There is a joke (Narrator: It is not a joke) about Asian parents encouraging their children to be adept in the arts, while also grousing that it’s not supposed to be a career. Pursue and excel. Be the best at your creative endeavor! Just always keep in mind that it is supposed to be a hobby.
For all of his love of books, my dad was no different. I don’t fault him for this. It is a privilege to contemplate on who I am, and what I want to do with my life. My dad didn’t get to do that. He didn’t have parents who would, as he promised and fulfilled to me, “stand between [him] and the rest of the world,” so that he would have time to grow up. His early life taught him about precipices, and how far one can fall with a half step in the wrong direction. He didn’t want me to ever know what that felt like.
He bought me my first word processor, then computer. There were no limits when we went to the library or bookstore. From one side of his mouth, he praised my talent, while the other side lectured that careers were things like becoming a doctor or computer programmer. Writing was a hobby.
Many years later, as the road on which he traveled came within sight of his last destination, he asked, “Hey, whatever happened to your writing? You were really good at that. You could have made a career out of it.”
I stared. He grinned. In retrospect, he might have been trolling me. I can’t ask him now.
In retrospect, I should have just gone for it: wholeheartedly and without fear. My dad would have complained. I would have received the mothers of all lectures. He would have supported me: not in words, but by wordlessly slipping me bills for my rent, making sure I had food. And…deep in his heart, my dad would have been cheering stronger than anyone. That’s who he really was.
Happy heavenly birthday, Papa! I refuse to believe a heart and love as big as yours could be stopped by something as silly as death. Please keep watching over me! Hinahanap kita.