My Father, My Hero

As I turned to my bag to grab my water bottle, I caught him at the corner of my eye. He was greeting Cau Dai, who just arrived to visit Di Ngoc for the afternoon. I walked out to the front and saw him. My Ba. His green, short-sleeved collar shirt hung loosely around his body. Even as a new shirt (Costco-shopping recently, Ba?), it couldn’t hide how much weight he had been losing. His brown, multi-pocketed pants seemed to be influenced by the skinny-pants generation, but those also seemed to fit him as perfectly as a paper bags designated for those long baguettes they sell outside Big C. As I soaked in the mere fact that my father was here in Da Nang, I almost failed to notice him beckoning me over. After two downward waves towards the palms, I held my father lightly in my arms, fearing that I could possibly break him with an over-anxious hug. And just like that, we were reunited.

We headed over to Co Minh’s for lunch in a Mailinh taxi. When we arrived, a big pot of bun bo Hue was awaiting us – or more so my dad since that’s his favorite dish and I already ate at Di Ngoc’s. Our other relatives joined us after their lunch as well, and as they all conversed, I felt the familiarity that I had missed for a long time. In most cases, I find myself struggling to understand the Vietnamese being spoken around me, but with my Ba here, every single word seemed to make sense. I felt I wasn’t just listening with my ears; I was also listening with my heart.

After lunch, my dad borrowed Co Minh’s motorbike to take us around the city. I recommended we sit down and have coffee at Highlands Coffee, which had a nice view of the river along Bach Dang. When we sat down and talked, we immediately converted to Viet-lish, as we recognized that there were subjects that could only be expressed in one language or the other. After we talked about my cultural observations and future aspirations, we got to talk about him -- the topic I had been awaiting for a long time. And without even prying, he told me more than I ever knew: his stay at the Nagasaki refugee camp; his unapproved excursion to Tokyo that set the precedent for other refugees to stay in their own camps; his life regrets and his positive turn-around because of them; his love for salsa dancing; his current participation in a Vietnamese choir; his adolescence in Sai Gon… things that I never knew, and it took me a fellowship to Vietnam to find out.

As he talked about his past, I saw his eyes shine in a way I had never noticed before. Whiskers formed at the outer corner of his eyes as both rows of teeth gleamed at me, then shyly toward the window. He giddily shifted around in his seat and laughed until his eyes moistened, and my eyes couldn’t help but water as well – mostly because I wished that this were the Ba I had the patience to get to know growing up. Once I mentally slapped myself to remind myself to enjoy the moment for what it was, I straightened myself out and continued to engage in his company.

The rest of the day consisted of us motorbiking around town, and exchanging stories every time we were reminded of something to tell each other. Something that stood out to me in our conversation was his recognition of his talents and his weaknesses.

“You know,” he spoke toward the traffic as we maneuvered between other motorbikes and through traffic lights, ”I could’ve been a famous singer. I had the voice for it, and the charisma. But God gave me poor health.”

I thought a bit about his last statement, and then spoke in the same direction over his left shoulder. “Well, if you became a famous singer, you may not have had the opportunity to have two wonderful daughters.”

“That’s true,” he responded without pause. “Things happen for a reason.”

Besides finding out how much pride he actually took in his singing (the CD he recorded and distributed to our relatives has yet to make my iTunes), I was surprised to hear him talk about his health that way. If there’s anything that my sister and I get from our dad, it’s our pride, and we’re not usually one to admit our weaknesses so willingly. But to hear him say that really allowed me to experience a side of my dad that I feel like I rarely experience: vulnerability. And yet, his willingness to share that with me further affirmed my admiration for his character.

Today was just the first day of the few that I will experience with my father for the next week. Tomorrow, we will hang out in Da Nang again, and then he will catch up with me in Hue later on in the week. If this foreshadows what I will continue to learn about my father, I have much to look forward to this week.