Made in the image

My phone buzzes once. Then twice. Then three and four times. It’s one of my childhood friends, Russell. He’s panicking for me.

Dude. Your parents are here, he’s texting me. He means at the church my mom goes to, and he wants to know how they got there since he knows I was out of town a day or so ago.

I tell him that I’m actually back, and then everything’s okay and I’ll take them home.

“I was so worried,” he says when we hang out later that day. “I saw your dad when I walked in and I was all ‘wait, how did you get here?’”

I’m driving, but still listening intently since I can imagine exactly where my dad was sitting since he sits in the same seat in church every Sunday.

“And then I asked, ‘did you drive?’ And then he gave me this funny smile, like he was embarrassed a little bit, like he knew he had done something he shouldn’t have.”

I know what he’s talking about and can picture it immediately. Funny enough, I also see my own smile at the same time.

“He’s probably where I get that mischievous, ‘I’m up to something’ look that I have.”

“Yes!” Russell exclaims. “I think that is where you get it.”

I chuckle. Oh, Dad.

There’s a lot I don’t know about my dad. He once self-published a novel that’s actually more of an autobiography, which is about as close to understanding my dad’s childhood as I’ll ever get.

I know that he emigrated to New York via Ellis Island, which is where most of his family lives. My family moved out to California, and we used to visit New York every summer for my grandfather’s birthday. I remember my dad’s huge family, the lavish birthday dinners, the seemingly thousands of cousins I was related to but could never remember except for a handful. Those trips were always highlights of my year; I loved New York City, loved the energy of a world metropolis, and got downright angry when we had to leave.

And then when my grandfather passed away, we stopped visiting. For the most part, I lost touch with my dad’s side of my ancestry. That was it.

Until a couple of years ago, when the company I worked for at the time asked me to fly to New York City on a business trip. On a whim, I reached out to a few relatives and offered to swing by and say ‘hi.’ They were much happier to see me than I would’ve thought. And so I’ve been back to visit on my own, whether because of work, or for play. I’ve realized, I’m an adult now. And family and history aren’t just things handed down to you; they’re things you can take and own, on your own.

Today, I try to avoid taking trips since I don’t want to leave my folks by themselves anymore, but I’ve been itching for a deeper understanding of my dad. New York, felt like a creative way to scratch that itch.

“Who’s coming tonight?” I ask my cousin Amy, who’s graciously allowed me to stay the night and is hosting a family dinner at her place.

She fires off a bunch of names. Some are “uncles” and “aunts” and I don’t know if they’re actually an uncle or aunt or if that’s just what I’ve called them since Chinese is so specific about exactly which relative is who. I’m not actually even sure if I remember some of these people, and I quietly ask how I’m related to them. Suddenly I feel a little stressed and a lot silly about the situation.

“Daniel!” I hear a voice boom through the front door. It’s my “Uncle” Tommy. I breathe a sigh of relief, because he’s one of the few people I definitely remember since my dad often talks to him over the phone. “I want to talk with you about your blog,” he wastes no time telling me.

“Uh oh,” I force a laugh on the outside, but quietly feel my nerves return back to me. I secretly hate it when people tell me they read my writing because I know I’m about to be judged.

“I want to have a heart-to-heart about your dad,” he continues. I take a deep breath for whatever’s next. “I think you need professional help.”

I burst out laughing, and this time, it’s genuine.

“No, seriously.”

A few other relatives show up. Some I remember. Some who I’ve met, but honestly have zero recollection of. Some, I have no concrete memory of, but the moment I see them and hear their voice, it tugs at something familiar and my brain yells out “I do know you!” even if I have no idea how.

For dinner, we sit around a large table with way too much food, laughing and bantering about what everybody’s up to, which really is just gossip even if not malicious. This feels like one of those lavish dinners we used to have for my grandfather’s birthday. It’s not actually lavish, and it’s not filled with tons of people, but maybe it’s also one of those childhood things you revisit and suddenly it seems so much smaller than you remember.

Most of the night is spent talking about my dad, whether his past, or what it’s like to live with him now. How he used to drive a red mustang (of course he did…), has always gone off the deep end talking about his philosophies on life (so, it’s not new), and how when he sneezes, he says ‘Bless me’ to himself (he also says ‘gesundheit’ for no reason). My dad is such a character, and I guess in some ways, I’m weird and quirky just like he is.

We even talk about how I like to write, just like he used to with his self-published book, which is apparently even less fictional than I thought.

“I thought that character was made up,” I say, when we talk about a woman who marries my dad’s main character in the end.

A few relatives share glances at each other. “Oh no, Daniel. It’s not.”

Turns out my Uncle Tommy helped my dad with the grammar and syntax, because despite my dad having been in the country for probably seventy years, he still doesn’t quite sound like a native speaker. My dad eventually declined further help, though.

“He said, ‘This is how I’m going to do it and people can take it or leave it,” Uncle Tommy said.

I laughed. Of course my dad would say something like that. And guess what Dad, people left it.

“You should think about hiring a caretaker,” someone suggests.

“Yeah,” I sigh, “It’s tough with him, you know? You guys probably know this, but my dad can be kind of abrasive…” I let my voice trail off and nervously scan the room to see what everyone’s reaction will be.

They all look at each other. I catch at least one grin. And a few voices simultaneously declare: “Oh yeah.”

“I think it runs in the Hom family,” an aunt jokes with a slight jab, before turning to me. "Well, you take after your mom so..."

I glance back and smile. Which is probably what my mom would do.

My dad’s side of the family is very different than my mom’s. They’re a little more haphazard, a little less polished, and a lot more “well, this is who we are…” It breeds a kind of silliness and fun, and despite my dad’s zaniness, I can see some roots of that in him too.

They’re also a much bigger family, or at least it feels that way, with rumors of tons more cousins I still don’t know. Although most of the night is spent in conversation, I also use some of my energy to just observe. This is where I come from, and these are the people who have influenced my life through my dad, even in some of the invisible ways I’ll never concretely know. I think if you’re lucky enough to have access to your history, it’s always something worth taking the effort to connect to, and taking the chance to truly enjoy.

I watch some relatives splinter off from the main dinner table and sit down in the living room, and it’s fun, watching the elders sit with aging adults, sprawled out on the floor and the couch as if they’re kids. It’s something I’ve never seen my mom’s family do, but it feels so much like my dad, with all of them just talking loudly about things I don’t understand because they’re using my dad’s native Taishanese. I don’t speak it, and immediately recall memories of not knowing what to say as a kid when relatives start using it with me.

Like when my aunt asks me something, and I look blankly at my cousin Amy for help.

“She’s asking if you have a place to sleep tonight.”

“Oh,” I hate this feeling, and I give them my sheepish look. The one my dad gave me that doubles as mischief. I switch to Cantonese, which is not their dialect but it’s the closest thing I’ve got. “Yes, I do have a place to stay.”

Hearing the language tugs at a few memories of my dad, and somehow I wish I had the opportunity learn it. I’ve always seen my dad light up like no other time when he speaks it, and that’s not something I’ll get to experience for myself.

“You know one thing your dad once said,” my uncle Tommy throws out there as the dinner winds down, “‘When I get old, you can put me in a nursing home. Just be sure to play me my music.’ Maybe that’s something you can do. When he’s sitting there on the couch, just play him his music.

“What kind of music did he listen to?” I ask. I expect him to say Classical. Mozart. Maybe some old Chinese music. My Uncle Tommy gives me a surprise answer.

Big band.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah. You know, like Glenn Miller, folks from the 1940s, you know? His childhood.”

I’m one of the few people I know my age who love, and seem to have some deep affinity for big band.

When the night draws to a close, I mull over everything that I’ve learned. As if I’ve gotten some new ammunition for how to deal with my dad, and some affirmation that dealing with my dad is in fact, a trial in the most literal sense. But in particular, there’s still one thing I can’t seem to get over. My dad likes big band? I mean, I know he was born in the 30s, but still. I’m not actually sure if I believe it.

So I test this out one evening once I’m back in California. I throw together a bunch of songs onto a playlist before preparing the dinner table and getting my mom and dad to sit down.

And then I hit ‘play,’ and hope to watch some weird magic unfold before my eyes. In this moment, there’s my dad, my mom, and me, around the dinner table. Snacking on spaghetti, chicken and broccoli with Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” blaring in the background. Somehow I expect a record player somewhere.

It feels weird, anachronistic, and like everything is out of place. Like I’m living in the 1940s.

It also feels weirdly comfortable. It feels, right.

I turn to my dad.

“Do you recognize this music?”

He seems to contemplate for a bit, either because he’s actually thinking, or because he’s just taking that long to figure out my question.

“No, I don’t,” he responds, and suddenly my hope is a little deflated. And then he continues. “But I like it.”

Part of me wonders if he’s just forgotten the song, which is so classic everyone has heard it at least once in their lifetime. Maybe he does recognize it but can’t recall it. And as my uncle said, maybe it relaxes him regardless.

And so I throw more songs on my newly minted ‘40’s Big Band’ playlist. Occasionally I set a speaker in the living room where his couch is and hit ‘play’ before disappearing for a couple of hours. Which still leaves my dad sitting on his couch doing nothing, but at least he’s there listening to the music of his childhood.

Somehow, it feels like the music of mine too. Maybe I am more like my dad than I’d like to admit.