into the mystic

for a great deal of my life, i never really thought i had a father. well, i know, i'm not stupid, i have a father, but i've never really seen him as a father figure. my mom used to say (and still does for that matter) that she was raising two kids, because my dad can seem 12 at times. and sometimes she even used to say i was more mature than he ever could be, but deep down, i knew it wasn't true. children aren't supposed to be more mature than their parents.

my dad's the type of guy that hates when people cry. when i came home from the december LSATs with tears streaming down my face he took one look at me, scoffed, and turned the other way. "why are you crying, instead of always crying, why don't you do something about it". he's the type of person that hates arguments. he can't talk about feelings. in many ways he's as stoic as a marble statue from the 15th century.

he's never really been good at comforting me. more often than not, it always turns out as some sort of criticism. and ironically i have him to thank for that, because from a very young age he taught me how to bear words of criticism. take it with your shoulders high, never flinch. listen to people. they may not always be right, but take it. it'll build your character.

i remember many instances years ago when people would meet my dad for the first time, clad in skater shoes, billabong t-shirt, and hurley shorts. "that's your dad?!" and secretly, i've always been a bit proud. my dad is unique, different, albeit a bit strange and perpetually suffering from a mid-life crisis, but isn't everyone anyway? he's the guy that would indulge in double chocolate chip shakes with me, let me drag him through the all-terrain snowboard park only to yell at me afterwards for being so reckless thinking i could scale a 6 ft rail, and without fail, make fun of my mom with me at the dinner table every night.

the first memory i have is of my father burning my hand. that sounded wrong. let me explain. the first memory i have is when i'm about 3 years old...or was i 2? either way, it was the middle of the night, and i was hungry. so my dad woke up, and carried me to the kitchen and was cooking me eggs. apparently he told me to place my hand over the stove to feel it's warmth. i was 2, how was i supposed to know the difference between placing my hand over the stove and putting my hand on the stove?

all my life i wanted him to be proud of me. and maybe that's why i regret quitting softball so much. because those four years i spent in the red dirt scraping my knees, having line drives come straight at me, striking out, stealing bases, making double plays...were the four years i could definitively say my dad was proud of me. wait, i remember another instance. senior year of high school, when i got into berkeley and had listed my major as statistics. my dad thought i would become an actuary (i probably can't even spell that word correctly). needless to say, i obviously didn't. "another dream down the drain, what is sociology anyway?"

and it hurt. i can't deny it. daddy's little girl has to always live up to his dreams, his expectations. it wasn't until recently that i started realizing that in many ways, he has shown his pride, i just didn't know it. up in tahoe last week, my aunt was saying how it's hard for many of my dad's sisters to show up to family gatherings because they were embarrassed...of their own children. "phillip? he's a bum!" "did you know james did time in fresno?"

i started to look back, and realize that my dad has never missed a family outing, like ever. over the dinner table one night in tahoe, he started talking about how i spent so much money studying in berkeley. and said i should have taken the scholarship and attended uci. i hated how he always brought that up. how he was always reminding me i could have saved him more money. but i started realizing that it wasn't his way of making me feel guilty. it was his way of saying he was proud of me, for getting a scholarship. okay, it was uci and everyone got it, but still, he doesn't have to know that.

when i look back, it was my dad who let me go my way; it was my dad who accepted, without protest my quitting of softball, my decision to study sociology instead of statistics, my request to spend the next month in europe. he still mutters comments about how i gave up a softball scholarship, how sociology is for losers, and how i have no logic to ever be a lawyer, but i can see past it. regardless of all the uncertainty that hangs over my head right now, how i have absolutely no clue what i want to do with my life, i know my dad will always be there. and he may not say it all the time, or at all for that matter, but at the least expected moments, i can feel an ounce of his pride. which is all i ever wanted.

while watching animal planet

erika: there's this book i read over and over in elementary school. it's called "where the red fern grows" and in the end, big dan is killed by mountain lions and his sister little ann is so sad she basically dies of a broken heart! i cried all the time when i read it.
dad: dude, i spared you of that pain. see? you don't have to be sad because you have no brothers and sisters!
erika: ....
erika (cont'd): that's the worst reason i've ever heard of denying me siblings.
dad: hahaha, yep!