Absence Makes the Heart Grow Wronger

I can't recall the last time I saw my dad or heard his voice. Was it October or early November? What a shame, I admit. My dismal attempts have gone unanswered. Surprisingly, he too has not made an effort to contact me. What's going on?


I know of two assumptions that commonly pass through our minds when stretches of silence fall between us. If I don't hear from him, my assumption is that he's comfortable with the going-ons at home. There are no issues with the wife. For the most part, knowing that comforts me. If he doesn't hear from me, he would assume that I've been preoccupied with work and my own life. In that instance, he would choose (to my dissenting opinion) not to vie for my time or attention. After all, he squarely believes that the onus for outreach lies upon the child.


I would give him that if I obeyed the customs of our culture. But the wife's venom, spewed on that afternoon of June 25, 2009, still lingers in my spine. I'll never forget. A straw of misunderstanding occurred after my dad's cataract surgery. I brought him back to my apartment and made soup. As advised, he rested. Moments later, the wife called my cell to question his whereabouts. Though brief, she sounded utterly upset because no one called to update her. She felt neglected and disrespected is what I gathered. On our drive to his house, I suggested we apologize regardless of whether we felt at fault. As soon as we stepped through the doors, however, she unloaded the anger and hatred harbored for all the years of our acquaintance. My apathy quickly turned into raging grenades. As the shouting match continued to escalate, my father made faulty attempts at tempering her. It was as if he was trying to put out a wild fire with a hand held spray bottle. What started out as a favor turned into a severance of ties. I was told never to step foot in the house or the donut shop ever again. Period.


My relationship with the wife was never warm or natural to begin with. Let bygones be bygones. I'm realizing that my relationship with dad effectively changed from that point on. The days of my surprise drop-ins at the donut shop were gone. I avoid making calls if there was the slightest chance she would pick up. We had to make arrangements in order to see each other. It would never be on his turf. My door would always be open for him. My line would always welcome his calls. We've managed to make contact every other week or so.


Over a month has gone by without any exchange. Mom always asks about his well-being even though I offer the same guiltless excuse. Song often reminds me to call. I even set reminders for myself to no avail. Am I really trying or have I given up? Has my disappointment and resentment slyly taken over?

Sex Ruined Our Surnames

I often get the question about my origins. Many have mistaken me for Korean and it's understandable because I love golf, beer, red meat, and kim chi. A day in which all four can be shared with friends is considered complete and paradisaical. To save myself from explaining the situation that led to me being a Tran, I simply tell people I'm Vietnamese and they'll usually accept it because it is my mother tongue after all. But the inquisitive ones will often unravel the intricate strings of my past and come to the somber truth that my surname is completely fiction and does not belong to any of the many Tran's there are in this world. According to Wiki, it is the second most common Vietnamese last name. About one in ten Vietnamese people you encounter is a Tran. Nearly four in ten are Nguyen's!


Sok Veng Sunn was born in Cambodia to parents of Chinese descent (surnames customarily preceded middle and first names). Before he left the country to attend school in China, he changed his name to Mau Tran in order to bypass their forbidding system - students from certain countries were barred from their educational institutions. This was also the name he assumed when he met my mother and when I came into the world in 1977. After the Vietnam War, my father transferred himself from Cambodia to Vietnam in 1979. On the applications, he documented himself as Mau Sok but due to his penmanship or the Viet Cong transcriber or both, they entered him into their faulty system as Mau Sek. In America, he would encounter repeated ridicule because his k's looked like x's and for years it would embarrass him whenever people addressed him as Mr. Sex. Over a decade would go by before he became a naturalized US citizen in 1991 and legally added rice to his first name and reinstated his original surname. From then on, he went by Maurice Sok and that was his final claim. Recently, I learned that his three children from a previous marriage still go by Sek and they too have been scarred by juvenile jesters. I guess they have it even worse than I do.


So there you have it. None of my father's children are bearers of his family name. In a figurative sense, we were all detached from his roots and planted elsewhere. We experienced different upbringings but the one thing we sadly have in common were the 20 years of separation. I was fortunate to have what little memories I had of him until I was five and few visits until I reunited with him at 25. His youngest son born in 1972, however, did not meet dad until 1992. I do not have relationships with his older children. Maybe some day the missing pieces will come together to form a more complete picture of our absent father.

Joy Killer

A free Sunday, in solitude. Perfectly content and comfortably sunken in a chair at the Fashion Island Barnes & Nobles. I have a stack of technical books to rummage through. 


It dawned on me that I haven't made attempts to contact dad these past two weeks. I confess to not missing him either. At church today, paster Peter Dewitt asked the audience to blurt the kill-joys in their lives. The obvious ones included traffic, taxes, work. I wanted to cry "dad" but guilt held my tongue. Someone eventually said parents, which drew chuckles from the crowd. I rarely get to utter the word "parent." It's either mom or dad, never mom and dad.


Dad has been my kill-joy for quite some time. I stopped giving him gifts years ago because he would always criticize one thing or another. "I don't like things made from China." Regarding The Giving Tree, "no one loves that much." A photo of a Hawaiian sunset I took in 2007 and framed for him was critiqued for my artistry (or lack thereof) and later returned to me because he didn't want to display my gifts in his home where the wife would not have any appreciation. 


I guess it's apparent: I still harbor some bitterness towards my dad. Punishment for the pain he continues to inflict is absence.

Belated, Deflated

Deep breathes are in order. Why do I continue to care about what he thinks? Instead of saying something nice about the hair, he suggested a slightly different look. How irritating. He doesn't believe in giving me shallow compliments. I didn't know how to react. Thanks? Should I appreciate your brutal honesty? No, I didn't have a special occasion to come see you. I didn't bring any good news. I just want us to spend time together. I wasn't sure if he got that, but whatever. The tone was set. We didn't have a particularly good time today. 


There was no embrace. No tenderness. Plenty of passenger side driving and unsolicited advice about how to change and improve. The most disturbing act has got to be his public nose blowing that usually happens soon after we eat. He did it right next to my car in the parking lot. Really? Must you blow snot with your hand like that and proceed to touch everything? I had chastised him before about doing this. I handed him a tissue as soon as he climbed into the car. Sick. Just cut it out once and for all.


The drive back was irritating as well. He made a remark about how he knows me more than I know him. Pardon me pops, but you really don't know me. Sometimes I wonder if you know me at all. You were barely there for my upbringing. Why in the world do you think you could influence me now, especially when you constantly claim to be unhappy? The best thing you could do for me is to be happy and take care of yourself. I don't need to know how I should cut my hair, where I should park, which turn to take, how to eat, dress, drive, temper my frustration. Yes, I do seem to treat my friends better than my folks. Good observation. So be my friend why don't you? Stop parenting me. That opportunity has already passed and cannot be resurrected. Ever.


When he climbed out of the car, I noticed the difficulty and made a light-hearted comment about buying a lower car next time. "You shouldn't cater to my needs. I don't know how much longer I will live or how many more times I'll get in and out of your car." And there goes the knife twisting.

Time Shared & Splitting Hairs

My hair roamed the streets on its way home from dinner to get that last night cap. Four unsuccessful drive-by's later, I decided to go home to this and I'm happy to be in the comfort of my little apartment, listening to Kings of Leon radio on Pandora.


I called my dad earlier tonight to book a last minute lunch date with him tomorrow. He agreed with subtle hesitation. Maybe he was caught off guard? No way his daughter would call him two weeks in a row to make lunch dates on Saturday. Doesn't she usually golf at that time? It's too prime and precious to be spent on him. You're wrong pops. Time with you is very dear to me.


An amazing time was had when we went for dim sum last week in Rowland Heights. Happy Harbor Restaurant featured a picture menu. For once, I ordered for us at a Chinese restaurant. While we waited for a table, he and I walked around the shops, gingerly holding hands. It was the sweetest thing. He surely felt the same. How many grown up daughters do you see holding their daddy's hand? Now filter that down to daughters with Chinese dads who spent more years apart than together. It's a rarity.


Earlier this year, I flirted with the idea of going short. About a month ago, I shared the idea with him. Even showed him a photo. He immediately suggested I go for it. Says it suits me more. Girls in China are doing it (as if they are the world wide trend setters). This week, I decided to lop it off. Tomorrow, he's going to believe it was his idea. Will I give him the satisfaction?

Practice Makes Peace

At the golf practice facility this evening, I saw a familiar scene that continues to provoke an unexplainable feeling each time. I waver between jealousy and pride (neither of which are positive thoughts, by the way). When my shots are solid, I mentally flex my pride. When they're not, I harbor some resentment for not having the same privileges.

The scene: a dad (typically a stoic Korean). A young daughter or son. Some variety of training aids. Today it was a metal rod clamped perpendicularly onto the lower half of the putter. At address, the rod was parallel to another rod that laid along the putting line. Daddy's dual science project.

In all the ten years that I've golfed, my dad accompanied me once at Los Serranos South on Father's Day 2008. Last year, I brought him to the range a couple times to get him out of the house. It was a mistake, on my part. He couldn't help himself from giving blind advice or stating the obvious (your ball went left) or asking irritating questions (why did your ball go left?). When my shots were deep and straight, he would squint and say he never saw it.

My father has never swung a club in his life. Yet, he was able to criticize a three putt on the second hole when we were at Los Serranos. I insisted he try putting. With more encouragement, he actually tried. The man waggled the club and sailed it clear across the green. We laughed. Nice touch dad. After the round, I took him to the Tulsa Rib Company in Orange, where we witnessed Tiger catching Rocco Mediate on the 72nd hole of the US Open in Torrey Pines. Truly amazing. It was one of the most memorable times ever spent with my dad.

Next time I see a father standing diligently by his daughter at a practice facility, I'll make sure to smile :)

Fourth Quarter Plea

My father has always been a broken man. His youth, short lived. At 20, he had already lost both parents (causes to be determined) and became the patriarch to five siblings ranging in ages from three to 14, including one with special needs. In order to provide, he severed the wants and skimped the needs. Life was never about him. Sacrifice was the norm. 


I cannot truly fathom the hardship my father had to endure throughout the first quarter century of his life. The second quarter was also a blur as my parents split from the time I was five and he moved to the Golden State and remarried. I can, however, attest to the last eight years leading up to the end of his third quarter century. Will this basketball-loving man and Lakers fan see his final quarter?


He once described his tears as blood drops on the inside. No one sees the pain that pours through his soul. Hearing him say this through bloodshot eyes and burly brows gave immediate conviction. What sort of comfort could one offer to another who cries from within? 


I know my father is happiest when we spend time together. Of course we've also had not-so-happy moments. But for the most part, he loves my company. Up until June 25, 2009 (the day my dad underwent cataract and Michael Jackson died - totally unrelated), I would always visit him at the donut shop to talk. It was our regular QT and the place where we told stories, shared thoughts, and grew to know one another.


This blog is dedicated to him but not written for him. In fact, he doesn't even know I'm doing this. He always wanted me to write a biography on him after he passes, but I don't see the value in waiting. There's too much to say about this man. I pray for patience and compassion on my part to help him see the beauty in life. I pray that we reach his final quarter and for it to be the best remaining years we have as father, daughter, and most importantly friends. Amen.

The Pretty Lie & Ugly Truth

Something churned within my soul today. It was an ugly realization but the better of me decided to start here and start now, while he's still in the flesh. Who knows how much time I have to draw from the man who half-heartedly made me and whole-heartedly hopes to mold me. 


Today I explained to him the notion of optimism and pessimism via a cup of iced coffee from 85* (his admiration for this place deserves its own blog post). I then accused him for seeing everything half empty and casting an aura of negativity that will never lead him to happiness, no matter where he runs or how he hides. Divorce is not the answer to all his woes and all the riches in the world cannot buy health and happiness. There are plenty of things he ought to be grateful for and he should work on altering his perspective.


And then it dawned on me that I've been guilty of negativity and lots of it...so much that it has had an adverse affect on many levels of my personal and professional life. I've fooled myself for so long, thinking I was always in the right even when my perspective overshot the positives. I somehow managed to gain false strength by finding faults in others. Hating. Berating.


Some self-correction is needed and I'm not sure how a blog about my dad would help, but I sense that this may be the start of something much greater.