This time of year reminds me most of my father, and probably more than the middle of the summer does. Many of you probably know that my Dad passed away last July. My stepmother and brothers kept him on life support until I could arrive and say my "goodbyes". It was a very trying time for me. Not just because I never imagined my father dying, but because my father and I had become close over the last few years--although we hadn't seen each other in decades. I'm sure everyone has something to say about their parents, and often in retrospect, we think only of the good things about our parents. My father was not a perfect man. I don't expect that he would want me to say he was since as I tell you about him you'll realize he was very much realistic about who he was. My father was born in Hong Kong, supposedly--let's not get into how many fled China before World War 2 and may or may not have been born in Hong Kong. He was a British citizen therefore by birth but became a naturalized American citizen. He loved the United States of America--at least when I was little. I suppose it's because of all the freedoms that we have that those of us born here, yes even myself, assume is a God given right. Certainly in many regions of the world, particularly in the 1960s, he couldn't have dated my mother, a beautiful American woman of German and Polish decent. I know he remembered the 60s and 70s quite vividly (impressive, for someone I suspect smoked a lot of pot in his day since "everyone did it"--except Bill Clinton). He met my mother while in college, but it was years before he'd even speak about her with me. Daddy went to college here in the US, finished a Bachelors and Masters in Mechanical Engineering, and eventually went on to start his own business as a consultant in the early 80s. His business flourished enough to help me through college (til I dropped out), raise 3 more children, provide them great educations and a stable home life. My father essentially lived the American Dream.
My father, as I eluded, became an adult in the era of Civil Rights (or lack thereof). His friends were all "white" and of course, so was my mom. My dad called me one day asking me what I thought of inter-racial marriages. Apparently, one of my brothers, in college at the time, had started dating a young caucasian lady. Dad was a little mortified. He thought I should talk to my brother and explain to him how horrible of an idea this was and how "rough" it had been on me growing up. I kind of laughed. Come on. Was he serious? Well, yes, actually he was. My father remembered what he and my mother had endured. Ok. I'm clueless. They, neither of them, ever really said anything to me about it. I mean, yea, I suppose I can see it. I've seen the videos and read the books, but yea, really actually clueless. I believe he was a little confused. What about how I'd been treated around my grandparents farm? Hmmm, Yea, well, about that, it was an area with a large Hungarian population. Umm, they look just like Mongolians, and technically Daddy was Mongolian and Chinese. Most of the kids assumed that I was a mix of German and Slav or Hungarian. Not really a big issue. We talked about my view of the world then and now, but my dad asked me to talk to my brother anyway. I don't know if I changed Daddy's mind about the world, but I know he was very fond of my brother's girlfriend now when he passed. A beautiful and smart woman, regardless of race, that makes my brother happy and vice versa. I prefer a world where race isn't an issue, and I think Daddy would agree.
Funny when I think about it, but Daddy also had become one of the Chinese Elders. For those of you that know absolutely nothing about the Chinese community, they are more tight knit than a bunch of in-bred rednecks in the hills of West Virginia (or any other hickville central where they "don' like yo'r kind 'round 'dese parts"). I'm serious. The Elders in San Francisco in the 1960s tried to have Bruce Lee killed for teaching "white" people Kung Fu. I have such a hard time picturing my father as one of the Elders. I mean I know he was, but I picture them stuffy and walking about in black kung fu "pajamas" (yes, I think of them as pajamas) and kung fu shoes. Of course, being one of the Elders, gave my father an interesting story to tell. New York's City Council and Mayor Ed Koch had decided that there would be no fireworks allowed in the city one year. First, you just can't have Chinese New Year without fireworks; it'd be like the 4th of July with no fireworks. As if. Next, well, you have to expect the Elders to have something to say about it. My father stood in front of the City Council and told them that the fireworks were needed not just because of tradition, but because the fireworks "scare off evil spirits". In my father's version, they laughed at him, kind of writing him off as an old Chinaman. My father read off his professional credentials--substansive and impressive--but more importantly, he told them he was an Atheist. He couldn't explain "evil spirits", and since he was an atheist, he didn't buy into mumbo-jumbo or hocus-pocus. But there were some things that couldn't be explained, and "evil spirits" were one of them. That year, no fireworks, and NYC more than doubled the previous year's murder rate. The following year the City Council saw fit to change their minds...and allow Chinese New Year fireworks.
My father and mother both had been atheists. One day, my father brought it up. He opened the conversation with my mother's favorite philosopher, Bertrand Russell. Had I ever read Bertrand Russell? When I was little my mother encouraged me to read every classic known to man, but to my father's surprise had never stuffed Bertrand Russell in my hands. Daddy talked about how he and my mom would spend hours, all night long, passed the sun coming up, talking. The conversation was about my mother mainly and amused me immensely. He even called me her name in a moment during the discussion. I realized in that moment I was my mother's and my father's daughter. We spoke for over 3 hours about a past that I barely remembered. In that conversation, Daddy had told me when he died he would be worm food. The body, perhaps, but I told him that I simply couldn't justify that belief since the scientist in me knew that the energy of a living person is substantially more than the empty shell--much like we are worth much more alive than the couple of bucks that the minerals and water that make the shell are worth. The entropy value being so much, where did all that energy go? Dissapate? I doubted it and made a pretty logical, scientifically sound argument. Since my father still said to the day he died the worm food comments, I suspect my argument--logical or not--didn't win over decades of belief in this case. By the end of that conversation, I had realized that my father had gotten passed our trepidations, gotten to where we had a solid father and daughter bond again, and more importantly, I had moved into that place where a child is no longer a child, but a friend. It's a place not everyone gets to reach and I'm glad that after roughly 20 years estranged we were able to get there.
Obviously, I'm very fond of my father and his memory, now. But there was a time that I wouldn't say it was that great. We didn't talk for years. Perhaps the most shocking thing is, even to me sometimes, the last time I saw my father in person was 1983. (Long story that really isn't for this blog.) Seriously. I just refused to talk to him. Then I did the most unexpected of all, I just disappeared. Really. I was completely gone from my father's life. I suppose that was pretty hard on my dad. I had been Daddy's Little Princess after all. I don't think any father ever wants to think of his daughter as so estranged that she just takes off on her own, never to be heard from again. By the time 9/11 happened, my father's life continued to progress, as did mine. After 9/11 though, it was a desperate moment for me. I had it in my head that I needed to finish college on my own, that I had to prove that I did it without his help. September 11, 2001 changed everything. I spent months, literally, day in, day out, trying to get a call into my father's office in New York City. His office had been just blocks from Ground Zero. In November, only a week or so before Thanksgiving, I finally had gotten a call through...
This time of the year, I'm reminded of the almost 10 years that helped me rebuild and rediscover the great person that my father was. And I'm, unfortunately, reminded that like many of the volunteers that rushed to Ground Zero to help, many of the people that were there, so close, suffer immeasurable health problems because of the asbestos and other toxins that were floating the air that day and many days to follow. I'm reminded that many lives were cut short--perhaps even my father's. My grandfather lived until 2003 after all, so hereditary-wise, my father should've lived another couple decades. I'm thankful for the 10 years that I did have, I'm frustrated that maybe my younger brothers' time with him was cut short, and I'm saddened that my stepmother's had to endure the loss. My father was a great man, as were so many that passed that day or passed as a result, directly or indirectly, of that day. We never know what or when something can happen to change everything, and if there's any lesson that I'm sure my father would agree with, life is precious and short. The people in it are what make it worthwhile and cherish them today for no one knows what tomorrow brings.
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