if.

It was easy to spot him in a sea of people. He was wearing a black cowboy hat and boots, having fallen in love with Texas fashion upon arriving from Laos in ‘89. I thought he looked a little silly but loved him for it, even as a teenager who deeply cared about appearances. Pa walked up to me with flowers in hand, grinning from ear to ear. The lilies were a little expensive, but they reminded us both of plumeria, in fragrance at least, which grew abundantly in his hometown in Laos. He presented them to me and then pulled me into a hug. I could tell that he was radiating pride for his youngest daughter graduating from high school, and, at that moment, I was proud to be his daughter too.

My high school was quite small – a graduating class of 58. It was tradition that the graduation ceremony was held at a historic church in downtown Dallas. The stained glass windows cast warm shades of red and yellow along the hall where families were gathering. It was the perfect golden hour on a Friday evening: laughter, chatter, and hugs all around. Young adults on the verge of the next big step of their lives. This moment in time was a milestone for both of us. Pa was a man of few words, but he really didn’t have to say much. We understood each other. 

—

This time, there were more people. I graduated with an Integrative Studies degree from the University of North Texas, and the ceremony was in the coliseum, and the crowds were dense after the graduates were all released to find their loved ones. Flowers in hand, again, Pa was waiting by the steps, a strategic place for me to find him. Smart, I thought. I wondered if always finding a good lookout point was an instinct leftover from having fought in the Secret War. He was a clever, resourceful man, always creating. 

It was a warm day in May and the sun was high. I couldn’t wait to eat at the Thai restaurant in town that had the savory and funky flavors in their dishes that were closest and most pleasing to our Lao palates. I was impatient when I was hungry, much like Pa. We waited for the rest of the family to find us. This graduation was enough for me; I opted not to attend the ceremonies for my master’s degrees. Achieving an undergraduate degree was the highest education anyone in my family had earned at that point, and I knew, again, the amount of pride my father held for me then.

—

And then Pa was tying white threads around my wrist at my wedding reception. I shed a tear as he wished for my health and prosperity in Lao. He said that Mae had been up so early that morning, preparing the threads, the boiled eggs, and the steamed rice desserts for the ceremony. Pa had a tenderness in his eyes when he spoke of her.. He complimented the blending of Lao and Texan traditions, grinning at the cowboy hats that several of the wedding party had donned on their way in. He loved my partner as his newest, youngest son.

We whispered inside jokes and teased one another on the dance floor, relishing in a moment together and chuckling to get through our nerves. He twirled me a few times to an old country song, but we’d established during the wedding planning that he was too shy to dance for a whole song. So off we went to raucous applause at the end of our very short father-daughter dance. It was bliss.

—

Across the pha khao  from me, Pa is cradling a Budweiser can in his left hand as he eats khao poon with chopsticks in his right. I’m annoyed at the slurping noises of approval at my cooking but also so happy to see him enjoying the food I prepared. It’s our favorite Lao meal: red curry and coconut milk soup with somen noodles, spicy, just a hit of sour, fresh, and so texturally fun to eat. “Saap e-lee,” he tells me, grinning and nodding. “Thanks, Pa,” I respond, laughing as he abandons his beer to lift his bowl and drink every last drop of soup.

—

If only these scenes were real memories. If only Pa were still alive. I would tell him how much it would have meant to me to have tried to heal our relationship, so that I could share with him about those milestone life events from which he was absent (I wasn’t ready to invite him). Though I’ve imagined these scenes from the perspective of “wishing my father had been the kind of loving, caring, delightful, compassionate father that everyone deserves,” I am also writing it from the perspective of “this is who I wish I had been too.” We are both not without our flaws. 

I would apologize for subconsciously punishing him by avoiding and excluding him, and that my anger at his mistreatment of me, of his own family, felt justified. So I never called. I never considered inviting him. In my distance and protecting my peace and happiness, I was safe. It turns out, I was still afraid of him, despite his aged and frail body, he was still the monster my younger self saw. Feeling righteous and powerful, I was adamant that my abuser would not be allowed in my presence. Power can delude you, too. 

And trauma can cause you to make decisions you might deeply regret with perspective but it is part of the healing process and cannot be discounted. You have to be gentle for treating people how they time and time again proved that they needed to be treated to protect yourself. For making choices that you wish you could change (but would you?). I don’t remember the last time that I hugged my father. (But why would you hug your abuser?) It goes on.

Grief has twisted its tendrils around every bit of me, sometimes binding me so tightly, I am incapacitated. 

Perhaps, reader, you have gathered that I did not invite him to either graduation, nor to my wedding. We also never shared moments like eating a meal that I had made together, and it pains me that he never got to try (and criticize but maybe lovingly) the Lao food that I make these days with pride.

My father had crippling PTSD that went untreated, and his actions my entire life necessitated distance from him. I thought I might be able to log an interview or two with him after some years of my own personal work in therapy, but COVID took him from this plane of existence and that was that. I thought I had time, and that is a misconception that we all make and must forgive ourselves for. I am here, fatherless, and without ever having the chance to invite him to any other milestone events again, even if I chose. Even if it were a possibility. And I live with this. It doesn’t get easier; but we get stronger.  

—

note:
I imagine that so many people who lead similar lives to my father’s also live with mental health issues. Decades after enduring trauma from the war and the diaspora, many Southeast Asians are left untreated for complex PTSD, depression, anxiety, and more. And we still don’t know how to talk about it or care for our elders, but we are trying. Young AANHPI community members are also faced with the complexity of this history and lack a path to follow in taking care of one’s mental health. “In recent years, suicide has been the leading cause of death for AANHPI youth ages 10 through 24 in the United States, and AANHPI youth are the only racial or ethnic group in this age category with this first leading cause of death.”