We left Utah in a rush. Even though our time at Zion was perfect, the weather changed in an instant. Sunny and 75 turned to snow. And as we crossed the Snake River in Idaho and drove the rolling hills of Eastern Oregon, I longed to be home. And I also realized that my home wasn’t really home. I always imagined that I would have a home back in Arkansas, the place where my parents lived, the place where I grew up. But that was gone now. Sold and split up among siblings. Now I had the huge responsibility of making my own home for my son.
Mom and I stopped in Portland for a quick tour of the Japanese Garden. I had wanted to take her to various beautiful spots along I-84, such as Multnomah Falls and Bridal Veil Falls. That year though, everything was closed off due to the Eagle Creek Fire started by some 15 year old kids throwing fireworks into the forest. By the time the flames had been extinguished, 50,000 acres had been burned with six miles of historic highway and numerous trails damaged or destroyed. We drove past embers, trees that still appeared to be on fire, and blackened earth. The Japanese Garden was an appreciated stop to take in vibrant colors and healthy flora. My mom explained to me that she she had grown up in a Japanese style home as a child. She used to sleep on the tatami mats similar to the ones shown in the Japanese buildings at the garden. Stone just got excited about climbing on the Fu Dogs/Guardian Lions (Shi). Looking back, I realized that I knew very little of my own heritage outside of the Westernized ideas of China. I had never really spoken to my grandparents as they did not speak English and I don’t speak Mandarin. My mom always had to translate the brief interactions we had. I knew they loved fried chicken. And they always told me to stand up straight (still an issue I struggle with daily).
After my dad died, I also realized that I knew very little of his life outside of being a dad. He retired when I was in grade school and he was always there to take me to school and pick me up, or to coach basketball. I started digging a bit more to understand who he was before he was my dad. I contacted the VA (Veterans Administration) for records of his time in the military. As a next of kin, I was allowed to receive copies of his military career. I now knew when and where he joined the Marines, when he landed in country, and a brief glimpse of his injuries sustained. He received the Purple Heart, which my mom kept in its original case after she moved out of our family home.
My mom filled in the rest. As did all the guys at the reunion. My dad grew up poor with a lot of trauma. More than I want to divulge here. The biggest take away is that my dad was fucking resilient. Beyond what I knew possible. And I grew to love my dad even more for that, for the fact that he could have taken so many other paths that could have led him to a life of alcoholism, drug abuse, instability, poverty. But he didn’t. He never drank. He never smoked. He never spoke ill of his family members or his kids or his wife. He supported my crazy schemes and trusted me to go to music festivals and concerts when I was 16 (big props to you for that one, dad). He played countless games of 21 and H-O-R-S-E with me until I graduated high school. And perhaps most importantly, he never told me I couldn’t do anything. Any art project, any photography work, getting a master’s degree in teaching – He always had faith that I could accomplish it all.
I will always cherish the conversations my mom and I had while driving or while hiking or exploring. In those times, it dawned on me that I inherited many of my mom’s traits. She’s fiercely independent, strong as hell, and an introvert that can navigate social settings with ease. I like to believe I have those same qualities. I always remembered my mom being the spitfire, quick to get angry and fucking STRICT. That Asian parent stereotype lived through her. Heaven forbid I got anything lower than an A on my report card. I still remember the only “pink slip” I brought home for disciplne when I talked in class. She wouldn’t even speak to me while my dad tried to fight for me. As I got older, she eased up and let me partially take the reigns. Now, when we talk on the phone, we talk for three hours at a time about relationships, politics, the environment, and the economy. And I understand why my parents worked so well together. They blended intellectually and emotionally. They could carry out important conversations or act goofy with each other at Wal-Mart (dad was the goof ball). My parents suddenly became the model of what I longed for in a partnership and the type of parent I aspired to be.
Today, my mom still tells me that she’s proud of me and the person I have become. And she reminds me that I’m a wonderful parent. It brings tears to my eyes every time.
