THE FATHER I REMEMBER

Like millions of people, I'll spend part of my Father's Day visiting my father's grave site.  I do miss him, but I'm not sad that he's gone.  His last few years of life weren't much fun for him, so I prayed that he would go peacefully and he did.  I'm not afraid to admit that because the man that died five years ago was not the man that I remember.  The memories of my Dad that I have sketched in my mind go back 40 years and they continued to impact my life today.

I went to a private high school that was located on the opposite side of the island from where I lived.  The school had its own bus service and I rode it to and from school my freshman and sophomore years (1968-70).  But in the summer of 1970, my dad got a promotion to fire inspector and worked a daily 7am-4pm, Monday through Friday schedule, so I caught a ride with him every morning (the other issue was "social pressure" because once you hit junior year, riding the bus was a bit of an embarrassment because many of your classmates were driving to school).

Dad would wake me every morning at 5 a.m. by simply saying my name, "Benny" in a quiet tone that didn't wake up my three other brothers sleeping in the same room.   We'd have a good solid breakfast (with coffee) and at 5:40 sharp, we were on our way, 25 minutes of just me and Dad in a little red 4-door Datsun.  Most days, I just sat in the passenger seat in catatonic stupor while my Dad talked about a variety of subjects that were aimed at my personal growth.

Then one morning my Dad didn't wake me.  He was busy in the kitchen embroiled in an argument with my Mom.  Their arguments were mostly about money but they weren't violent.  Mom was stubborn and Dad was always frustrated with the daily challenges of keeping a huge family financially solvent.  The argument got heated, but at 5:40 a.m. sharp, we got in the car to make the trek over to Honolulu.  Dad was still steaming, so I pretended to be asleep.  But he started in anyway.

"Son, don't marry a stupid woman.  If you do, you'll be frustrated and your life will be really hard," he said.  I had never heard my Dad talk like that so I perked right up.

"Life is a struggle just to make ends meet everyday.  It makes it really hard when you're with someone who doesn't understand that," he added.  He went on for the next 20 minutes speaking disparagingly about this hypothetical "stupid woman," not once making reference to my Mom and totally oblivious to fact that I already made that connection as soon as we stepped into the car.

Somehow, that conversation opened up my Dad's "emotional gates" and over the next two years, he poured out his thoughts, feelings, frustrations, ideas, memories, lessons and emotions during our daily commute.  I became his muse, his confidant, his sounding board.  There was very little dialogue, mostly just my Dad talking and me listening,  but it seemed to give him a sense of peace just to get things off his chest.   I think he had hoped that he would have this kind of relationship with my Mom, where they could sit and talk everyday and exchange thoughts and feelings and ideas, but their years together created walls and obstacles that made free flowing communication impossible.

He told me about the ghosts he saw as a little boy in the Philippines.  He told me stories of how hard he worked to support his family while his Dad was off serving in the military.  He fancied himself as a writer but never had the time or the opportunity to write anything other than a few sports articles in the high school newspaper.   He told me about the racial prejudice he encountered as a teenager and his determination to make something of himself.  He told me of his dreams that his children would have a better life than he did and how he resigned himself to sacrifice is own life so that dream could be realized by his offspring.  He related times where he watched people die and how helpless he felt trying to revive the lifeless body of his mother.  He saw lots of trauma as a fireman, but never sugar-coated his descriptions.

It's amazing how events change in value over a lifetime.   I remember thinking it was going to a huge drag riding to school with my Dad and having him lecture me the whole time.  But now I see it as one of the most influential and pivotal times of my life and to this day, I still recall conversations from those car rides that make me ponder and reflect.  But three things stick in my mind.

First, men need to talk to other men.   Most men my age don't have close friends that they can share the thoughts, feelings and emotions that they might not share with their wives/partners.  That dialogue is essential for our mental health.   I saw how the conversations changed my Dad.  Second, we need to spend more time verbalizing the things we appreciate.  Dad spent so much time working, he really treasured the quiet time to just think (and appreciate) all that he had in life. It's one thing to think about things, but being able to express appreciation gives life a whole different meaning.   But his first advice ended up being his best advice.

I never married a stupid woman.