Tag: Father

Content and Creativity.

Time spares no one. That continuum ticks on, breath by breath, counting down and counting you out.

Yet family bond endures. It has been that way for centuries: hunting and gathering, agrarian and industrial society.

The very moment we fear that the machine will take over, that’s when we got Social, from Twist to Tweet.

Web Page or Front Page, we still have demand for Content and Creativity.

Story telling. The narrative, personal or institutional. Once upon a time, there was….

We don’ t exist in a vacuum. Instead, weakest or strongest link, we are a part of that chain, of continuity and 4-D universe.

What comes around comes around.

Carrying all that mass around, we search and seek for meaning in the mundane. But we are here, still here, on this New Years Eve. Champagne and confetti. Or we might as well lay down and die….

What is there to celebrate? The fact that we owe our existence to a host of people: food provider, transportation provider, internet provider, medical examiner (not yet).

We connect and we reject. We choose then we return the merchandise. Choices piling on top of other choices.

Sometimes, no choice at all.

That’s when we feel the helplessness of depending on others, when we face our limits.

Go ahead and connect, to link, to post, and to Like.

It’s all virtual, but real nevertheless.

Until we move on to something else, to other platform and play place.

Part of growth, of dying. Of shredding old skin and put on the new. Reinvention the Gaga’s way.

Lips singing and lips kissing, same-sex or hetero-sex.

Finding new combination, exploring alternative mode of existence. But the time continuum ticks on, as it always has.

Santa has left along with 2013. Everything was. Simple past. From here on, we all face new possibilities and potential.

Content-rich or content-poor, all up to you. Suit yourself. Ever since the invention of the zero, we have realized the futility and irony of our being: can’t do with it, and can’t do without it (the zero).

So, what’s left? Back to the cave, and see our shadow? Project ourselves onto others? Disliking someone or disliking ourselves? Kiss and make up, or split? Dilemma by definition is not to be solved. It is to be shared with others who have a heightened sense of empathy. Then we are back to needing others, fellow inmates in this asylum called Earth.

I don’t want to time-travel. In fact, I’d rather stay freeze-framed in time. Being just a boy, looking out to the game called life, where adults hurting each other and pretending to laugh (alcohol induced).  Being just a memory keeper of both the good and the bad times. So I can start my story with “Once upon a time….” all the while making up more sizzling detail to hold your attention. That attention has been split between screen flashes and banner ads, children demand and societal demand. The burden is on us, to keep creating and reinventing ourselves, shaping our narrative and destiny in the process. A guy walks into a bar….a boy born into an aging family….a girl growing up without a Dad….what’s the punch line? Will there be a happy ending. We want in. To be part of the story-telling and narrative written. But first, there must be conflict. Not too far-fetched so the audience can relate, can empathize and connect. We need Content and a bit of creativity. We got enough platform that last for a life time. Post-industrial society has more convenience than any earlier times, but for some reason, we find ourselves wanting. Kids still want to shoot randomly and then themselves.

Man still threw his baby out then jump from the tower (with reason known only to himself). In the absence of terrorist, we have projected onto that mirror, and found ourselves the very horror we have become. Good luck with happy endings.

Papa’s shoes

When you karaoke in Vietnam, you are likely to hear Papa along with Hotel California and Casablanca.

Something ends with an “a”.

I have blogged about Mom’s Ao Dai. So to be fair, here is “Papa‘s shoes“.

At lunch, I was joined by a boy and his Dad (it’s common in Asia at peak hours to sit at the same table with complete strangers).

The attention that boy got from his Dad brought me to tears.

I had to turn away, pretending that red peppers were too hot for me.

Papa struggled all his life: French domination, migration to South Vietnam after the Paris Accord 54, and later, in 1985 to Virginia.

He was a flamboyant but family man at the same time.

Taller than most, he wore US large size. I shined his shoes after his siesta to send him on his “sales” route.

He was the only man still fought his turn at karaoke at the age of 80.

Most memorable was when I finally heard that I had passed the Baccalaureate exam (French lycee equivalent of SAT) in flying color, he pulled out his wallet for my friends and I to buy beer (we would have sneaked out to do it anyway). Rite of passage.

He stood up to defend us against robbers by night and bully by day.

And he got teary after I had suggested that he should take a trip to visit his other woman who was

still living in the old country (he was too old to make the trip out of the nursing home then).

Every kid I talked to whose dad had died during the war had similar regrets.

That every time they had a nice meal etc.. they wished they could share it with the old man.

That kid who joined me at my table had something precious going without realizing it.

His dad urged him for the third time to try a dish. I guessed he finally relented.

With every passing day, we are replaying the same old script: ignoring the moment to chase the shadow.

A line in Papa “…keep shoes on my feet” says it all.

Kids need shoes and their daddies.

To deny a worker his rightful way to earn a living is to deny another generation a shot at life.

Yes, my Dad lived the only life he had known how: machismo (punching out a cocky supervisor) and romantic (wallet with girl friends’ pictures) at the same time. His life reflected his time, often upheaval and fleeting.

He was younger in his larger extended family. He did what he could with the help of my mother (see Mom’s Ao Dai) to put shoes on our feet.

But in countries like Vietnam, a man is still viewed as a cedar, to fend off the enemy and dispense favors around.

I only look back to those warm moments e.g. beef noodles and book-browsing.

I hate it when parents try to put their kids in a jury box.

When they were both gone, kids, like me, are left with only half of each.

I guess that’s where selective memory comes in: when you viewed something or someone as favorable, you only see those traits that reinforce your preconception. In my tapestry and collage, I only saw my Dad’s shoes from a teen vantage point. And how large were his shirts and pants. For him, I did cry twice: one was cry-wolf when he slipped and fell down the stairs, rolling head-down  many turns yet emerged unharmed.

And the second time  was at his funeral. My parents are now resting in peace at the Serenity section in Alexandria cemetery. They had a rhythm of separation due to migration (war) and reunion. Both lived to be in their early 90’s.

Today, at lunch, it was about to be the third time. But I managed to hold back. I didn’t want that kid to see a complete stranger got all teary over a piece of hot pepper. Enjoy it kiddo, while the ride lasts.

Daughter-Daddy

Before my daughter arrived, I had heard of other people’s birth complications which required C-section etc…

So we took up Lamaze classes, and I felt “effeminated” among men and women with pillows.

When I drove A. home the hospital  offered to wheel her out (already strapped in the car seat to begin with). In the parking lot (A.’s first outing) some passerby said “Oh, how cute”.

I realized then I got “china” to be cherished and well-guarded.

The drive home was unnecessarily longer than usual (with light rain to dramatize the scene). At home, we had friends already with welcoming signs.

“Welcome home A.”

She was indeed special and welcome to this world (later, she would experience the Northridge earthquake, LA riot, dot.com burst, single-parented, 9/11 and great Recession. But that was for later).

A. grew up calling me Papi (after the baby sitter’s language).

A. has an amazing sense of coordination. This showed in her taking up Hip-Hop at an early age, and went on to win in competition (no 1 USA).

She collaborated with her “brown” friends (the new valley girls).

And conducted herself beyond reproach.

Any dad would be lucky to have a daughter like A.

She now in Jr College, juggling P/T job and school.

I used to have the same work load while in college.

Time passes more quickly when you are busy. It keeps you out of trouble.

On Father’s Day, I always received her self-made cards. This year, as in years earlier, always with pictures from A.’s childhood. The bond will never be broken.

Every man deserves a special relationship like this.

It redeems us .

You know you can look at yourself in the mirror when your daughter said “we’re tight”.

The role of the alpha males has evolved over the years: from protector to mentor, from “lord” to buddy.

This year A. sent me a picture with us wearing same T-shirts (in design and size).

Now, that’s team. It doesn’t matter that in the photo, she was a child in over-sized T-shirt (for some day, when she reaches middle-age, I will be fading away).

For that moment, as a team, we were like one, tight.

Daughter-Daddy. No business travel, no airport food.

Just sitting on the floor, at eye level. Give Daddy a hug, a kiss.

It’s like communion. I was absolved and consecrated.

It’s not wrong doing or right doing. It’s given that we are imperfect.

What matters is, like any other species, we are built biologically, to transfer our survival and artistic genes. Do this, don’t do that. Eat this, no, not that (poisonous).

So, we navigated through the Valley (San Fernando) and yes, Mountain peak (Grand Canyon). I kidded that A. was a “jungle boy”, when she took off her shirt on one hot day at the peak of the Aztec pyramid. Back in urban jungle, she is surrounded by her Hip-Hop friends. The girl is popular, and well-liked. I would rather you judge me by looking at how well she turns out.

You see, the best thing in life came in small packages. And even better, when it’s from above. A. didn’t have to send me any gift at all. She herself has already been one.

Daughter-Daddy. I promised her my 555th blog will be dedicated to her, for keep’s sake. That future might see more incidents and mishaps, but has one constant: Daughter-Daddy: tight.