Dad was his old gloomy self, sitting on the edge of the
iron-frame bed (which mom bought 45 years ago) with his back
hunched and his eyes downcast. That was his modus operandi
and he could sit like that for hours. The look on his face was a
mixure of apprehension and despair. His silence to questions
such as "what is in your mind?" and "what are you afraid of"
used to drive me nuts.
Since switching to a better diet two years ago, dad has had
his blood sugar under control, no longer needed insulin
injection, and rarely visited the hospital. I used to credit
this turn-around to my exhortation for him to give up white
flour (which he did). Now I think I under-estimated the pain
and fear brought by diabetes. Regardless, it was a rare
positive experience in his life.
He did not seem to see this a great achievement, however.
(Well. Maybe he only did not dwell on it.) His mind seemed
quickly shifting to, among other unknown dark thoughts, a
recent onset of shaking hands which has given him one more
excuse for not doing exercises. Nothing I got for him, e.g.,
the kettlebells, the pullup bars, the hand grippers, the
yoga mat, the books, etc., could ignite a lasting spark.
He told me a long time ago: "Life is full of bitter suffering.
Sweetness, if any, is a fleeting illusion." This sounded
Buddha-like except that he was an atheist and his nearly
80 years on earth taught him worshipping Chairman Mao
more than understanding the great concept of "dukkha."
Dad has a soft spot for strangers asking for money and is
extremely grateful to people who have done him good. He
frequently invokes the classic "A favor of one drop of water
should be paid back with that of a gushing spring." Between
kins and quacks, he had squandered his income and most
of his savings until we hired Mr. Zhao to take control. These days,
his pension did not cover Mr. Zhao's salary and yet he kept
thinking of giving back to his past benefactors, at my cost.
Dad rarely thanked me, though. Like many parents, he might
have regarded his only son more as an asset than an
individual. He injured his back one time and could not cook
for himself. (We hired an hourly worker to cook his meals.)
I flew to Beijing on Chinese New Year's Eve, arrived at
around 5:00pm, missed the last long-distance bus for the
day but hailed a taxi to get home, made dumplings (Pork and
Asian chive fillings) per tradition, and served him. He kept
saying the food was not tasty!
After observing him for 45 years, I have concluded that his
kindness toward strangers (and indifference to his own
family) came more out of early-life traumas and life-long
intimidation and oppression from all sides than an inner
devotion to bettering mankind. For one thing, he didn't seem
very keen on bettering himself.
After all the heated arguments and painful memories, I do not
hate Dad. I try to understand him and have learned much from his life. If what he is has been the accummulated result of his experience, I pity him.
