back to labor
Family Men
After gorging on dim sum, I actually went to an all out Labor Day barbeque: six-layer dip, veggie platter, beer, grilled chicken, grilled steak, vegetarian abalone, roast lamb, champagne, watermelon and birthday cake. The cake was for Uncle George, the host, who will turn 60 this week; or, if one counts the age of his liver, 24; or, if one counts the time since his life-saving transplant, 1. So we lit one candle in celebration, and Uncle George, for whom “jocular” may be too mild a word, supposedly wished for the umpteenth time to become a grandfather soon, all the while making funny faces at his son Alex and daughter Yvonne.
It was the best kind of family time. Love can be palpable, and as I sat around the well-appointed table with Uncle George, Aunt Jackie, Alex, Yvonne, Uncle George’s ping-pong friend Kit, and my cousin Albert, I knew we felt joy and thankfulness. The conversation occasionally sizzled on divisive subjects such as homophobia, real estate investment, and childhood education, but there was no offense meant or taken. I missed my Dad so much, seeing how brightly Uncle George beamed all night, just because his children were beside him. After dinner Alex and Albert played a bit of piano and violin, and I viscerally recalled the many parties at my house that involved music. Dad is the only one in our family of four without a developed sense of pitch, but I would not be surprised if he had been the one who enjoyed those parties the most.
On our way home Albert and I lazily relived the evening. We agreed that sons and daughters are raised very differently; he said that he might be able to retain some authority with a son, but that his daughter would certainly have him wrapped around her little finger. I disbelieved at first, and then realized that Yvonne did address her father more irreverently than Alex, and that I’ve never witnessed my uncle treat his sons the way my Dad customarily speaks of my sister and me-with a mien of amazed delight punctuated by fond indulgence. Of course my daughter can learn to play catch on the front lawn if she wants to; but if my son wanted to wear my makeup to go to a party, I would hesitate because he might not understand how he will be received. In balance, I still think that women generally have fewer opportunities than men in today’s society. However, I also already ache for my imaginary son, who will likely feel less free to be vulnerable and frivolous than his (also imaginary) sister.
And so I ache for my Dad, another hyperbolically jocular man, who wants so much to be surrounded by the daughters he adores. He has never risked a career change despite having spent decades feeling unsatisfied and discouraged by his workplace conditions. He has seldom raised his voice and never raised his hand in anger. When the three women in Dad’s life (well, to be fair, usually it’s just me and Mom) play judge, jury, and executioner against him, he resigns himself to our verdict with good humor, even when he does not agree. I believe, and almost take it for granted, that if I asked him to, he would drop everything he was doing in an instant and come to me. We-Mom, Joyce, and I-are his light, his life, his legacy; and I wish I knew how to be there for Dad the way that he has been there for me.
I probably will not see Dad in the very near future. In some ways I am grateful, because despite his profound virtues, Dad is a very difficult person to live with on a day-to-day basis: imagine a person with a toddler’s level of energy, impulse control, and understanding of interpersonal relationships, but with a bank account, a cell phone, and a driver’s license. I miss him, though. I know he misses me. I suspect that he craves the feeling of all of us sitting around a table, and he feels bewildered and disheartened when he realizes that this is happening less and less. Dad - if you are reading this - I love you. I think you're great. I’ll be home in about a hundred days.
Home Improvement
I am in the process of cleaning my apartment. When I say clean, I mean “picking everything up and reminiscing about how I got it and then strategizing where it will be best re-positioned and finally putting it somewhere else entirely.” It’s fun, but slow.
Right now, the only corner of the room that is “set” is Ernestine’s Tank, 4.0. Behold the pictures!
A wide shot: She really likes the new view. There used to be a white wall instead.
Closer: If I had a real camera, you’d be able to really see her “superman in flight” pose.
A different angle: Yes, there are seven little turtle-shaped things in and around her tank. She takes no notice of them.
I rewarded myself for working hard yesterday and today by buying a 16-month customized wall calendar from Despair.com. For a few years I loved picking out a calendar for my coming year and then gradually filling in each day-block with telegraphic notes - I especially loved my Van Gogh calendar from my senior year of high school. Now I will have a place (beside LJ) where I can reassure myself that I live hard. Here is my selection for September 2007:
Finally, I was re-assembling an Ikea bookshelf today and realized that I needed a hammer. I am still waiting for a birthday or anniversary or Mother’s Day when I will be gifted with a beautiful set of tools - not the obsessive macho kind of kit that has a few things in many, many sizes (because size matters,) but the most versatile and highest quality tool within each category. Meanwhile, I used a substitute:
It worked surprisingly well. I now hate this ugly gift-mug less.
Hmm…posting less often may lead to posting more…Must take more samples…