Today we gather as a family to pay our respects to Chen Juo Cheng, our husband, brother, father, grandfather, uncle, and friend.
My father, as I knew him, was a taciturn man. He was the archetype for the old, stoic, Chinese dad. I imagine that he mirrored what I remember of his father, my grandfather. Perhaps I am also a reflection of that same reticence, unable to speak openly what I feel.
He did not leave me with words to remember him with. The few conversations we did have were usually tangential to matters of importance. I know the timeline of his life, but am unfamiliar with the color he painted it with. The art he was proficient at, Calligraphy, I do not know if even enjoyed it. The words he wrote are as opaque to me as the ink he used. In many ways, he was similarly opaque. To me, he was like a tree. Silent, but always there to be leaned on if necessary.
Despite being his son, I could not possibly have had a more different life than he had. I am born and raised an American, but I happen to have Chinese skin. I have been indoctrinated with Western ideals of individualism, a compulsion to carve my name onto the face of this world. My father seemed to me the very opposite, holding the highest virtue as the quiet stoicism of self-sacrifice for family, village, country. Most eulogies comment on the “indelible mark” that the dearly departed left. My father’s life, on the other hand, was one of soft ripples left on calm waters.
His character was only visible in quiet actions. Now that he is gone, he will only live in our memories. So, in eulogizing him, I can only speak of my memories.
Just the other day, my daughter told me that she will miss her Ah-gong.
She followed that with “but what if I forget him? What if I don’t remember?” All I could say was, “I will help you remember”. To which she replied, in earnest, “but what if you get dementia?”
She got me there.
But it did get me thinking. My father was the last thread that connected me to the history of our Cheng family in the old country. Now, I am the last thread that connects my children to a heritage that feels apart from me.
For the last two weeks I have racked my brain to remember the essence of him. I came up with a few memories that although not remarkable in of themselves, reflect who he was to me.
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I remember once, when I was perhaps my son’s age, after my dad paid for the bill at a restaurant, I did the math looking at the change and realized the same thing he did, that the server brought back too much change. I was excited at our luck. But, to my surprise, he then proceeded to alert the server and have them redo the change. He let me know that he was disappointed in me. I learned two things. One, it was important to be good at math. But more importantly, two, though frugality is important, it should never be at the expense of integrity.
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My father used to smoke. He quit when I was still a child. I remember that he used to say that quitting smoking was easy because he never inhaled. I remember one time after he “quit” that mom found ashes in his car ash tray, which he tried to deny. I knew then, don’t bother to BS your wife.
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There was one day, when I was a teenager, I was being an especially ungrateful turd. My grandmother asked me if I would drive her to church the next morning. I grumbled about it because I guess I must’ve had something that I thought was important at the time but I simply cannot recall now what that could’ve been. My father, in not so many words, let it be known to me the depth of his disappointment in me that day. And I learned that, for my dad, filial piety and taking care of your family was of the highest importance, above all else.
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On Han's and my wedding day, my dad volunteered to say a few words. He then proceeded to give a page-long speech about how happy he was that our two families were joining together. He also dyed his hair for that. If you know my father, it was highly uncharacteristic of him. I don’t think he has said as many words to me in a row in my entire life. Even though he never said it, we were important enough that, when it counted, he stepped out of his comfort zone to rise to the occasion.
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The very last conversation I had with Dad, I asked him what he thought about China. I was surprised to hear that he was extremely proud of the progress and strength of China, describing it with approval. This was shocking to me, as because of the current Chinese government, he was a child refugee, forced to flee and live in poverty, and he lost his half-brother. But, I guess, to him, his pride of our people transcends that.
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I remember vividly the day that our grandfather, my dad’s father, died. I was a little younger than my son is today. My dad and mom picked me up from my other grandparents’ house. My dad then told us that he had just died. I was quiet, because I didn’t know what to say. He then asked me, a little angrily, “aren’t you sad?” Being that he was the first person I had ever known to have died, and I didn’t yet understand the finality of it, I said “a little”. That made him quite upset. I remember being surprised, not that my father was sad, but by his reaction, which seemed a confused mix of emotions that he couldn’t express properly. I suppose I can understand that more now.
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I remember the day we buried our grandmother, his mother. I remember during his eulogy, he thanked my mother for her dedication towards taking care of his parents all of those years. Well, dad, since you can’t say it anymore, thank you mom for taking care of him, for taking care of us. And Dad, don’t worry, when the day comes when she needs it, we will take care of her too.
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