Many of you know my stories involving my mother, but few, if any of you, have rarely heard me speak about my father. The truth of the matter is, my father at times remains an enigma, even to me. Actually, especially to me.
My Dad is a funny, crazily gregarious man. He used to tell really dirty jokes at the dinner table, to the embarrassment of my mother and the delight of me. I think his favorite joke, the one that often made him snort water out of his nose, involved a jar of pickles, a knife, and a hairy penis. I'd throw back my head and howl, while my Mom would sit looking as if she sucked a lemon. That same off-color humor, while not so great for my mom, and obviously a very bad example for me (riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight), worked great when my Dad was with his buddies or had to work a room. That's when he would tamp down the vulgarity, and the inherent charm that came through would play like gangbusters. This worked like mad at the times my father oversaw functions for whatever organization he happened to be on the committee for, mainly the largest Thai golf association in Southern California. My Dad was loved by everyone, and he was everyone's friend.
But there was also another side to my father at home. Aloof, and many times hard to please. He wasn't unkind by any stretch, but he surely pushed me, and if it had nothing to do with academics or performance, he had little to no interest. Like any stereotypical Asian father, he constantly asked for the best. If I had an A, an A+ was better. If I didn't get the lead, I had to push for it next time. Most of my interactions with my Dad revolved around what I needed to do to improve, to get better. If it was affection that was called for, it would often come out in awkward fits and starts.
On top of that, he often made and makes puzzling choices in order to not be a burden or to express his care. He has twice told me that he has had surgery two weeks after he's had the procedure. He once got me a catalogue Christmas day so I could pick out what I liked for a gift. He gave away tickets to a World Cup soccer game that he got for the two of us because he didn't think I liked soccer. And my personal favorite is the time that he had planned to take me and my best friend to a golf tournament to play after months of lessons. When the day rolled around, and I asked him what time we were leaving, he told me that because he knew I really disliked golf (I really do), he had only bought two tee times and was only going to take my best friend. Without me. Those choices could have been hurtful if they weren't outright hilarious at times.
So why all this backstory? Perhaps it's the concerted attempt over the past few years at getting into the mind of my father, and knowing how he really feels and thinks by studying what he does. He rarely tells me outright, and when he does it's surprising, because his motivation for doing something often comes out of left field. It's illuminating, and sometimes heartbreaking. It's almost like meeting someone new. And unfortunately, because my Dad's health isn't the best it could be, that meeting has a grey but definite timeline.
For many years, especially during my teens, we saw very little of each other. My parents' divorce had made me angry, sad, and deeply resentful, and I rebuffed any endeavor my father made at trying to spend time together. In fact, in the first two years of high school, I spent the night at my father's house twice. When I did call him, he always seemed to be doing the laundry, which baffled me. Who has that much laundry to do? Years later, I asked my father if he ever felt sad, especially after the divorce.
He replied, "You know when you used to call me at the old apartment?"
"Of course." I said. "You were always doing laundry. That was so weird."
"I do the laundry when my, uh, heart hurts or I'm upset. It helps me not to think." he answered.
"Dad, you did the laundry for two years."
"I know, son."
I realized, in that moment, the part I played in the distance between my father and me. As I sit and write here on a humid, overcast morning in Bangkok, in the middle of the first vacation I've taken with my Dad in fifteen years, I think back on that story, and hope I never make him do the laundry again.
