I think my dad is gay.

But, I’m not sure.

He exhibits all the stereotypical signs of the gay. For example, he loves Barbra Streisand. He owns several of her records on vinyl and he’s been known to sing “The Way We Were” at karaoke, even though it’s out of his range. He also owns the soundtracks to “Annie,” “West Side Story,” “Evita,” and “The Sound of Music” — all by the original casts. He loves when Christmas rolls around so he can watch “The Sound of Music” on TV even though he owns it on VHS. That seems pretty gay to me.

My dad loves gardens. Whenever we’re in the car, he’ll point out particularly nice ones. “Look! Look! How pretty, Anne! So many flower!” He shakes his head. You’d think he’d never seen that many flowers in his life. My father spent a lot of time tending to his garden when I was little. He planted pansies, roses, and snapdragons, as well as apple, plum, and peach trees. He even planted a persimmon tree, at my mother’s request. He was growing something in every single square inch of the backyard, to varying degrees of success. Every Saturday afternoon after Korean school, Mike and I had to weed the garden. My dad thought it was fun. We thought it was slavery.

My father loves Cary Grant, Rock Hudson, Bing Crosby, and Danny Kaye, though I admit this does not make him gay. Anyone who doesn’t love Cary Grant is made of stone. Cold, hard, tearless stone. My father’s favorite movies are “Ben-Hur” and “Spartacus,” which I think makes him very gay. I was about eight or nine when I first watched “Ben-Hur” with my dad. I really wanted a chariot. White with gold trim, pulled by black stallions.

“A chariot is way better than our car,” I proclaimed. We had a lemon-colored Oldsmobile, which was also a lemon.

“Then Charleston Heston be our chauffeur!” My dad was lost for a minute. Tan, sinewy Charleston Heston snapping the reins. The wind blowing through our hair. And through Charleston Heston’s leather skirt.

“Let’s get one!”

“Ask you mommy.”

My mother said no. Chariots don’t have enough trunk space for groceries. Besides, parking would be murder. I explained that we wouldn’t have to park it—that was Charleston Heston’s job. My mother shook her head sternly. She’s more of a Gary Cooper kind of lady anyway. I don’t blame her. He’s dreamy. My dad agrees.

I once pointed out my dad’s gayness to my brother, and he laughed.

“Dude, he’s not gay, he’s just an old F.O.B.”

Maybe that’s closer to the truth. My parents immigrated here in 1971, a little before the Korean community in Los Angeles really exploded. My dad likes to say he and my mother were “pioneer, just like everybody in ‘Oklahoma!’” My parents settled in the Valley before there was even a single Korean market. My grandmother in Seoul shipped over a box of food every month, along with recipes.