Footsteps
Somewhere between Washington, Pennsylvania and New York, New York, a wall was built between my father and me. That wall, with age and time, and dust and wind, stood erect and firm for over 31 years. What happened to that girl who went flying into her father's arms at Fort Chaffee, Arkansas?
Washington was dreary, but I didn't care; I didn't even know it. We were all together again and despite the fear and uncertainties of living in this new country, our little extended family felt reassured that all will be well. Little by little our English improved each day. Day by day, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit.
The house that was rented for us was a temporary solution. The family who owned it was living abroad somewhere in the Netherlands and so the place was left furnished, along with bicycles, toys and closets full of clothing. Merrily we enjoyed ourselves; immersed in the frivolity of the moments. We would live in this house for about three months before moving to another house at the end of the summer of 1975. Before winter arrived that year, we would leave Pennsylvania for good.
I had just turned eight in this house. On the faithful day that marked the rest of my life, the summer sun shone brightly overhead as we three kids and one of our nannies fiddled with the tennis racquets in the backyard. My mother had gone off with a social worker that morning and was due home sometime later in the evening.
I left my brother and sister to seek shade and refuge indoors; a big box of Lego provided the entertainment that I needed. Upstairs and in the little alcove between the bedrooms, I found the perfect place to build. It was then that my father emerged from his room and announced to me that he was going to take a bath. It was hot and a bath would do him good he said and closed the bathroom door behind him.
My father is a bath man. To this very day, as busy as he is, he still soaks in a bath everyday. "It is the only time that I can have for myself, "he says. Back in Vietnam, a beautiful bathroom was built for my father right behind his office. Sparkling white tiles imported from Italy adorned its wall; a special commode and bidet were ordered from Japan, and of course, a very large tub. Bathing is a ritual for my father.
Some moments passed and I don't know why but I felt the urge to look under the slit of the door after my father. I could barely see his feet as he walked back and forth, running the bath water and perhaps placing his clothing on the hook. Across the floor I can clearly see the other door that connects the bathroom to one of the nannies' bedroom. I looked on. Then I froze like a popsicle. The other door just opened and I saw her feet making their way into the bathroom. I knew they were her feet because she was upstairs when I came in. My first thought was one of great alarm - my father forgot to lock that door! I lay as still as death and expected shrieks and screams when she walked in and saw my father. But there was no sound except that of the running bath water and the room filled with steam. There were no more feet. I lifted myself up, collected my Lego, and ran off to my room.
I felt strange and isolated. I felt weak and useless. I felt naughty and bad. Later I realized that the emotions I felt were ones of betrayal. I didn't know what to do. When my mother came home that night, I pulled her aside and told her I wanted to tell her a secret. Would she be able to keep it? I was all flustered and stuttered the words. The next thing I knew, my mother leaped up and out of the room and what entailed could be considered the first act in the drama that stars my family for years to come.
From that day on, I just never saw my father in the same light again. I couldn't even look him in the eye. He would ask a question and I would answer him; my gaze focused on my own two feet. And it would continue this way for many, many years. And although my mother always managed to forgive her husband, I myself, could not get pass what I witnessed that day in Washington. That was the day that my childhood was gone; overnight, that part of me was over with and I knew it.
Slowly I was forced to accept living with others in our lives; my father is just that kind of a man. Of course I didn't know this back then, but my father has always been a cheater. The amazing thing is that my mother still loves him. He is her first love and her last love- very old school, I would say when I'm telling their story. But their story is my story and I am desperately trying to figure out how it will all play out since this is now like 32 years later, and many, many women (not to even mention illegitimate children at this point)What may be culturally acceptable in Viet Nam or wherever else, is most definitely not morally acceptable by any means. Like I said, there are so many questions that I may never find the answers to - like why my father is the way he is? All I know is that he IS my father and I love and revere him deeply. He is far from perfect, but he is still my father, the only one I have in this life, and that will never change.
Slowly parts of that wall have come down. It started the months before I delivered my first child nine years ago; my father made tremendous effort to show my husband and I that he wanted to be a part of our lives. Still, there is much left to be said. And though things can be left unspoken, I am trying everyday to come to terms with my feelings and somehow make leap and bound efforts to let my father know that I love him despite his faults and his betrayals to my mother and us. There are not enough hours in the day, I must do my best to make up for lost time.
Washington was dreary, but I didn't care; I didn't even know it. We were all together again and despite the fear and uncertainties of living in this new country, our little extended family felt reassured that all will be well. Little by little our English improved each day. Day by day, the pieces of the puzzle started to fit.
The house that was rented for us was a temporary solution. The family who owned it was living abroad somewhere in the Netherlands and so the place was left furnished, along with bicycles, toys and closets full of clothing. Merrily we enjoyed ourselves; immersed in the frivolity of the moments. We would live in this house for about three months before moving to another house at the end of the summer of 1975. Before winter arrived that year, we would leave Pennsylvania for good.
I had just turned eight in this house. On the faithful day that marked the rest of my life, the summer sun shone brightly overhead as we three kids and one of our nannies fiddled with the tennis racquets in the backyard. My mother had gone off with a social worker that morning and was due home sometime later in the evening.
I left my brother and sister to seek shade and refuge indoors; a big box of Lego provided the entertainment that I needed. Upstairs and in the little alcove between the bedrooms, I found the perfect place to build. It was then that my father emerged from his room and announced to me that he was going to take a bath. It was hot and a bath would do him good he said and closed the bathroom door behind him.
My father is a bath man. To this very day, as busy as he is, he still soaks in a bath everyday. "It is the only time that I can have for myself, "he says. Back in Vietnam, a beautiful bathroom was built for my father right behind his office. Sparkling white tiles imported from Italy adorned its wall; a special commode and bidet were ordered from Japan, and of course, a very large tub. Bathing is a ritual for my father.
Some moments passed and I don't know why but I felt the urge to look under the slit of the door after my father. I could barely see his feet as he walked back and forth, running the bath water and perhaps placing his clothing on the hook. Across the floor I can clearly see the other door that connects the bathroom to one of the nannies' bedroom. I looked on. Then I froze like a popsicle. The other door just opened and I saw her feet making their way into the bathroom. I knew they were her feet because she was upstairs when I came in. My first thought was one of great alarm - my father forgot to lock that door! I lay as still as death and expected shrieks and screams when she walked in and saw my father. But there was no sound except that of the running bath water and the room filled with steam. There were no more feet. I lifted myself up, collected my Lego, and ran off to my room.
I felt strange and isolated. I felt weak and useless. I felt naughty and bad. Later I realized that the emotions I felt were ones of betrayal. I didn't know what to do. When my mother came home that night, I pulled her aside and told her I wanted to tell her a secret. Would she be able to keep it? I was all flustered and stuttered the words. The next thing I knew, my mother leaped up and out of the room and what entailed could be considered the first act in the drama that stars my family for years to come.
From that day on, I just never saw my father in the same light again. I couldn't even look him in the eye. He would ask a question and I would answer him; my gaze focused on my own two feet. And it would continue this way for many, many years. And although my mother always managed to forgive her husband, I myself, could not get pass what I witnessed that day in Washington. That was the day that my childhood was gone; overnight, that part of me was over with and I knew it.
Slowly I was forced to accept living with others in our lives; my father is just that kind of a man. Of course I didn't know this back then, but my father has always been a cheater. The amazing thing is that my mother still loves him. He is her first love and her last love- very old school, I would say when I'm telling their story. But their story is my story and I am desperately trying to figure out how it will all play out since this is now like 32 years later, and many, many women (not to even mention illegitimate children at this point)What may be culturally acceptable in Viet Nam or wherever else, is most definitely not morally acceptable by any means. Like I said, there are so many questions that I may never find the answers to - like why my father is the way he is? All I know is that he IS my father and I love and revere him deeply. He is far from perfect, but he is still my father, the only one I have in this life, and that will never change.
Slowly parts of that wall have come down. It started the months before I delivered my first child nine years ago; my father made tremendous effort to show my husband and I that he wanted to be a part of our lives. Still, there is much left to be said. And though things can be left unspoken, I am trying everyday to come to terms with my feelings and somehow make leap and bound efforts to let my father know that I love him despite his faults and his betrayals to my mother and us. There are not enough hours in the day, I must do my best to make up for lost time.
posted by cream cheese dreams at 4:58 PM
1 Comments:
Wow - that is a heavy burden to carry. I don't know if you will ever be able to understand it. At best a resigned acceptance of your differences may be the key to moving forward.
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