The Day My Dad Smiled - A Tribute to My Dad

For a time in my life I only thought that my dad was someone very foreign and far away. Unlike my mom who was often at home that I could talk and yak to or joke around with, my dad was working from 7 to 6 in the Ipoh GH Microbiology Lab. More often than not he'd come home from work, open the door and briefly asked how was my dad. Unbuttoning his shirt as he walked upstairs to change, he'd come down in a couple of minutes, plop his butt on the chair and sip his coffee while relating his day to my mother.

For a time in my life I only thought that my dad was all about a stern face and the cane. Everytime I did anything that would piss him off, it was the cane landing on my backside and a good time of shelling and bombing. After that I'd sobbingly retire to my room to lick my wounds.

I should have known him better back then. I didn't then, but now I do.

Born in a big and poor family, my dad struggled to send his brothers to university. Back in his secondary school days, he'd literally sit underneath a lamp post to study at night in preparation for his HSC examination. With a CP scholarship he was able to pursue medicine in Australia, but his condition denied him that opportunity. He had a side growth on his thumb - the growth was like a little thumb - causing him to not be able to wear gloves. Because of that he turned to microbiology instead, and it wasn't until his final year in Australia that a kind professor decided to help remove that little growth for him.

He struggled in the government sector. He would be the one working the longest hours on a task, the first to enter the office and the last to leave, the one preparing all the letters and stuff, and was never recognised for that. He would be the one to take up every single job and task people ask him to do, and even if he is being stretched to the limit or breaking point, at the verge of breaking, he'd still stubbornly continue doing it. Frankly it was by God's grace that my dad survived the brutal years in the Hospital.

I often was frustrated with him. I'd complain to my mom, "Why does everyone takes Papa for granted? What do they think Papa is? Their servant?"

"No Joash," my mom would explain patiently. "It's just that Papa is very nice and tolerant."

"For what? Not like they're paying him more or recognising his effort." I'd protest, and my mom would talk about the weather and my homework or ask me to go practice my piano just to divert from the topic. My mom hated to engage in this kind of talk with me, becasue she knew too well that it would all end in a rather nasty way.

And all I knew about my dad back then was that he'd rather let people trample on him then to let them suffer. I thought he never knew that he's doing other people's job when they should be the ones doing it.

I was always envious with friends. Most of my friends came from rich family. That's partly because I met them in debates and competitions, so I decided to get to know them better. Everytime they hoped into a huge Mercedez Benz after tuition, everytime they took out their new Nokia or Sony Ericsson, everytime they talked about which country their dad's going to send them to after SPM, my heart sank.

My dad could never afford any of those, I'd think to myself. He's just a poor government servant bullied by his staff.

Again I'd protest to God. "It's not fair God!"

I kept forgetting, that nothing was ever fair in the world.

That's if, I choose to believe it.

That Father's Day back in 2005, I made my dad a card.

"Papa,

Would it be better if people said 'Tan Chong Eam, father of Joash'
or 'Tan-Loh Joash, son of Tan Chong Eam?'
I'd prefer the second even if you'd prefer the first."

And I left it on his bed. He walked into his bedroom as usual after work, and after he changed he came out from his room and walked into mine. I was honestly a bit surprised when he walked in.

He smiled at me. (If I haven't mistaken, it was a long time since he really really smiled at me.)

"Thanks Joash, I never expected you to give me a card."

I think he hugged me, and walked out of the door. I thought I felt something different from that day, and I started to look at my dad from a much different perspective.

When I compared what my father gave me and what other dad's gave their children, it would seem that I was at a losing end, becasue my dad never gave me the luxury of the materialistic world. What I forgot was that for what luxury my dad could not afford to give me, he made it up by sponsoring me for my music lessons. Every music lesson would cost a bomb. It was around a thousand eight hundred bucks per month for my piano and violin diploma course, and yet he paid for it.

My mom once sat me down at the dining table and calculated my music lessons for me. "If your father didn't send you for music lessons," she said, "we would be driving a Mercedez Benz by now, all of us in the family would be using the latest handphones and we'd be going for holidays overseas every year." That struck me.

I only thought that my dad would never buy me those expensive stuff because he was too stingy or because he couldn't afford it. What I forgot was that he himself could have bought those things had he not send me for music lessons. I was remorseful and practiced the piano till my hands would break or just drop off from my body. I would sit on the piano for hours prior to the diploma test just to make sure that I don't waste my dad's money.

In the years that followed, my dad started to treat me like a man. He would just talk to me about non-children stuff like 'how would I handle my life next time' or 'what kind of wife I'd have to choose'. My perception of my dad changed slowly from that wicked whip-master to a wise old man that had experience in him. Once thinking that 'my dad's just a stubborn man that thinks he knows best', I realised that 'my dad knows a lot after all' and now as I type this, I must admit that he can amazingly perform a lot of stuff beyond my wildest imaginations. (To know more, read the rambutan tree post)
On one trip to KL I decided to follow my dad down to KL for his meeting. On the way back we were talking about something - I couldn't remember the jist of our conversation - and he pointed out that I should be more helpful in doing the housework.

"Mummy's very tired and is not strong enough to do everything, so if you can do it just help out."

"I do," I replied. "I'd be the last person to let my mom suffer."

Again, I saw my dad smile. I knew what he was thinking.

"Looks like we love the same lady I suppose?" I pointed out. "Yeah," he replied briefly.

When my SPM results were released in 2006, he called. I told him I got straight A1s except for a Chinese. After all, no-one on earth - not even my evil Chinese teacher - expected me to get an A1 for that subject.

"You didn't get straight 1s then?" Through the phone I could sense his disappointment. After he put down the phone, guilt creeped in. How could you have let your father down? He needed the assurance that you'd do your best and you let him down, didn't you?

I went home a disappointed and defeated student. In front of the press, I openly admitted that I wasn't happy with that results. I didn't reveal to them the reason, but only my mom knew about it. I wasn't disappointed about the fact that I didn't get an A1 for Chinese, but I was disappointed about the fact that I let my father down.

My father assured me that he wasn't disappointed later that day, but one thing for sure: my dad's a terrible liar. He couldn't even lie to himself. =D

But had it not be for that point of time, I wouldn't have ever noticed how much my dad meant to me. He means so much to me now that I'd be more disappointed with myself if I were to disappoint him.

My dad, in the last few years I spent with him before coming down to Shah Alam, was a teacher. He taught me how to survive and how to study. He taught me how to live alone and how to face my fears. He never talked to me about all those things or wrote it down in paper or pen, but he taught me those things by lead of example. His history, his experience, his past became my guide and direction.

Now I finally come to terms that what my dad truly was - and still is - lies way beyond what he does. What he has done in the past, like caning me or bombing me, was for disciplinary purposes, but beneath the hard shell of his stubborness lies the softness that every father has deep in their hearts. Though he may never give me what I perceived to be the best, yet he never failed to give me what was really the best that I should have. The best thing that he gave me, after all, was himself and all that he had.

That I recognised and realised, only after the day I saw my dad smile.

Postlude: The above is NOT fictional.

Papa, if you're reading this, I hope you won't mind it. Anyway, it's just another way of me telling you how much I love and miss you.

I'm coming home soon.