivan and watch the scenery change from our suburban tree-lined streets to railroad tracks, barbed wire fences, and run-down liquor stores. Getting closer to Hammer’s always made my stomach sink.
When we arrived, I hated seeing the gathering of old drunks that loitered outside the entrance, often hassling other customers to give them a few quarters. Once, I went with my dad to open the store at 6 a.m. and saw those same men outside, waiting for my dad. It struck me that they started drinking when the sun came up.
During these trips to the store with my mom, I stood behind the counter, and customers smiled and asked how old I was or say, “Hey Princess.” They told me I looked like my mama and not my daddy.
It was the first time I saw poverty only 30 minutes away from where I lived. It was also the first time I smelled malt liquor breath and weed. I was reminded of how much my family had—a big house with a pool, a three-car garage, and lots of food in the fridge. I felt sad for them, but I also worried about my parents and their safety.
The string of robberies had been getting worse lately and it was the fourth time our store had been hit. The thieves always came in the morning when the store was empty and my dad was alone. He was alone but also kept two guns under the counter. One was an old-school pistol with a revolver and the other was bigger, like a rifle or shotgun.
A few hours later the phone rang. It was my mom. She said my dad was hit in the thigh—a clean shot that went straight through. Besides a gnarly bullethole in his leg, he was fine.
I heard the full story when he returned from the hospital. My dad knew the robbers would come, so he was ready with his gun and hid in the back. As soon as the thugs rushed in, my dad started firing like Korean Clint Eastwood. As much as it made me cringe, it also made me feel vindicated—as if we had somehow won, even though my dad could’ve been killed.
He came home on crutches and his leg was bandaged up. He looked defeated and I could tell he was in pain. It felt odd seeing him in the late daytime hours, a rare moment when the store was shut down before closing time.
The next morning, concerned about my dad, I woke up early and went into their room. He was already up, putting on his bulletproof vest and hobbling on his crutches.
Stunned, I asked, “Dad, you’re going to work?”
In a tone that sounded slightly annoyed but more matter-of-fact, he replied, “If I don’t, who will?”
That moment would stay with me until adulthood. It struck me that my parents had no safety net. There was no calling in sick or having a co-worker cover for them. My parents were immigrants, they were hard-working and scrappy. My dad was downright fierce when it came to his work ethic.
My dad went to work that day and the next until the 1992 L.A. riots burned down Hammer’s Junior Market to a crisp. After rebuilding it, my parents finally sold it and opened a bakery.
Your writing is incredible, as is your family. I’m home in bed sick today, and all I want to do is just devour your posts. Thank you for sharing them and for letting us in to your life.
You should definitely include this.