Conversations with my Father

Over the past few weeks, my father and I have been meeting for random lunches, and during these meetings we would chat mostly about the logistics of business; the specific things I have to learn in the property management world. Like most discussions, what arbitrarily develops are side conversations, things that are related, but not directly. I discovered a lot about my father within these small conversational tangents. There's something about youth that makes us stupid enough to think our parents were never once like us, or that we are somehow existing apart from their own story. I think at some point, we are eventually able to place our own lives in the context of theirs, which in turn, make us more appreciative of all they've sacrificed for us.

My father came to this country when he was 24 with nothing more than $50 and a Ford Pinto. Comparatively, that is much more than other immigrants, but to most US Americans, it's nothing. From that he built what we have today. A tax firm, multiple properties and a damn nice house. Given the humble beginnings of his own family, it's quite a feat. I never knew this but my father came from a once wealthy family until the government came in and seized all the family's possessions. They were completely bankrupt. He would tell me how in the following years the question of their next meal would be a daily concern. He was five at the time.

That story is the driving fuel of my father's ambition. He never wanted to go back. He never wanted any us to go through that. Growing up, I've never questioned our standard of living. I just thought that was how it was. We actually grew up quite poor; my parents just never let me know. After working with my father and witnessing his day-to-day life, I realize how damn hard he works, and well, in reality, the relative luxury that I enjoy is nothing guaranteed. My father wasn't born into wealth, and apparently, neither was I. Instead, our livelihood is constantly upheld by years and years of toil. Never once has my father gotten lazy. In fact he still wakes up at 6am every morning.

The one thing I respect about my father compared to other Chinese/Taiwanese entrepreneurs is that he doesn't keep it within the culture. Don't get me wrong, he is still VERY Taiwanese, but in a business sense, he works with everyone, treats everyone equally and I've yet to hear him say something racially prejudice about any of his clients, business partners or tenants. My friend Mike said he really liked my father. He said my father never talked down to him for his dark complexion like other Asian parents have and that he always felt welcomed in my parents' home. For years I've studied ethnic studies and all the little nuances of race, yet somehow these small instances of change still go overlooked when they occur in my own household. I guess youth and aimless rebellion makes us ignorant our own lives.

These conversations with my father have garnered a higher respect for the code of life that he lives by. I've always been awed at the accomplishments of my father, like a kid would be to his favorite comic-book hero, but at the same time, hearing about his own struggles have made him more human in my eyes. He tells me of his failures, his foolish decisions and, to my discomfort, his fears. I've always viewed my father as an invincible and indestructible force. But I suppose everyone has their own fears, even super-heroes.

I guess you could say I've grown up in these conversations with my father. I can say I understand, just a bit better, of what my family has done to be here, and finally appreciate all the blessing I have in my life. Sometimes it's a bit saddening that I can't hold the same innocent and juvenile awe that I once had, but at the same time, who said humans can't be heroes too?

A lesson in destruction

Before I walked out the door of the final day of my accounting course, I went to go shake hands with my professor. To be completely honest, he wasn't the best instructor. Sure he knew the material, he just wasn't motivated. But throughout the course, he'd drop subtle hints about his ailing wife who had just been diagnosed with brain cancer, or some other terminal disease that had numbered her days. At times he would merely ask rhetorical questions to the class as to why God let things like this happen. We really had no answer, so instead we just awkwardly glanced at each other.

I couldn't help but feel for the guy, so each time we left class, I went up to him and wished him a good weekend, a better tomorrow, something to show that at least I was listening. I never really knew what to say to someone who I didn't really know, yet at the same time was pouring his heart out to us. I simply smiled frequently and took all the condensation from his pent up frustration with life. I still remember the one time he scolded me in front of the class for paradoxically following the exact guidelines he had given us, but instead of getting defensive, I simply smiled and said, "Ok. I'll try harder next time."

Before I walked through those doors for the final time, he said to me, "Thanks for the positive attitude." I was taken aback by this remark. I have never considered myself to be "positive". For those of you who know me, either in person or loosely through this mess of a blog, I think "positive" is one of the last words to describe me.

For the longest time I've found any reason to be unhappy. I used to blame it on people, on living amidst the lack of cultural competence in this country, and my one saving grace was to leave again - yet when I did, I only found another reason to be unsatisfied. I was running from something.

I think for the first time I've stopped running and I'm just now actively confronting everything that has frightened me; everything that has forced me to impose this unrelenting self-destruction. And for the first time I'm not cowering to their demands. I'm fighting back. The irony is that in destroying a part of myself, I am also creating. Creating an acceptance of where I am, what I am doing, and most importantly, who I am supposed to be.

Yes. I will be back.

I'm sure the two readers of this blog, (one being me), are wondering why I haven't posted much anymore. Partly a loss of passion, majorly a traumatizing fear for return. But this blog will be revived soon. I am just taking a much needed break to administer some self-healing surgery on some self-inflicted wounds. See you soon, my friend.

A Waste of a Day

Doing nothing, was about all I could do today. Hopefully, I'll have at least learned the feeling of how I never want to feel again, and get back to being productive, or at least tricking myself into thinking I am.

I think I might finally understand the point of my last trip.

To instill the fear in me. I ain't never going back.

The Sacrifices of Change

I'm beginning to realize that change comes with its consequences. There were and still are so many things I want to change about myself, and I am so obsessively focused on self-improvement that I've overlooked how in that course of transformation, we lose qualities we once adored and respected.

But as a good friend once told me, we lose some things we liked about ourselves in the process of growth - that is simply the cost of maturing into the full potential we all have within ourselves. But hopefully after every new chapter in our lives, we can look back and remember how we used to be, and work towards salvaging those traits and qualities we once loved. That, I believe, is the process of finding balance.

Civil War

In talking to my good friend and personal life guru, I've realized that I don't hate myself. It's parts of me that I hate. And I think that's okay. I think all of us have imperfections we look to remedy and goals we seek to accomplish. It is the parts that hold me back from realizing my full potential that I despise. It is the lethargy to change, the selfishness, the fear that I want to viciously kill. I see a part of me that finds joy in seeing me fail. Call it whatever you want. Lack of self-esteem, depression, doubt, laziness. I think at one point of our lives, all of us go through an internal conflict where we need to seek out, identify and pull out those elements of our character, then maliciously stomp every single ounce of slithering life residing in them.

And forgiving yourself? That's partly true.

I don't think you should forgive the parts of yourself that you hate, but rather the part of you that was complacent in allowing those self-defeating beliefs to rule your life. It's okay to fall down. It's okay to make mistakes. It's okay to give up. Just as long as it doesn't always stay that way.