A Song For My Father

Somewhere lost in the translation between two men of the same, yellow hue is a relationship; it is quickly becoming gloriously undefinable while crossing the thin line to nonexistent. Somewhere lost in the endless hours of him at work so that I can speak this language is a lost of language between us. Somewhere lost in our male egos are two extroverts who become mute with each other. Yet, there is love. Yet, there is an atmosphere of sacrifice for one another not out of duty, but because we are one another. Call it the product of the immigrant 1st and 2nd generation experience. Call it a normal father-son relationship. Call it the result of Confucian ideals of filial piety. Call it two males without a clue in what they are doing. Call it his fault. Call it mine. Call it all of them, but this is the confusing relationship that I cannot explain, but nonethless, exists in our household. This is my father. This is me.

The song I write for my father is not a verse taken from a Simple Plan song. My father loves me. My father loves me in the, "I will spoil you with things you don't need because I love you" way by buying soy bean milk in bulk when on sale just because I said it was okay one time. My father loves me in the "I will smack you on the ass and curse at you even though that's not very Christian because I love you" way by providing lectures in three different dialects of Chinese just to make sure I got the point. My father loves me in the "I'm going to help start a conversation even though there is nothing we have to say to one another" way by saying how he loves derek jeter and his team, the new york rangers. My father loves me in the "I'm just going to stay silent because you seem to like the silence when you're around me" way by being the one person in my entire life where we can be completely comfortable not saying each other in a car ride for over two hours. My father prays for overtime everyday, so that I don't have to cover the loans that I have to cover, while paradoxically praying for more days off, so he can spend more time with me. My father loves me. And it is in these attempts that I realize that I love him.

It just hasn't worked. Swing and a miss, shoot and brick, putt and wide, interception, these attempts wants me to give him more attempts, but it just hasn't gone in. It just hasn't worked. His English is limited and my Chinese is limited. He likes the news and the weather channel, when I like sports and ESPN. His world revolves around food and money. My world revolves around everything but, but relying on his food and his money. I am dependent upon his love through action. He is dependent upon my love through response. I have failed. And I want to love my father better. I want him to be my Cliff Huckstable, Carl Winslow, and Danny Tanner, but he is not, yet more. He is undefinable. He is a mystery. He is me.

Maybe that is the real issue. We look at each other like mirrors without the glare, amazed at God's creations that we can be the same and different at the same time. Maybe that's why we don't want to speak, because we are in shock. Maybe that's why we don't have to speak, because we feel each other's heartbeats. Maybe that's why we just can't speak, because we can only sing this song for each other, only sing it in our own unique ways. The question we both wind up asking is, "Will he understand my language of love, or will it be another crucial element lost in the translation?"