My Khun Pa
by Janette Herbers
On my study abroad program in Thailand, the teachers did all they could to prepare us students for culture shock. They taught us the etiquette of the Thai greeting, a bow with hands folded called a wai, to show respect and deference for superiors. In our language class, we learned about the various Thai pronouns, which also serve as indicators of social status, relationships, and degrees of respect. We studied the history of Thailand and why the Thai people are known for their warmth. Fascinated as I was with the language and all the details of Thai society in general, I listened most raptly to our lectures on Thai family life. We would each live with a different Thai family for two months, and I worried that I would disappoint them.
According to our teachers, the average Thai woman runs her household. She is responsible not only for raising the children and managing the housework, but also for ensuring the financial stability of the family. In contrast the average Thai man presides over his home as his castle and delegates the work among his family. If he can afford it, he may legally marry more than one wife. He may live with his first wife and only visit his minor wife, though he should support them both. We were warned not to expect much attention from our host fathers. Often they linger on the outskirts of family life, retaining the position of ultimate authority without any concrete responsibility. They are not like typical American fathers, but not unlike the man who raised me.
My nervous anticipation that had receded after I met my host mother, her sister Kwan, and her two sons returned to me in full force as we waited at the Chiang Mai airport for my host father's flight from Bangkok. Though most of the people coming off the flight were also Thai businessmen, I knew my host father when seven-year old Yok ran up to greet him. Like the others he wore a crisp white shirt and black pants, but he looked much younger. He hugged Yok and nodded to his wife and sister-in-law. With my heart racing I put my hands together and bowed in a deep wai. He smiled and bowed back. Then he took his toddler Yacht from my host mother, kissed him on the cheek, and led the family out to the car. I squeezed in the back with Yok and Kwan while my host father sat in the front with the baby on his lap. He spoke with his wife all the way home.
My host father's name full name is Sornchai, and his one syllable nickname is Pu. I called him Khun Pa, which literally means "Mr. Dad." In fact, I didn't know his real name for the first few weeks I lived in his home. In Thailand people refer to each other using kinship terms to indicate status, whether they are actually related or not. I called my host brothers Nong Yok and Nong Yacht because nong denotes that they are younger than I. Since Kwan and I were the same age, I could call her just by her nickname. My host mother I called Khun Mae.
At first Khun Pa seemed quiet and remote. I watched him play affectionately with his children, bathe and dress Yacht, and take Yok to bed on piggyback every night at nine o'clock. He watched TV and listened more than talked during dinner conversations. Working as a banker, he spoke enough English to compete in the professional sphere of Chiang Mai, but he spoke to me mostly in smiles and nods. Over dinner one night, the family coached Yacht to say the word for chicken, gai. His clumsy approximations made everyone laugh, and I said, "Nong Yacht, you sound just like me in Thai language class!" Khun Pa glanced at me with a twinkle of appreciation in his eye.
They lent me an old cell phone to carry to school in case I needed to contact Khun Mae for any reason during the day. I bought an orange phone card at one of the little shops near Chiang Mai University campus, but even when the phone was fully charged, it didn't work. That night Khun Mae told her husband about my troubles, and he asked to see the phone. In my small room off the hallway he sat beside me on the twin bed, studying the phone, the card, and the instruction manual. As he worked in silence it occurred to me that this man was a stranger. I didn't choose him and he didn't choose me, but that's how it is with family. Either you make the most of what you've got, or you see a stranger in someone you've known your whole life.
After Khun Pa bought me the correct phone card, I used the cell phone to arrange a ride home one strange afternoon. Due to unfortunate circumstances, one of the students on my program had to leave Thailand on extremely short notice. At the last minute we arranged a goodbye party for him after class, so Khun Mae could not pick me up on the way to Yok's school. Instead she instructed me to take a red truck, Chiang Mai's brand of taxi, from the party to a market, across the street from where Khun Pa would be playing soccer. Saying goodbye to my friend left me feeling both lonely and anxious, but I managed to hail a red truck and give the driver directions in Thai. I climbed in the back of the red truck and tried to calm down and remember how to find Khun Pa and not worry that I was running late.
From the market I called Khun Mae again since I didn't see any soccer, and the building across the street loomed dark and deserted. She told me to go under the building where, as I got closer, I did see someone waiting. In the funny evening lighting I couldn't tell if it was Khun Pa until I stood right in front of him. Dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, his hair sweaty from the game, he asked me, "Why did you come here?"
For a moment I panicked, thinking somehow I had done something wrong, and that after all my fear and stress getting there I would still be unable to go home. "So you can take me home?" I said hesitantly.
"No," said Khun Pa, obviously frustrated. "I mean, how did you come here?
I smiled, overcome by relief. "Oh, by red truck."
As we got in his car, I asked him in Thai if he'd had fun and whether or not his team had won. He said they won, and it was sanuk mak, very fun. He stopped at a shop and ran in to see one of his clients, even though it was nearly eight o'clock. When he came back I asked about his job. Talking with him in a combination of Thai and English, I felt the worries of my day slowly subsiding. With Khun Pa, I felt safe.
The longer I lived with them, the more he started asking me about my classes and field trips. At dinner he encouraged me to try certain foods that made me nervous, with my low tolerance for spicy cuisine. I would ask him, "Pet mai?" Is it spicy? He would answer, "Pet, deh aroy." Spicy, but delicious. I always tried it, and I usually agreed. One night after the family had gone upstairs, presumably to bed, I picked an American movie from their collection and lay down on the couch in the TV room. Khun Pa wandered in and peeked at the screen. "Ah, Truman Show!" he said. He spread out on the floor with Yacht's blanket over his legs, and we watched the movie together.
Khun Pa couldn't meet me at the airport the day our group left Chiang Mai, so he was the first one to whom I had to say goodbye. He joined Khun Mae, Yok, and me for a buffet lunch at a fancy restaurant before he had to go back to work at the bank. In neither Thai nor English could I express my gratitude to him. I had to settle for a thank you and a deep wai, then I watched him walk to his car. He was at least five inches shorter than I. His face looked young and his body small for a full-grown man, but he moved with confidence. He loved his wife and children, and I felt he loved me too.
When I was younger I used to look for a different father. I picked my piano teacher, who knew I preferred to play pieces slightly above my ability level. I picked my softball teammate Carolyn's dad, who stood behind the backstop while I batted and encouraged me in his calm voice, one pitch at a time. I envied any daughter whose father truly knew her. To this day I am still coming to terms with my feelings about my own father. I am trying to understand what he can offer me, rather than just what he can't.
I didn't have much trouble with culture shock in Thailand. While some of the things our teachers told us turned out to be true, others like my host father stood as important exceptions. I learned new perspectives not only about Thai culture, but also about American culture, human culture, and the culture of my own life. When I think about Khun Pa, I remember December 5, the day Thai people celebrate both their king's birthday and father's day. Khun Pa woke up early to take Yacht for a bike ride around the neighborhood. He admired the card that Yok had made for him at school, and he wore the baseball cap I had brought him as a gift. I might have picked him when I was younger, but I didn't have to. For two months, he was my father.
