My son John is called “Phish” by everyone. Some people don’t even know what his real name is. The moniker has no reason for being except that his older brother gave him the nickname when he was 13 and it totally stuck.

John B. Moffitt, John the Boy, Phish, Pescado got his learner’s permit a month ago, late at age 18. The upside is that he is lightyears more mature than he was at 16. He was also a much better driver the first time he got behind the wheel than his brother or his sisters before him. That’s because he practiced in his mind for two years.

I Picked him up tonight at the karate dojo where he works after school. It was dark and rainy. He wanted to drive home.

I told him, “I think I should drive, you don’t know how to drive in the rain at night.”

“How am I supposed to learn if I don’t do it?”

Good point.

So he drove, did a good job, and we stopped at the supermarket on the way home. Normally I reach over and take the keys whenever we get out of the car. I didn’t this time. I didn’t say anything because I wondered if he would think it kind of neat to park the car, keep the keys, buy milk and bread, and then get back in the car and drive away. It was much better than neat.

I thought it might be because for two seconds as we pulled up to the supermarket I remembered my own first drives back in Midland, Texas at the dawn of time. Get in the car, drive somewhere, get out and do something. Something adult, independent. Then come back to the car where you left it. Put your hand lightly atop the door. “Whoa, easy there, big fella.” Unlock it, start it and drive — anywhere you want. Go do another errand. Drive west until you run out of west. Or just drive home.

All that was filling up his heart as we walked into the store. We got the shopping cart and were pushing it through the produce section. John was grinning like a raccoon with rabies as he jingled the keys dangling from his fingers.

“Why don’t you put the keys in your pocket so you don’t lose them?”

“If I carry ‘em people know I’m driving.”

That’s how new this is for him. To let him carry the keys around is something it wouldn’t have occurred to me to even think about except for that fortunate flashback as we drove up. But it was huge for John and a reminder for me. Raising kids is all about nuances, a game of inches. Between fathers and sons, every word, touch, glance matters.

I was at a reception hosted by the Embassy the other night and inevitably the conversation reached the “And what nationality are you?” topic. But this time, the conversation actually led somewhere really interesting. When I mentioned Korea, the American diplomatic officer that I was talking to lit up and got excited because he and his wife had been there on assignment when their daughter was born. And of course, he was talking about ho nice the culture was. But the fascinating thing that he said to me was that at the time of the Virginia Tech massacres, people stood outside of the Embassy building there and apologized to the Americans on behalf of the Korean people. And naturally, because Americans, resonating with individuality in their core, said “No, no. Don’t apologize. You didn’t kill anyone.” But the Koreans said firmly, “No, but he was Korean. We are sorry that a Korean person did this to your students.”

It left me a bit dumb-founded. What a heart of solidarity. I mean, I can’t imagine many Americans saying something like that if the ethnicities of the situation were reversed. It’s things like that that make me proud to be part of the Korean culture. It’s a level of heart that I hope to instill in my children, that we are all connected, all family.

Of course, the cynic in me wonders if maybe they said that in the hopes that they’d score brownie points towards getting their visas..