sharp-dressed man.
over black.
(v.o)
Grandma tells me of the morning she woke up and you were gone.
During the Vietnam War running through the jungle all by yourself with survival as the only fixed point of direction…
If I could be in your shoes, running along with your thoughts.
These are the beginning of things I seek to understand.
Jump a few decades forward in your life.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
With my wide eyes, I see how much life means to you.
The mounds and mounds of encyclopedias on nature and wildlife I run my fingers across.
The maps of the world framed all around your walls as I spin in your office chair.
And your butterflies taxidermies orbiting on by.
I hear your voice, faintly, speaking to someone in another language.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
Somewhere along the way you came home less.
I saw mom less.
I should have known the foreshadow but I was just a kid.
How could I possibly have.
She stopped mentioning you.
And when you are home the house is more quiet.
Why is that?
Jump a decade forward in my life.
(v.o)
Home is nothing more than just a resting stop for you.
With only words of encouragement.
Survival being the only thing she can offer.
No fix point. No guidance, just a destination to get to. The ‘American Dream’ she says.
“Do good in school. Graduate. Don’t become like your father.”
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
I wished my mother had someone else to talk to.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
You come around again.
I hear you on the phone when mom isn’t around whispering ever so sweetly in languages I now know the names of to other women.
cut to black.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
It’s pouring outside.
I called you to pick me up from a friend’s place.
Tipsy.
As we drive back home I turn on the radio.
You lower the volume.
“It’s too loud.”
The street lights reflecting on the asphalt roads.
(v.o) cont’d
“Dad… Did you ever love mom?”
A pause.
“No. I never did… I don’t.”
Teary eyes.
(v.o) cont’d
“Then why are you still here? You know how hurtful you are towards her?”
No response.
In my breaking voice the list of reasons as to how shitty of a person he is becomes inaudible.
The car stops.
“You can’t talk to me like that, you know right?”
“I am your father.”
(v.o)
I turn off the radio.
Slam the passenger door.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
This is why.
My friends say I cry too much.
fade in from black.
My head in my mother’s laps.
(v.o)
“Mom, why are you still with him?”
“Vim hlub hlub nej cov mi nyuam qhovmuag dhau heev lawm.”
[Because I love your guy’s little eyes too much.]
(v.o)
“You’ve seen us all grow up without him around. We would have been absolutely fine. It breaks my heart seeing you like this.”
Wiping her eyes. she says, “It breaks my heart seeing you like this. “Koj yuav tsum nco ntsoov tias muaj hmoo npaum li cas koj thiaj li muaj koj txiv thiab kuv. Vim kuv tsis xav kom nej lob hlob nej tsis muaj ib tug txiv.”
[You have to remember how lucky you are to have both parents. I didn't want you guys to grow up without a father.]
(v.o) cont’d
Staring at the ceiling.
Drying my eyes with the hem of her shirt.
“Now stop crying. Go on, get to bed. It’s late.”
(v.o) cont’d
“I love you mom.”
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o) cont’d
Lying in bed, body’s ready to rest, mind restless.
Am I dreaming or remembering…
fade in from black.
(v.o) cont’d
A starry eyed kid seeing the half dimmed neon yellow McDonalds ‘M’ sign from the parking lot.
Being picked up and carried into the lobby staring at the pinned letter board of the menu.
inaudible chatters swarms around.
(v.o) cont’d
The humming of the soda dispenser plays out as my father presses the ice lever.
I’m tracing the chipped edges of the table where I was left to sit.
cutscene.
(v.o) cont’d
A Hmong song plays ambiently.
In the back seat tracing the paths the rain drops left on the fogged up window with my index finger.
Wiping the dew clear to the view of telephone poles and wires zooming by.
I think that day I had a doctor’s appointment.
My father did this thing where if we didn’t want to do something in regards to our health he’d promise us McDonald’s.
cut to black.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
It was a pitch black night.
Rain is pouring outside.
Scattering thunder.
My father in just his shorts burst open from the back door from outside.
Grinning.
“Los peb mus da dej.”
[Let’s go shower.]
(v.o)
My siblings and I strip off our shirts and shorts.
Giggling to one another running out one by one.
Like Russian nesting dolls as my older siblings are out the door first and us younger ones chase after them as my mother comes down from the upstairs.
“No, txhob coj lawv mus nraum zoov. ib cas lawv mag xob fai fob na!”
[No. Do not take them outside. They could get electrocuted!]
“Tsis txhob txhawj. peb tsuas yuav nyob ntawn no xwb.”
[Don’t worry. We’re just staying right here only.]
(v.o)
As my father gestures to underneath the broken storm drain spouting down water.
My mother standing by the door frame arms crossed in her nightgown, visibly angry, leaves.
A few moments later comes back and hands my father shampoo.
“Ces av tsim nxtuav lawv nawv.”
[At least clean them then.]
(v.o)
We continue to prance around in the muddy puddle we created massaging in shampoo into one another’s hair.
cut scene.
(v.o)
With his camcorder and the little red light piercing through the darkness of the audience.
I stand on stage hidden in the back of the choir.
Losing him, looking for the little red light, and finding him again.
I mouth and mumble along to the nursery songs I was taught already half forgotten.
cut scene.
(v.o)
We’re on the phone.
You said you found some really cheap shirts and sandals I may like.
If I send you some money you’d buy them for me.
I hung up the phone.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
In a dream I saw younger versions of my mother napping in my father’s lap as he’s reading a novel.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
You come up to tell me as you button up your dress shirt.
“I need you to take some photos of me in the yard near the flowers.” (cont’d)
“June 1st, 1981. 39 years since I’ve immigrated here.”
A pause.
(v.o) cont’d
You stop there.
(v.o) cont’d
I’m searching for you - for a facial expression but you’re in your thoughts buttoning up your shirt - you look past me , through me.
That’s all you say.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
I don’t know what you call it.
This coincidental phenomenon perhaps.
That as I am at the end of writing this about you.
I am the age of when you first arrived here in the US.
Figured it was a fascinating thought to mention.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
Ate dinner in silence.
You’ve spent your entire life with no one to talk to about the things that happened to you while growing up.
Now I just hope to be at least someone you can open up to, be honest with, and trust.
Dinner’s over. Let’s have these conversations.
What’s going on in that beautiful mind?
You’re running.
From what war?
Still?
Tell me your stories.
I’m tired of crying in my mother’s arms,
Begging at your feet.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
Years ago when I had first drafted these letters I saw myself as my mother’s retribution.
Her harbinger.
Molded as the prophesied child, the savior to take us out of my father’s neglect.
With the mindset of becoming someone better in everything that he did.
Figured then I’d find the answers if I take it all back to the source.
Thinking it was my father but upon revisions and revisions, beyond my father, to the idea of what it means to be a man is the source.
The flawed foundation where the answer lies.
Arrogance.
Ego.
Ignorance.
The tradition of patriarchy.
I question it.
Men need the most healing?
Looking back I wanted to put the blame on you for how shitty life had been.
But the blame isn’t on you.
It’s the patriarchal ideals to uphold by the generations of generations before you that have failed you.
You, just as I, navigating this new world in our 20s, are just trying to survive this ‘American Dream.’
Rather now I thank you.
For showing me what kind of person not to be like.
I didn’t see it then in those years prior to writing this.
Now realizing though this blessing in disguise.
Growing up witnessing your absence gave me this blank canvas to start anew.
No generational trauma to longer uphold and draw inspiration from.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
Making ramen at 1am with you.
(I have yet to master my father’s golden ratio of broth to noodles.)
With just the little stove top light on and the house quiet.
Steam bypassed your face with your thrift store baseball cap on.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
“Dad, will you be there in the photo when I ask for someone else’s hands?”
fade in from black.
Humid, fans humming.
(v.o)
Like you, just how I remember,
catch the moth trapped inside from flying in during one of those long late summer nights,
releasing them back out.
cut to black.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
The night you had called me post surgery.
Something about how you had called me your son.
Smiling over the texts my sister sent of the first meal you craved for was McDonald’s.
And how when she got you a quarter pounder meal and as you took one bite from it you put it down and said it was too salty.
cut to black.
over black.
(v.o)
I don’t recall ever a time if I’ve heard you utter these words though you don’t have to as I’ve come to learn now that you show it by your actions.
I also don’t ever recall a time where I’ve said it so I’ll write it down here and say it first and say it more often when I see you so that you know.
“I love you Dad.”
You’ve shown me that ‘Love’ is about surviving.
That ‘Loving’ is the mundane everyday things you do for us in life.
There is no love lost here.
cut to black.
fade in from black.
“I got you something. Holding a garment in his arms behind his back.”
“What is it?”
He plots it onto my bed.
“I got this leather jacket for a couple dollars at the thrift store. Try it on. Will it fit?”
I put it on.
“Looks nice right?”
“Yeah, it does. Thanks Dad.”
cut to black.
fade in from black.
(v.o)
Shadow puppets with my hands in the warm light hues.
cut to black.
fade in from black.
I plug in the aux cord from the car into my phone and the opening guitar strums of ‘Electric Chapel’ by Lady Gaga come on.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Lady Gaga.”
“See now this is real music.”
“You like it? She’s cool huh?”
A pause.
“Dad, what’s your favorite song of all time?”
“ZZ Top, Sharp-Dressed Man.”
We drive off.
fade to black.
The End.
her