Essay 2

The Space Between

            We all have a role in life. We are all responsible for something. At least, that’s what you taught me. If parents have but one responsibility, it is to ensure that somehow, in some way, their children will end up happier than they did. If you think of people in term of building blocks, the foundation for every child is their parents.  

            If I learned anything from you, it is that life takes a lot from you but doesn’t give much back. You taught me that I had to work hard for everything, even for the tiniest amount of something. I mean, that was all you knew. You had a successful business in Vietnam- you owned a little barber shop. Thinking about you cutting people’s hair and trimming their beards, with your goofy smile, makes me smile. You even fixed bicycles on the side when your barber shop wasn’t busy. I remember seeing a picture of you; you were smiling and standing in front of that barber shop with some of your friends. You were all about work back in Vietnam but you were happy.

            But things happen. Kids happen. Once I was born, you realized that the little barber shop in Vietnam wasn’t going to be enough to support a wife and young daughter. You, me, and my mom, who was pregnant with my little sister, all left Vietnam to live, what you believed at the time, a better life in America.

            You arrived to the United States poor and you spoke no English. You had to support a wife and two young daughters. You found a job working as a janitor at an electrical plant in Grass Valley, California. I remember never seeing you much as a kid. You would leave early in the morning and come home late at night. When you came back, I would give you the biggest hug. You were always such a slight guy, but back then, I thought you were the tallest guy in the world, and it always made me happy to see you beaming down at me, with that big, goofy smile.

            Being a kid, I didn’t realize how hard you worked. I didn’t realize because you never complained. Mom didn’t work, so you had to get a second job. It was necessary, with a third baby on the way. You worked as welder during the day and a janitor at night. I saw even less of you. You were but a sliver in my existence. I spent a lot of my time as a kid, waiting for you to come back home.

            As I got older, I finally started to fully realize how poor our family was and I finally realized how hard you were working. I asked you about what your life was like before you moved to America. You told me about the barber shop and your little bicycle stand. You seemed so happy recounting the experience, so I asked you why you moved here. You smiled and told me it was because you knew that your children would have a better life here, you knew that we would be happy. I was satisfied enough with that answer, but even back then, I didn’t realize how your hard work was slowly taking bits and pieces from you.

            I moved up to here when I turned eighteen. I didn’t know what I was doing or what I wanted to be. All I knew was that I had to leave California and become my own person, separate from my family, separate from you. You and mom wanted me to be a doctor but I knew that’s not what I wanted. I was very unsure about a lot of things but I was sure I was never going to be a doctor.  When I came to visit for Christmas that year, you were surprised at how thin I had become but I was also surprised at you. You still had that same bright smile, but the gray in your hair was more pronounced, you moved a little slower, and you weren’t so tall. We didn’t talk much during my visit but you were still the friendly, kind guy I knew my father to be. Still, during my flight back home, I couldn’t help thinking that there was more than just a few states separating us.

            I told you I was going to school but I was lying to save face. I was working full time at a restaurant.  Even though it was my very first job, I was prepared for it. That was due to the model of hard work I had grown up seeing in you. I worked hard and I didn’t complain. These were the things I saw you do, so I followed suit. I became a stronger person that way. I used to be so shy and unsure, but working, even at a restaurant, instilled a lot of confidence in me. I realized that, like you, I could handle responsibility. I also realized that I could live without you. I had always felt like such a burden in our household and it was freeing knowing that I didn’t need to depend on you anymore. I let go of my foundation, resolving to figure out my life.

            But things happen. Headaches happen. Memory loss happens. One by one, life took things away from you and you ended up in the ICU on life support. All your life you worked so hard to end up at that point. The doctors said it had been a brain hemorrhage. They said that you were brain dead, that the only thing keeping you alive was the machine. They told your family that letting you go peacefully was the best option. We took the best option. We pulled the plug and cremated your body. I watched my foundation crumble and turn to dust that day.

            When you died, I realized what your work had really meant. I realized that what you wanted for me to become in life wasn’t a doctor or anything in particular. Work was never about making money for you. It was always about taking care of your loved ones and ensuring that they would be happy. You never cared about what I would end up doing, as long as I was happy and living a good life. You were my foundation. You created it. You molded it. You made me strong. You did all of this to make sure that I could survive without you. You did all of this to make sure that life wouldn’t devour me whole. I am surviving and pursuing my dreams, even though you are not in my life anymore. Your work paid off.