Remembering

As of May 2019, it’s been 20 years since my dad passed away.

In most ways, I have moved on. In fact, I feel silly writing about it since it’s been so long. However, the memory of my dad’s death still ripples along like a subtle under current. Maybe I hold on because I fear that letting go means forgetting my dad, a man whose legacy meant everything to our family. Or maybe I worry that letting go means forgetting the core of who I am.

The events that unfolded after my dad passed away shaped the person I am today. His death caused my mom, brother, and I to be eternally close and rely on each other throughout our lives. It brought about my deep appreciation for my mom and an early awareness of the unique struggles that women face. It pushed me to believe that if my dad — a brown, non-Christian, immigrant man — could be successful in Oklahoma in the 80’s and 90’s, then I can surely do anything as well. It taught me that the unexpected can always happen, and resilience and strength are fundamental to survival.

I don’t want this to feel like a sad story. Of course, I wish I had gotten to know my dad better, but I am grateful for my family for making the most of a difficult situation. It’s an important reminder that we can’t control the things that happen in life, but we can control how we react (surprise — something that yoga teaches us constantly).

To honor my dad and remind myself of my family’s story, I’m sharing an article I wrote six years ago. Hopefully it gives more insight into who I used to be, am today, and try to be.


Starry

Originally posted on thecrimson.com on April 4, 2013

Sometimes, after a long day at work, my dad would join my brother and me to watch the stars at night, abandoning his perfectly tailored, black, wool suit inside the house. Sprawled across old blankets and swatting mosquitoes, we would pretend that every star, every pinprick in the paper sky, held infinite possibilities. We asked for everything: new legos, our own swimming pool. I wished that the moving sign would vanish from my best friend’s house—if she left who would I sing “Wannabe” with, fantasizing about our futures as pop stars? Kindergarten was about to start. I wanted to be a gymnast like Oklahoma olympian Shannon Miller.

“Your wish has to travel all the way down from the stars. That could take awhile,” my dad would respond. “Maybe you should wish for more patience while you wait.”

On muggy summer nights like these, my dad, my brother Neil, and I were the three musketeers, and I couldn’t imagine that anything would change. It was time with my dad—time without his work, his meetings, his usual perfection. Spending time with him was rare. He typically had office meetings to plan, company dinners to attend, clients to impress. Sometimes it seemed like he spent more time trying to live the American dream than he spent living with us.

Fall swept in and took away the late night escapes to a world of wishes. No more soft patter of feet across the dewy grass, no more scampering in the darkness with my brother, his hands reaching through the summer heat. As the air got crisper, I sensed my mom growing increasingly tense. Within weeks, a mask of permanent sadness eclipsed her face.

“Neil,” I asked my brother, “What’s wrong with dad’s brain? I didn’t even know anything could get through your skull.” His face crumpled at my words; even though he was only two years older than I was, he saw what I failed to. Soon we began to make trips to the hospital, but I couldn’t understand why my dad had to sit inside machines and take medicines that made him feel even worse. He was bedridden and could barely even say my name.

While the winter cold kept me inside, I kept bargaining with the stars; I would give up my Beanie Baby collection. I would never eat chocolate chip cookies again. I would do anything in my five-year-old power if I could just see the dad I once knew.

I had to miss half of the school year to live on Long Island as my dad had more and more surgeries. I would run outside and wish on every star in the sky, but the stars up north, obscured by smog and city lights, didn’t shine as brightly as the ones back home in Oklahoma. I wished that life could return to normal—I wanted to eat snow cones and watch Rocket Power like other five-year-olds.

Instead, I kept hearing my mom crying when she thought no one was listening. I wished for her tears to end. I saw my dad’s perfect, jet-black hair fall out and turn to fuzz. I wished that it would grow back. The neighbors brought over casserole after casserole and drove my brother and me to school. I wished I could stop detecting the pity in their gazes. But the stars seemed to be sucked dry of their magic, exhausted after granting my petty, incessant wishes from months before. None of my new wishes came true.

Sometimes I watch home videos and pretend to remember everything about my dad. He loved home movies, tried to capture our whole childhoods on film. While hundreds of friends and colleagues knew my dad, and while people in Oklahoma talk about him constantly more than a decade later, I sometimes feel like my father is a fictional character in a novel that I’ve never even read. “Your father came here with only $20 in his pocket and a tattered suitcase,” my mom reminds me. “Look at everything he accomplished. Look at the life he created.” Others regale me of my dad’s generosity. “Once when we canceled Santa at the office Christmas party, he went out and bought toys for all of the kids—what a great man!”

It seems strange that I will never even know the person that I have been trying to be for so long. People say he was leadership-oriented, social, charismatic—the kind of person everyone wanted to connect with. People tell me I’m like him, but I wonder: Is this how I really am, or am I trying to emulate a father I can’t remember?

I will always seek my father’s approval, even though he can no longer give it to me. I will always compare myself to his memory. I no longer wish for Pokemon cards or the ability to fly. Instead I wish for patience to discover myself and take risks outside of my dad’s expectations. Maybe this would have been his wish, too.