Thursday, October 6, 2011

There was a healthy stretch of time, about a year or so ago, when I wasn’t entirely sure where my old man went. I had a pretty good idea it was either the States or somewhere in Taiwan, but if you had pressed me for a more accurate answer, well, you would’ve found more satisfaction in a coin toss. Sure, I could’ve e-mailed or called him at any point to ascertain his exact location, but that would’ve been too simple. We usually only contact each other a handful of times a year, and an off-cycle communiqué would’ve thrown off our rhythm.

Ours has always been a complicated relationship. “Distant” is one adjective I’d use. In case you think we’re headed for an exposé on traditional Asian father-son dynamics, though, let me disabuse you of this idea. Have you ever seen Heroes? Honestly it’s more like that, where parents are amped up versions of their offspring. He’s more stubborn than I am. Inscrutable, despite my best efforts to read him. Equal parts frugal and generous, far more than I will ever be.

“Competitive” is another adjective I’d choose. I remember starting my first job out of college and disclosing my salary to him, only to be told the amount was a mere fraction of the yearly bonuses he collected. The intent of the observation wasn’t malicious, by any means, but it was certainly twisted. And yet, there were instances, too, like when I landed my second job, where he’d acknowledge, with a kind of oblique pride, how he had made far less when he was my age.

Dysfunctional? Without a question. But I’ve made my peace, due in no small part to changing the way we talk. The tone used to be polite, reserved. Then, I started using this voice, the one which binds us twice a week–assured, sardonic, familiar–to good effect. I didn’t flip a switch, mind you. I’ve been easing into it, and now, finally, it feels like we’re speaking the same language.