This year has been marked by numerous tragedies, both personally and globally. Uncertainty clouds the future, making it all the more vital to cherish family every day, even from a distance. As Father’s Day approaches, coinciding with my birthday, gratitude for family love and hope for their well-being are at the forefront of my mind.
Music filled my childhood home in unexpected ways. My sister and I, armed with pots and pans, transformed our living room into a concert hall. Spoons became microphones as we toddlers, in Mom’s words, energetically “扭屁股” (wiggle our behinds), much to her amusement.
My father’s musical taste leaned towards the classics of his generation. Broadway musicals were his morning alarm, much to my teenage dismay. The thin walls of our house would resonate with Rodgers and Hammerstein, a sound I met with groans and covered ears, yet secretly absorbed. Through this daily sonic wake-up call, I unknowingly memorized every lyric of “The King and I,” “Sound of Music,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” Peter, Paul and Mary cassettes played on repeat, and guitar lessons for folk songs became a family activity.
Alt: A heartwarming depiction of a father and daughter sharing a dance, symbolizing cherished family memories and the essence of “dance my father again”.
Yet, a chasm existed between us, the stereotypical “Asian dad” barrier. Stoic and strict, he directed questions towards the World Book Encyclopedias rather than answering them directly. His career felt like another wedge, much like the Broadway tunes, placed between us. “Study harder” replaced “I love you.” Fear, not of meanness, but of his silent strength, filled me. I strived for perfection, terrified of disappointment. Perhaps, as a child, awe manifests as fear.
His dedication to helping others was immense, often at the expense of family time. Early departures for work and late returns meant missed moments and fewer interactions.
Years later, lunch in Houston’s Chinatown brought a surprising revelation. The restaurant owner, upon learning my father’s name, bowed deeply out of respect. This gesture, in stark contrast to our home dynamic of strict directives, profoundly moved me. My father, the silent figure in my life, was revered in his community, like royalty.
One cherished memory, a cliché perhaps, yet deeply meaningful, surfaces. Despite long hours at work, there were rare occasions when my father would place my tiny toddler feet on his and dance me around the living room. Singing in a Sinatra-esque voice, tinged with a Taiwanese accent, he’d whirl me around, his grin making me feel like the star of a musical.
My parents, arriving in the States with limited English, met at university in South Carolina. A honeymoon was a luxury they never had. I am filled with gratitude for their encouragement, or at least acceptance, of my adventurous spirit and pursuit of a full life.
Though my mother surely worried during my frequent travels, I am thankful for the life they provided, one that allowed me to explore the world. My first solo backpacking trip led me to Paris, where along the Seine, I watched people dance the polka to live music. Inspired, I vowed to learn. Ballroom dance classes in my senior year followed, filled with laughter and clumsy polka steps. A desire formed: to one day share these experiences with my parents, to take them to places they missed in their youth.
Last November, a casual text to my mom about dream destinations led to a conversation about colorful India. “But first, New York City to see you,” she added. Knowing her reluctance to accept gifts, I secretly booked plane tickets that night.
Despite her Texan-acclimated constitution, my mom braved the December chill of New York City. It was their first visit, blessed with unexpected sunshine. Researching activities, an incredible coincidence emerged: “The King and I” was in New York City for a Broadway revival tour at the Lincoln Center. We attended together, and I watched my father’s face, silently captivated by the musical he had loved for decades.
Alt: A photograph capturing a father and daughter enjoying a Broadway show, possibly “The King and I”, highlighting a shared moment over music and theater, relevant to “dance my father again” theme.
“Well, it didn’t put me to sleep,” was his review after the show, a high compliment in my father’s language.
On their final day, we strolled through Central Park. Passing the Shakespeare statue, I reminisced about summer tango dances. During “Shall We Dance?” from “The King and I,” where Anna teaches the King to polka, an idea sparked.
“Dad,” I asked, “Would you like me to teach you to polka?”
The little girl within still felt a flicker of childhood fear. I braced for a stoic refusal – public setting, tiredness, embarrassment. Instead, to my utter surprise, he extended his hands. I demonstrated the steps slowly. And there, by the Shakespeare statue, under the December sun in New York City, we danced. Laughter and shuffles, my breathy counts of “one two three AND, one two three AND” accompanying our impromptu polka.
The King, and I.
