Reflections on Va Tech

It's been over two weeks since the Virginia Tech massacre and as swiftly as the media swooped in from all sides to cover this story, they just as quickly retreated. Being a part of this clan I'm guilty of this as well. When this story first broke, the Cho family was at the center of the maelstrom, as reporters circled their townhouse in Centreville, Va., hoping to snag one soundbite or key detail from neighbors, the postman, the UPS guy, anyone who had come into any contact with the family. I can't even imagine what it was like down in Blacksburg. But from reading reporters' accounts or seeing the slew of cameras on television, it is no wonder students eventually held signs saying "Media not welcome here" on their dorm buildings or actively voiced their disdain for reporters to their faces. Now, the furor seems to have subsided, at least until Gov. Kaine's investigation panel begins its review next week, in which the gunman's parents and sister may be asked to cooperate. Whether they will actually come forward is another issue. I don't believe they can exactly be forced to testify, since it's not a court of law, but an independent commission.

Even among the Korean community the initial frenzy over the gunman being Korean has cooled. When the news first broke, my jaw dropped to the floor. Not only did I think no Korean American with said background could be capable of undertaking a killing of such mass proportion, I couldn't fathom what his family--his parents, sister, relatives--would be undergoing. Reports of suicide, of hospitalization due to shock--none of these rumors surprised me, nor will they, should they ever come true. I listened to Korean callers expressing their sorrow over Korean talk radio, read the government of South Korea's statement of condolence to the American public, skimmed various editorials by native Koreans lamenting the fact that Seung-Hui Cho was one of their own. And the Korean American community's own aggressive response to such statements of "guilt" or "shame" opened my eyes to the immense cultural divide between immigrants and those they raised here in America.

Not really until I stepped foot in a Korean service at a Korean church in Vienna did I understand the gravity of Seung-Hui's association with the Korean community itself. I'm not a religious person, nor a regular churchgoer, but I was reporting a story about the Korean church community's response to the shootings. These were all strangers, people I've never met before, but observing a bunch of Koreans worship in one place, many of them emotional and teary-eyed--these people who could be my parents, or my parents' friends, or my relatives, or my grandparents--I felt a sense of kinship. Among any culture such a bond is probably common. But even without any incessant chatter of the shootings in the reception hall, or on the lips of churchmembers as they filed into their chairs, I could feel the weight on the community's conscience-- the incredulity, the disbelief, that a Korean could have committed such an atrocity.

As one woman I interviewed later put it so succinctly, Koreans feel a connection to the gunman because he was Korean. It doesn't matter if he answered in English to his parents everytime they spoke Korean to him, or if he listened to Collective Soul and Guns'n'Roses as opposed to Korean pop (ok, not many of us do anyhow), or if he favored hamburgers over bulgogi. He could have spite his culture any which way he chose, assuming he did, yet he didn't have a choice when he was born Korean. None of us did. His parents brought him here when he was 8, presumably to provide a better life and education for him and his sister. Reports say that he was made fun of in class, both for his deep voice and also for his silence. He was always a loner, a misfit, someone who had trouble fitting in, as even his sister acknowledged in a statement she released through the family lawyer. Apparently he was unpopular with the girls, although his foolhardy attempts to get their attention (covert photos with his cellphone under his desk, reports of stalking) only led him into more trouble. But I wonder, did he have even one friend? One buddy? One partner in crime (for lack of a better expression)whom he could engage in mischief with? One teacher he saw as mentor? I mean, it seems nobody knows ANYTHING about this guy or they're just not willing to come forward and talk about it if they do.

Sometimes I wonder, is the media's portrayal of this guy as a creepy loner from the get-go just encouraging exaggerated reports of his solitude in school? Can high schoolers, and college students, really be relied on to portray a 100 percent accurate picture of one classmate whom they will thusly associate with the murder of their peers? Not to defend Cho or anything, but it seems rather hard to believe that one person could be so incredibly lonely, and left alone, during his adolescence. Even his grandfather told the British media he believed his grandson was "autistic" growing up. The only positive thing I've heard to date about Seung-Hui was from a former member of his mother's church, who recalled him being "responsive" when spoken to, and capable of smiling. Somehow I want to believe that there was an iota of happiness in this person's life, somewhere down the line, otherwise all we have to dissect and learn from here, is a demon with a black heart. And where does that lead us?

I was intially assigned to "scope out" Centreville territory, the town where Cho grew up, for any recollections from storeowners etc. on the family. I came up short. Turns out the parents were immensely private, nomads when it came to employment. They were probably able to blend in as well as they did because they were in the heart of one of the most Korean-populated towns in the country. That and also in America, people don't ask many questions if you're an immigrant. They tend to leave you alone. Ironic then that such a quiet family's privacy could be shattered one morning and life as they knew it suddenly changed. I've skulked around their neighborhood, hoping one of the parents might return to their home to collect their belongings, their car, anything. But I wonder, if I ever did meet them face to face, what would I possibly say? To me, these individuals are not just "the gunman's parents", but Korean people whose grief is a deep abyss. But while not tomorrow, or the next day, or even next month, or possibly next year, I do feel that at some point the parents might want to speak about their son: who he was, who he was becoming. It's asking them to let go of a vast storage of reserve and a fiercely guarded privacy. It's asking them to step outside of themselves. It's practically asking them to channel another culture. But how else can we learn, so we can accept, so we can move on, if ever.