How we all, learn to be parent, by watching our own parents, by, modeling after them, when we were, younger, and raised by them…off of the Front Page Sections, translated…
We'd all, become, our own, fathers, whether or not we wanted to or not.
Sweeping my father's graves, I'd, noted his year of birth, and, counted how old I was, when he's, at my, age.
The answer: fourteen. I went to school, far from my house then.
The answer is, fourteen. At the time, school is very far from home, a total hour of bus ride to get there. I'd pulled the all-nighters to study, couldn't get up early enough in the morn. To let me sleep a little longer, my father would drive the longer routes to get me to school, then, to work. I'd, just made it, before the bell rung at school, while he'd, always, arrived late to, work daily.
And now, I'm the one, chauffeuring my own son to school. He's still not yet overwhelmed to study, but he'd, stayed up, all night long, and can't get up in the mornings. I'd wanted him to have breakfasts first before he goes, and didn't want to hurry him. Hoped that he could, arrive at school safe, so I'd not driven, too fast either. And in the end, I can only, delay my own work, again, and again, and, again.
Started in the elementary years, I'd started in the public speaking competitions. Once, the topic was "breaking a superstition". And, although my father was a believer of fengshui, he'd, written a righteous script for me. He sat there, on the marble chair in the living room, fanned the fan, as he'd heard me rehearse my speech. And the rhythmic up and down of the fan became like a metronome, steadied my heart.
And now, my son is also, speaking in the schools; using five photos, sharing the interesting things he'd experienced in the weekends. So we'd, gone to the, Youth Park, I took shots of him, then, taught him what to say: "I went to the park yesterday, saw a spaceship………", and, my son would drift away, and ran off after a line. And I can only, write everything down on every single, card, then had the instructor, guide him in his speech. As he got on the podium, I was the one, nervous.
Looking at my father's tombstone, I'd wanted to ask him: at my age, what was it like, raising, me? I'd recalled one rainy morn, I'd, stayed in bed a bit longer, he'd, nagged me, and I got so furious I'd run out of the house. As I got off the bus to transfer on Shinshen S. Road, at the bus stop, I saw his car, parked by the side of the road, with the windshield wipers, uneven, like an arm, wanting to, catch me. I'd, dodged him, and, flagged down a cab.
My son can't ram out the door yet, but, as he started getting upset, he was, comparable to me then. Whether it be in public, or at home, when he'd started, throwing his tantrums, I can't, use my verbal skills I'd, acquired since I was a child, and the only thing I could do, is open my arms wide, and, embraced him, like those windshield wipers going crazy in the rain on his, windshield then.
The night before the sweeping of the graves, I'd asked my son, dad's going to see grandpa, do you have something you want to say to grandpa. He'd never seen my father, naturally, there was, nothing he wanted to say, he'd only asked me, "dad, can you come earlier to pick me up tomorrow?"
I don't recall expressing my love to my father, until something happened to me. At a rehearsal for a script in university, I'd, cracked my head, got rushed to the E.R., dad rushed over, I was so scared, I'd told him, "dad, I'm injured", he'd grabbed my hands, told me, "it's okay, it happens.", going into the operating room, I'd begged the surgeon, "I want to see my father again!"
And now, as I'd gone to pick my son up from school, he'd told me, "I'm sorry, I'd wetted myself at nap time!", his teacher handed me the wet sleeping bag, I'd told him, "it's okay, it happens!", I'd, washed his sleeping bag, lain it out under the sun, and, some of the memories I'd shared with my own father, came back out.
Nobody taught me to say it like that. Maybe, it's the blood that my father passed, to me, which made me naturally reacted to these things, as I saw my son off to school, as I'd, prepared the stories to tell him, watching him make a mess, as I was, rolling up his, sleeping bag. To this very day, I'm still, trying to, memorize that speech my father had, written for, me, it's, just that the subject is no long, busting the superstitions, but how to be, a father.
Being a father, with all of its, sense of achievements, moments I feel, defeated. At my lows, I'd always, recalled how my father had, interacted with me, when he was, my age, then, tell myself, "it's okay, it happens!", then, I'd, stand back up, gone earlier, to wait for my son to get out of, school.
So, it wasn't until your father had, died, did you remember, all the times, he'd interacted with you, and, you'd, recalled, how he'd, taught you, all those, lessons of life, of how to be a good man, and that, is the legacy you will, pass to your own, son too, and he is going to, remember everything you'd, taught him too.
No comments:
Post a Comment