A fight with my bro that I'll never forget

I had it with his behavior and entitled ways.

I’m 29. My brother is 19. It was 2005, and I had just moved from New York City to Korea to help my mom start an after-school English academy. I planned to stay for a year—an eternity. Like all the businesses my parents owned, they relied on me. I had no desire to leave NYC, but knew if I didn’t, my guilt would consume me. I was angry and resentful, and on this particular day, I wanted to strangle my brother.

I was a different person then, and I wished I handled this moment with more understanding and empathy.

Circa 2005 in Ulsan, Korea. We’re out at a bar on this particular day because my sister was in town. I think he’s wearing a suit because he was going to go to a “night” after. (Night means clubbing in Korean.)

I tidy up the living room because I don’t know what else to do with myself. It’s late afternoon and the air is still. Despite the open windows, I’m dying for a breeze. I thought summers in New York were bad but Korea is on another level. It’s muggy and my hair is so frizzy I keep it in a permanent ponytail. 

Every bone in my body screams for cool air only the AC can provide. Mom is wary of expensive electricity bills, but I’m about to melt into a god-dang puddle. It’s got to be at least 100 degrees. I reach for the AC remote when Isaac swipes it from the coffee table and hits “On.” 

The Samsung AC unit is mounted above the TV. Every Korean apartment has them. Forget the sorry window AC units I had to deal with in Manhattan. The minute this thing turns on, it cools down the entire living room unbelievably fast. I hear it whir, and the vents at the bottom wake up and open. I feel a semi-crisp breeze and eagerly await the temperature to drop so I can stop sweating. It doesn’t take long before the living room is comfortable, and I can breathe again. 

But now, the endless commercials on the TV and my brother, who is perched in front of it, annoy me. Whenever Isaac is home and not sleeping the afternoon away, he’s watching TV. I hate that the volume is up so high. Is he deaf? 

Every time a commercial comes on, it gets even louder. I’m sick of hearing the high-pitched female narrators in these commercials. They make their voices at least five octaves higher, sounding almost childlike, while they tout the benefits of some energy drink or skin creme that will reverse every wrinkle and age spot. I learned very quickly that Korean women want skin that looks like it’s never seen a day in the sun and is smooth like a mannequin.

I notice a grease-stained McDonald’s bag on the coffee table. Fast food again? Only one person in this household would eat McDonald’s and it’s not me or Mom. 

McDonald’s is expensive in Korea, and my brother has no job. I know he’s not looking, even though he moved to Korea six months ago.

Does he think he’s on some kind of vacation? Maybe I need to remind him that he’s here because he got in trouble back in the States—something about the sheriff’s coming to my parent’s house at 4 a.m. with a search warrant. Police tore the house apart, looking for evidence. But by then, my brother was already in Korea, apparently enjoying his Quarter Pounders and sleeping in until noon. 

Unlike my brother, I moved my entire life to Korea to help Mom, not cause her more heartache. I sacrificed my entire life in New York to be in Ulsan, a city most people haven’t heard of. Ulsan doesn’t even have a Starbucks!

I want to be in Seoul, where I can see a few friends living there and visit any Starbucks scattered around the city. It pains me that Seoul is a five-hour bus ride away.  

I’ve only been in Korea for a few weeks, and I’m already feeling sorry for myself. God, what will the next twelve months be like?

Despite the refreshing breeze from the wall unit, my face grows hot. I am utterly disgusted whenever I see Isaac lying around, zonked out in front of the TV. I look at the grease-stained McDonald’s bag and the empty Big Mac box. I glance at his stupid, entitled face, staring blankly at the TV. Something inside me shifts and I sense an uncontrollable rage.

With my eyes still glued to the bag, I blurt, “Seriously, what are you doing with your life? You’re almost 20, and all you do is sleep or sit around watching TV. Are you ever going to find a job?” 

I shriek, “Are you even looking?”

My tone takes him by surprise. His eyes widen and then narrow.

“Yo, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are.” 

He snorts, “You ain’t all that.”

“I never said I was!”

My eyebrows crinkle and my mouth turns downwards. “What the fuck is your problem? You, running around with your stupid gang, your guns, getting in trouble with the cops.”

I point at him. “You’re here because you fucked up. Mom bailed you out and all you do is take and take. You lay around all day and then go out at night. Grow the fuck up. You’re such a loser!” 

I can’t stop this projectile vomiting of words. The dam within me has broken, set off by an empty fast food bag. All the anger, hatred, and deep-seated feelings pour out of me so fast and uncontrollably I’m practically shaking. 

I should know better because I’m older, but can’t hold it in anymore. Someone has to say something. My parents certainly never do. Their golden child can do no wrong in their eyes. It’s sickening. He’s screwed up one too many times. Doesn’t he see that? Is he that much of a moron? 

In an instant, something cold hits my face. I realize it’s orange juice from the McDonald’s cup. Isaac holds the cup with the lid still dangling on the rim.

I’m speechless.

I should’ve known he’d be unable to verbally fight back. He uses the only thing he knows how—physical violence and threats. 

My dad interjects, attempting to scold his son, but I don’t hear it because the room goes silent and dark.

I look up and lock eyes with Isaac. He has rage in his eyes but he’s also slightly smirking as if he finds humor in what he just did. The sweet liquid drips down my face, making speckles of wet orange spots on my shirt. 

Isaac shakes his head, warning me. Letting me know he’s boss, that he can’t be scolded or put in his place.

“You think just because you’re my sister, I won’t knock your fucking teeth down your throat?”

I’m… stunned. Did he just threaten me? Would he really hit me? 

The fury returns. I grab the closest thing within arm’s reach—a stack of plastic garbage bags.

I whack him over the head with it and scream, “You. Piece. Of. Shit!” 

With each word, I’m practically jumping to reach over my dad, who has come between us. I somehow reach Isaac’s head and I get in a few good smacks. I want to keep hitting him until he learns his lesson. I want him to cry. I want him to suffer. I’m screaming and sobbing, and my face is wet from orange juice and tears. 

My mom watches in horror. I forcefully throw the garbage bags on the floor, causing them to explode and scatter in all directions. I turn to her. “This is your fault.” 

I look back at my brother and fling my arm in the air. “Look at what kind of a son you raised. He’s never going to learn when all you do is give him everything he wants. Kick him out and teach him to be an adult!”

In a calmer voice but with tears in my eyes, I pause and give Mom a hard look. She is frozen because she’s probably trying to think of what to say.

“Mom, seriously… You need to choose. It’s me or him.”

Then a better idea pops into my head. “No, forget I said that. Moving to Korea was a mistake. I’m going back to New York.”

To be continued…

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