August, 2009: ISIS ran a series of bombings in Baghdad, Iraq that killed 101 and injured 565 others; former president Bill Clinton met North Korean leader Kim Jong-il to discuss releasing American journalists Euna Lee and Laura Ling; Bryan Cranston won the 61st Emmy Awards best actor for his role in “Breaking Bad;” and I, well, traveled to America for the first time.
My 28-hour-long flight landed in Orlando, Florida, where I was supposed to study to become one of the best pharmacists ever. So far, MCO airport was living up to my expectations. I stood in the middle of a thousand gates, clueless around all the people running from place to place. It was about 6 p.m when I started hearing a very weird beeping noise. The more I listened to it, the more familiar it became. I searched around for a little bit before realizing that the beeping noise came from within me. To be exact, it came from my luggage that I just picked up from the baggage claim. I know what you’re thinking, but no, I am not making this up, and no, there wasn’t any ticking bomb inside.
My father had this old school alarm clock that would go off for about 5 minutes every morning to wake him up for work. I never knew how it made its way onto my bag, but I thought that it must have been there for a reason. And for that reason, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. I brought it back to the dorm and place it on my nightstand; the old clock became a part of my life and traveled with me on many overnight trips. Perhaps, the little beeping noise that it made reminded me of my father and, in one way or another, kept me sain during those loneliest days.
Before I decided to move into a rather simple dorm room half a globe across from my home, I never truly knew what loneliness actually felt like: my father had always been there for me since the first moment he saw me all wrapped up in that wet bloody towel. I wouldn’t say that my mother was neglecting, but the fact that she spent a lot of time at work and away on business trips just simply meant that she had less time to spend with me. And perhaps for that reason, we never truly learned to completely understand each other. Though I noticed her effort from time to time trying to be supportive, it was with my father that I developed my greatest bond.
My father fed me a lot of steam rice when I was a child because it was the only main dish he kind of knew how to do. The rice was always soaking wet and truth was, he had zero talent in cooking rice or any other thing. One time, he tried to make beef noodles soup; that turned out to be a disaster. The soup had a film of oil floating on top and it was weirdly sweet because he mistook sugar for salt. Everything was over-cooked, and flavorless, which was kind of odd, because how could something being cooked for so long it became so over-cooked yet had no flavors. The veggies were mushy, the broth was bland, and the chunks of beef were so chewy.
I didn’t like it, that was for sure. But I didn’t think it was bad; I just believed that was my father’s “way of cooking,” just like what he told me. Of course, that was a lie. My father lied to me, not once, not twice, but many many times. He told me that we couldn’t have a cat because I was allergic to them, when in fact we simply couldn’t afford one. He told me that my drawing of him was FANTASTIC when he looked like a cookie with limbs in it. He told me that babies came to life when two people really loved each other. How could I be alive now if it was the truth?
But not all his lies were bad. We used to own a Koi fish back in our old home in Vietnam and my father would tell me this story about them Koi fish called “The Legend of the Dragon Gate.” In the story, a Koi fish had to compete with other sea creatures to reach the legendary gate. It was the first one to swim upstream, through waterfalls and other obstacles to reach the top of the mountain where the Dragon Gate was. When the Koi fish finally reached the gate, its wish was granted and the fish was transformed into a dragon – the most auspicious creature in our Vietnamese culture. The Koi fish was believed to be gifted with a special gem that held a powerful energy, giving the fish the ability to swim against the currents and travel upstream.
Part of my father’s name came from the nuance of that gem, which might be the reason why my father was a little bit obsessed with that Koi fish we had in our home. He treasured that little fish. I would definitely get yelled at followed by a lecture if I tried to disturb his pet fish little pond. “Keeping it in the house would bring good fortune to the family,” he’d say as he tried to explain the fish’s value to my little mind, “Koi is synonymous with harmony and happiness. In feng shui, it’s said to attract auspicious abundance and prosperity…”
November, 2015: ISIS bombed Paris, killed 130 people and injured 365 others; Clinton’s wife is running for presidency; Jon Hamm won the 67th Emmy Awards best actor for his role in “Mad Men;” and I, well, have been sitting alone in my room wondering why my father treasured that fish so much.
I wonder if my father believed that the presence of that legendary Koi would bring him all the things he didn’t have, the things he always wished for, whether it was good fortune, happiness, or prosperity. I wonder if he had that inferiority complex about money or felt self-conscious that my mother was the main provider for the family. I wonder if he would still spend that much time at home with me, teach me the alphabet, play with me, and cook for me, had he had a job.
And I look over at the clock, it’s still ticking after all these years, despite the fact that I have never replaced any batteries in it. The old timer still goes off in my room every evening at the same time, though the sound that comes out of it now feels rather strange. It feels like the little guy is running out of breath. The annoying beeping noise has now been replaced with some tired soft squeals. I want to open up the back to see what kind of batteries are in it, but I don’t want to kill the old clock before it’s time, knowing that it’s not going to be long. I wonder, when the day comes, would I notice or would I just let it slowly fade away?
It was raining the day my dad brought the fish home. It was an important day for him. I looked at the fish then looked over at my dad, he was smiling at me. We sat at the pond and listen to drops of summer rain falling on the roof. The scent of summer rain on fresh leaves infused the mood with its relaxing and uplifting aroma.