Happy Father’s Day 2010

Last year for Father’s Day I shared a glimpse of my father’s life through his relationship with my mom. This year I’d like to thank him for teaching me lifelong lessons about compassion for those in need. The Dallas communities have honored my father (and mother) many times for their generous contributions through their years of outstanding work for the school district and endless volunteer work on behalf of the Vietnamese-American community. But what most people may not realize is that for a few moments of public accolade are decades of actual, long hours of helping the less fortunate even while carrying a heavy load of juggling careers and family.

From all the years of traveling around the world, I truly believe that Americans embody the spirit of volunteerism. My parents are no exception, and they would never make a big deal out of what they feel to be a moral, social, and personal responsibility to help others. But what is exceptional is that sometimes an act of random kindness can bind two strangers in such a profound way that only my father can describe in an introduction he recently wrote for a book put together by a family friend, Angie. The book is a tribute to her elderly father, Dr. Nguyen, and a compilation of anecdotes, stories and musings about him by people who treasure him. The full text in Vietnamese is copied below for those of you lucky enough to be able to appreciate my dad’s lyrical use of our beautiful maternal language.

I have to admit I read it straight through the first time, rather quickly, for the gist of the story, because I was caught up in it and was rushing to see if there was a happy ending. Then I read it slowly the second time, stopping a few times to look up some vocabulary in my Vietnamese-English dictionary. OK, thirteen times if you insist on the truth! The third time I read it, it was to pick up all the nuances couched in the syntax he used. I was also involved in the reading because I knew of Angie and her parents but, given my long absence from Dallas, did not know much of what had transpired in their lives. I also never knew why Angie’s parents were always honored guests at important functions like weddings in our family or why their names would continue to come up in conversation after so many years.

As my father wrote, he was introduced to Bác Nguyên by a mutual friend in the summer of 1986. Dr. Nguyen had just relocated from Houston to Dallas with his extended family. Over lunch, my father learned that Dr. Nguyen had been through re-education camps under communist rule after the Fall of Saigon, and the symptoms of this incarceration manifested themselves both mentally and physically. The oddly strong kinship my father suddenly felt for this older stranger defied explanation. Immediately my father was compelled to do whatever he could to help this man. He was troubled that such an immigrant, limited by age, would meet difficulties adjusting to this new country. He might have been an esteemed medical doctor from a prominent family in Vietnam, but in 1986 he was relegated to minimum-waged work as a gas station attendant. Stories like these were not uncommon for many well-educated refugees, and perhaps you even know of some yourself. They can break your heart or move you to find some kind of moral victory…and even happy endings.

Luckily, my father is a champion of if not happy endings then better lives. He was able to help Dr. Nguyen find a job through his employer, DISD, as a translator/tutor, negotiating the most favorable contract terms possible. To show his appreciation for this golden opportunity, for ten years until Dr. Nguyen retired in 1996, he was a model employee for the school district. He was a beloved teacher, mentor, and inspiration to students, teachers and principals alike. As notoriously meticulous as my father had always been in his own job as an educator, even he was humbled by Dr. Nguyen's dedication to this job, whether it was staying up much too late to prepare lesson plans or taking time to counsel refugee families who could benefit from his own experiences with hardship. The responsibility he assumed in doing the best he could in this job did not go unnoticed, and my father felt tremendous pride with every compliment Dr. Nguyen received from his colleagues. I find it particularly telling of my father’s character when he writes that it is he who got to ride the coattails of Dr. Nguyen’s praises. He felt that he had gotten the better end of the bargain when others may say differently…

Shortly after joining the school district in 1986, Dr. Nguyen had open-heart surgery in the same year. Sometimes life is really hard, and sometimes serendipity makes it more bearable. The new job came just at the right time and with it was insurance to cover his medical expenses. My dad saw Dr. Nguyen as a godsend to the school district and Dallas community for his tireless work, and Dr. Nguyen probably saw this job as a godsend for a second chance at so many things. As a third party reading my father’s tale about Dr. Nguyen, what I see is that a chance encounter led to a rich, quiet friendship spanning over two decades. I wonder if perhaps my dad didn’t see a little of my grandfather in Dr. Nguyen…soft-spoken, kind, didactic, virtuous.

You know, if you’re lucky enough to have a strong father figure in your life, you know what it means when I say he can be larger than life. My father takes after his father so he was extremely strict, difficult, and overly protective of us three girls while we were growing up. Expectations were high and just a hint of disappointment in my father’s eyes was enough guilt to last a lifetime. No spanking was ever needed. Love was neither loudly spoken nor shown through words and hugs, though he did mellow out significantly for my younger sister…but that’s a common perk for the baby of the family. Today, however, he is a big marshmallow.

But back in the day, this was a real test for me during the first few years after immigrating to the US because I was grappling with a foreign, overly affectionate American culture where my new friends would be coddled in affection and material rewards. And here I was, guilt-stricken from once having overheard my parent’s private but heated discussion of budgeting for a pair of shoes for me because my mom had noticed that I had outgrown my sneakers. In hindsight, perhaps the shoes were not the reason for the argument–there were so many stresses in their lives at that point that anything could have triggered strong words. But that night I prayed that my feet would stop growing. I think I was ten or eleven. I also prayed that puberty would never find me so I wouldn’t have to ask for a training bra, too. Well, God said no on stopping the feet growth but yes on limiting the boobs, so be careful what you wish for…but I digress. Unfortunately for my parents, not only were their daughters blessed with growing feet, they also required braces and a million other expenses. Yet somehow, my parents managed again and again and we all headed to college and even grad school.

So while I secretly envied the friends whose parents openly said the magic words (I love you), never once did I doubt my parents’ love, because I saw how hard they both worked to rebuild a life for us five (plus the nanny and other family members). They were barely in their 30s when we moved to this country and I know from experience that that age comes with a lot of…personal stuff. But they set aside all of that for us because parents are selfless in that way.

I don’t mean to relate these stories of our early years in the US for sympathy because we have been very blessed, and I hope my parents will forgive my moment of oversharing. These life experiences are just one of many puzzle pieces that sum us up both as individuals and a family unit today. When I think about the challenges my parents went through when we first got here, it gives me willpower to persevere through my own difficulties. It also explains my zero tolerance for whining, especially my own. A long lost friend from high school recently teased me about being dismissive of my past, and while he was correct that I was trying to deny my 80s hairstyles and fashion missteps, I think it is impossible to arrive at the present without being fully conscious of your past, especially when your past was built on your parents’ blood, sweat and tears.

This is a really long route I’ve taken today to simply write about what a special man my father is. By sharing a story he wrote about someone else’s father, I get to give you a peek inside his infinite heart.

If you can read Vietnamese, below is a real Father’s Day treat.

June 20, 2010