My Father's Eyes

Growing up, I remember my father as a distant, stoic figure.  He was quick to assess critiques, but uncomfortable with being affectionate and loving, as if he himself didn't know how.  He raised me and my brother with the constant specter of disapproval, which made him like most Asian fathers.  Every now and then we'd catch flashes of warmth from him; a smile, sometimes even a laugh.  When I graduated from college, I remember seeing him as I was making my walk after having received my diploma.  His eyes beamed with pride, but sure enough when I saw him later he was quick to lecture me on how I blinked too much when nervous.

Needless to say, it was hard to be close to this man.  It was even harder after he and my mother began their long estrangement.  Me, my mom, and my brother had moved back to the United States while my dad kept his job in Thailand.  The plan was that my dad would continue to work in Thailand with the goal of returning to the US eventually.  He would come visit once or twice a year.  This did not work out.  One one of his trips back, something was wrong.  My mom sensed it immediately.  He had met another woman.

It was a difficult period in which tears and recriminations pierced the thin walls of our tiny apartment.  I awoke my brother during one of these arguments and told him that I wanted to leave, even though it was during the dead of a midwestern winter.  I wanted to be anywhere but there, trapped in a prison of my parents crumbling marriage.

My mom let us know that our father had absolved himself from the spirit of their marriage contract, even if they decided to continue to honor the legal one.  She was heartbroken and spent the better part of the next decade bitterly denouncing him to all who would listen as the man who ruined her life.  For the longest time, I shared in her bitterness and empathized with her status as the scorned party.  The distance between me and my father grew into a gulf.  It would take years for that gulf to close, and this essay recounts just the last part of that story.

One of the hallmarks of growing up is the moment when you recognize the humanity of your parents.  Growing up, especially in an Asian household, the word of my mother and father was like the word of God.  Obedience was not just expected, but required.  Rebellion meant not just a betrayal of the filial bond, but also a deep sign of ingratitude, the worst of the Confucian sins.  Seeing that your parents are human, seeing that they've made mistakes, and forgiving them for those mistakes is one of the benchmarks of a matured life.

On my latest trip to Thailand, my father and I bonded like we hadn't bonded before.  Mind you, this wasn't something that happened over night, but I on my subsequent trips to Thailand over the years, I saw in his eyes the regret of a man who wished he had been closer to his sons, and the sadness of a man who didn't know how to bridge that gap.

On one late night car ride though Bangkok traffic, my dad opened himself up to me in a way he never had before.  He said that one of the main teachings of the Buddha was the fleetingness of life.  That, in any given moment, for any given reason, the end may come swiftly.  Being prepared for this inevitability is part of getting old, and that he hoped that he had done enough of a job on this earth to die, in Thai terms "eyes closed," which means to die at peace.  He told me that when he does go, he'd hope that I would return to take care of his body, but that he would understand if I didn't.

There he was, a man who was both a monolith in my life, and yet a distant source of pain and sorrow, opening himself up to me and saying something he never could before.  I'm sorry.  Forgive me.

Accepting the humanity of your parents means forgiving them for their flaws.  I told him gently that I would certainly come back for him, when the time comes that he pass.  After all, he is my father, and I love him.

I remember when I was young.  My father was not an athlete and he did not raise athletic kids, but he was always okay at running.  He would take me out to the baseball diamond at the park near the house where I grew up and we would run around the baseball diamond until we couldn't run anymore.  He would beat me, until one day, he had to quit ten laps before I did.  He put his arms on his knees and watched me keep on running.  I remember as I made my last lap, I looked at him.  He simply said, "I got tired."  In his eyes though beamed with a love and pride of a father who knew his son was growing to be something more than him.  This is the memory I choose to keep of my father.  Maybe he couldn't always be with me, but I know he was always watching me with pride and regret from the sideline.