thoughts about my father

31-Mar-2025

My father was a draconic figure in my childhood. Nothing aligned between us: not our jokes, not our words, and certainly not our worldviews. At least twice a month, these differences ignited arguments. Often, they began with something trivial—the way a garbage bag was passed, or my tone when greeting him—yet they would quickly swell as we mirrored each other’s stubbornly disagreeable natures. Like father, like son.

My mom was prone to remind me that he grew up in China while I, the United States. He saw the world through a collectivist lens where elders were blameless and filial piety was absolute.¹ I was a teenager with little respect for authority, too much free time, and a love for Alger and Thoreau. The absence of a generational divide would have been more unexpected.

It’s humorous to reminisce now, but at the time, I blamed him for my woes entirely. I was vindictive, eagerly cataloging every misstep, perceived hypocrisy, and flawed reasoning to justify my hostility. I intellectualized my flaws by projecting them onto him: my mistrust and paranoia stemmed from his Machiavellian nature; my wrath merely mirrored his quick temper; my sensitivity was just a response to his. For every problem I faced, I convinced myself he was the source.²

That is not to say that he was entirely blameless. Even now, there are memories with him that induce deserved fury.³ However, it is with this in mind that I then recall another memory.

I first considered death when I was 6. My brother had begun to cry at dinner, gasping through choked breath that one inevitable day, my parents would die. They laughed, praising him for realizing this so early and encouraging him to cherish his time with them. I didn’t fully understand that lesson, and in retrospect, I hadn’t until quite recently.

Certainly, my father was and remains imperfect, but did he deserve my ire? For years, I constructed endless polemics about his “villainy” without recognizing the simple truth: for any individual, one could write both a scathing criticism and a flattering endorsement consisting entirely of facts.⁴ My fixation on his flaws poisoned countless opportunities to build a meaningful relationship.

Years ago, I recall mentioning that I wanted to learn how to ride a bike. Within the hour, my father drove me to a nearby park to practice. We began cautiously; I wobbled while he steadied the back of my bike. As I gained momentum and confidence, his grip remained firm. There we were: me with my ill-fitting helmet and unsteady balance; him running behind, maintaining a steady grip. Though visibly tired after an hour, he insisted we continue for as long as I wished. I felt secure then—loved—but this was never articulated to him. Within the week, we were fighting once more.

I used to resent my father. For a time, I believed I downright hated him. In the moment, perhaps I did. But as I grow older and my time with my parents becomes more limited, I’ve come to understand that we rarely get the fathers we deserve. My father is not some monster—he is human, with all the contradictions and complexities that entails. His flaws, which once consumed my attention, now appear as mere portions of a person I can only partially comprehend.

In burying my childish notion that he was the Devil, I’ve found something unexpected: compassion. Not just for him, but for myself. After all, we are all imperfect beings, stumbling through relationships without guidance. The man who I fought with and the man who steadied my bicycle are the same person—deserving of the basic kindness we extend to other flawed humans. Perhaps that’s the most important lesson he taught me: that forgiveness isn’t about forgetting wrongs, but about recognizing our shared humanity despite them.