Chit Man Lorry
Recently, I have been thinking of my late father a lot. Maybe because of the upcoming 10th anniversary of his passing? I feel an urge to visit his grave on his anniversary. That day happens to be the anniversary of my meeting Mike for the first time / my first aikido practice. Also, my father was buried on my birthday. Seems like he has ways of making it hard for me to forget him, as if I ever could.
Everybody knows my older sister was our father's favorite child. She could do or say anything, and he would put up with her. The story in the family had it that my sister was very unhappy when my mother was pregnant. When asked, my sister said she wanted the baby to be a brother. "You already have an older brother and two little brothers. Why do you want another brother? Wouldn't it be nice to have a little sister?" my mother asked her. My sister shook her head and said that she feared she would be out of favor if there were to be another girl in the family. She was seven years old at the time. My father took my sister aside and assured her that, be the baby a boy or a girl, my sister would always be his Number 1. Sure enough, I arrived. My sister really did not like me. All these years, my father kept his words. My sister was always his Number 1.
I cannot claim to be close to my father. Frankly, he was not a very good dad. He did not spend much time with us. He was not very good with kids, to begin with. In rare occasions when he tried to play with us, it often ended up with us crying and he would tell us to go away. My father grew up without much real upbringing from his parents. In my grandparents' household, their children had to compete for the title of "Child of the Day" every day. Instead of going to school, they all had to go to work at a very young age. The amount of affection you receive on a particular day is directly proportional to the amount of money you manage to bring home that very day. In the 40s and 50s, life was really hard in Hong Kong. My grandparents had 6 children to feed. I can understand why money was such a big deal to them. Unfortunately, that made them not very good role models for my father. Moreover, people learn a lot of their spousal skills from their parents. My grandparents did not have much to offer on that front either. My father was not a very good husband.
During my teenage years, there was a period of time when our family consisted of my father on one side, and my mother and us on the other side. Everything seemed fine when we were home with our mother. The moment our father opened the door, the air suddenly became cold and heavy. Laughters and chats turned into an awkward silence. I was quite mad at my father for many years. He made a bunch of bad decisions and performed some really inexcusable deeds. I thought he was responsible for a lot of the hardship that my oldest brother, my sister and my mother had to endure.
Despite all that, I do have some fond memories of my father. When I was very, very little, maybe kindergarten age, we would play tug of war with a toothpick between our front teeth. Every once in a while, the toothpick would break, and I would fall to the ground on my butt. Sometimes my father caught me, sometimes he did not. Either way, I laughed my head off. It was a fun game for a little kid.
I also remember going swimming with my father. During summer break, if business was slow, my father would come home early to take us to the pool in his truck. He loved swimming and was very proud of his skills both in swimming and diving. To teach us, one of his techniques was to toss us into the water at the deep end and let us struggle our way back. It is a miracle that my siblings are all still alive today.
My favorite favorite memory, however, was working by my father's side when I was in elementary school. My father worked for himself as a day labor with a small truck for hire. In British English, that kind of vehicle is called a "lorry". He parked his lorry on the street to wait for customers every day. The kinds of job he did varied a lot: It could be simple, lightweight deliveries of floral arrangements too large for a taxi. Or, it could be moving houses. It could also be pick up or delivery of goods for businesses. On Saturdays or during school breaks, my father would let me go to work with him. I liked hanging out on the bed of the lorry while we were waiting for customers. I could play there with leaves and sticks fallen from the nearby trees without worrying about cars or stray dogs. From a high point, I could also serve as the lookout for traffic cops. Climbing up and down the lorry made me feel like a big kid.
Many times, we went to the famous Kwai Chung Container Terminal to fetch shipments of goods for companies. The traveling and the paperwork took forever. When we finally got to the warehouse, my father would move the boxes onto the lorry bed. I would push the boxes to the front of the bed and organize them. I was a short and skinny child. A lot of these boxes were heavier than me. There were times, no matter how I pushed, they would not budge a bit. I still tried my best because I knew whatever I could not do, my father had to do it. I wanted to be useful.
Going to the terminal usually meant watching sunset in the lorry on the road. I still remember the silhouette of buildings and flyovers across a bright red sky. When we finally got back, I would push the boxes to the back of the lorry for my father to take. My father was not big, but he was very strong. I watched him carry refrigerators and dressers on his back up the narrow staircases of old buildings many times. He had very good spatial judgement. Just as everybody said it was impossible to get something through a tight space, my father would tell them, "Just watch me." He made it happen every single time. It, however, meant that he had to carry these heavy, big objects all by himself while staying as vertical as possible so as to get through that tiny space. I almost cried several times as I watched him. If he saw me, he would give me a very determined look and a big smile. I knew that smile was squeezed out for me because he was clearing panting and sweating profusely as he was exerting himself. It was no fun at all. Therefore, I learnt to hold my tears and squeeze a smile back.
By the time we were done, we both were very dirty and sweaty. "Lo Dau, you smell!" I said to him. He often teased back by saying, "Really? No! I am quite fragrant!!!" He would say, as he sniffed his sweaty shirt, "You are smelling yourself. You smell!" I laughed at that joke every time. When my mother saw us, that look on her face was priceless. I bet we looked pretty awful. But, guess what? I was quite proud of being so dirty and smelly because I worked side by side with my father.
Things changed as I got older. I did not really talk with my father until after I moved to the United States. The night before our departure, at my mother's request, Mike and I stayed at my parents' place. My father asked to talk to me before I went to bed. I remember that he told me he dislike long distance flights. He blamed the trip to Canada for ruining his hearing. Therefore, he would never come to visit me. If I wished to see him, I should go back to Hong Kong to visit. I was a little surprised. I thought he would at least find something warm and nice to say for our farewell. I comforted myself with the fact that, at least, he was being honest. He was who he was. My father was never very good at sugar-coating his words.
On the last day of my last visit to Hong Kong before his death, I had an opportunity to talk with him. I did not really plan for it. It all started with his swollen ankle. I asked him about it, and he just dismissed it. So, I grabbed his ankle and started massaging it. Like most Chinese people, my father was not very comfortable with physical touch. He wanted to pull his foot away. To distract him, I asked him about his history. "Why did your family leave China? How old were you when you came to Hong Kong? How did you come here?" My father took a deep breath and started telling me about his childhood and his youth. As he wandered down memory lane, his language drifted from Cantonese, deeper and deeper, into Chiuchowese. Honestly, I could not understand everything he said because of my lousy level of Chiuchowese and the fact that I was quite sleepy. Yet, I did not interrupt him. I had the feeling that nobody ever let him talk like this and just listen. By that point, he already had settled into enjoying having his ankle rubbed by me. Unfortunately, this session of personal history had to end abruptly when my mother stormed into the living room and pointed at the clock -- It was past 3 am! My father and I scurried away to head to bed. That was the first and last time I had a long talk with my father. It was also the only time I got to rub his ankle for him.
After my father's death, the level of our interactions with my mother changed. That gave us insights into what his life with my mother might have been like. In the past, there were times he would just threw a fit for no apparent reasons. Even when his Number 1 confronted him, the most he would say was "I have anguish and pains that you would never understand." We found that answer very annoying. What do you mean by anguish and pains we would not understand? Tell us then! Explain yourself! What do you have to say? According to our mother, it was always our father's fault. So, to us, he was the villain. Now that he is gone, we have to take over a lot of things that our father used to handle with my mother. We get to experience how difficult our mother can sometimes be. The amazing thing is that, throughout all these years, our father never badmouthed his wife in front of his children. He never made us take his side. He just quietly assumed the role of the villain of the family . . .
When I think of my father, I often wished I knew what I know now. I wished I had talked to him more when he was there. I also wished I had the same wisdom that I have now. I think I finally get to know him better now that he is gone.
Everybody knows my older sister was our father's favorite child. She could do or say anything, and he would put up with her. The story in the family had it that my sister was very unhappy when my mother was pregnant. When asked, my sister said she wanted the baby to be a brother. "You already have an older brother and two little brothers. Why do you want another brother? Wouldn't it be nice to have a little sister?" my mother asked her. My sister shook her head and said that she feared she would be out of favor if there were to be another girl in the family. She was seven years old at the time. My father took my sister aside and assured her that, be the baby a boy or a girl, my sister would always be his Number 1. Sure enough, I arrived. My sister really did not like me. All these years, my father kept his words. My sister was always his Number 1.
I cannot claim to be close to my father. Frankly, he was not a very good dad. He did not spend much time with us. He was not very good with kids, to begin with. In rare occasions when he tried to play with us, it often ended up with us crying and he would tell us to go away. My father grew up without much real upbringing from his parents. In my grandparents' household, their children had to compete for the title of "Child of the Day" every day. Instead of going to school, they all had to go to work at a very young age. The amount of affection you receive on a particular day is directly proportional to the amount of money you manage to bring home that very day. In the 40s and 50s, life was really hard in Hong Kong. My grandparents had 6 children to feed. I can understand why money was such a big deal to them. Unfortunately, that made them not very good role models for my father. Moreover, people learn a lot of their spousal skills from their parents. My grandparents did not have much to offer on that front either. My father was not a very good husband.
During my teenage years, there was a period of time when our family consisted of my father on one side, and my mother and us on the other side. Everything seemed fine when we were home with our mother. The moment our father opened the door, the air suddenly became cold and heavy. Laughters and chats turned into an awkward silence. I was quite mad at my father for many years. He made a bunch of bad decisions and performed some really inexcusable deeds. I thought he was responsible for a lot of the hardship that my oldest brother, my sister and my mother had to endure.
Despite all that, I do have some fond memories of my father. When I was very, very little, maybe kindergarten age, we would play tug of war with a toothpick between our front teeth. Every once in a while, the toothpick would break, and I would fall to the ground on my butt. Sometimes my father caught me, sometimes he did not. Either way, I laughed my head off. It was a fun game for a little kid.
I also remember going swimming with my father. During summer break, if business was slow, my father would come home early to take us to the pool in his truck. He loved swimming and was very proud of his skills both in swimming and diving. To teach us, one of his techniques was to toss us into the water at the deep end and let us struggle our way back. It is a miracle that my siblings are all still alive today.
My favorite favorite memory, however, was working by my father's side when I was in elementary school. My father worked for himself as a day labor with a small truck for hire. In British English, that kind of vehicle is called a "lorry". He parked his lorry on the street to wait for customers every day. The kinds of job he did varied a lot: It could be simple, lightweight deliveries of floral arrangements too large for a taxi. Or, it could be moving houses. It could also be pick up or delivery of goods for businesses. On Saturdays or during school breaks, my father would let me go to work with him. I liked hanging out on the bed of the lorry while we were waiting for customers. I could play there with leaves and sticks fallen from the nearby trees without worrying about cars or stray dogs. From a high point, I could also serve as the lookout for traffic cops. Climbing up and down the lorry made me feel like a big kid.
Many times, we went to the famous Kwai Chung Container Terminal to fetch shipments of goods for companies. The traveling and the paperwork took forever. When we finally got to the warehouse, my father would move the boxes onto the lorry bed. I would push the boxes to the front of the bed and organize them. I was a short and skinny child. A lot of these boxes were heavier than me. There were times, no matter how I pushed, they would not budge a bit. I still tried my best because I knew whatever I could not do, my father had to do it. I wanted to be useful.
Going to the terminal usually meant watching sunset in the lorry on the road. I still remember the silhouette of buildings and flyovers across a bright red sky. When we finally got back, I would push the boxes to the back of the lorry for my father to take. My father was not big, but he was very strong. I watched him carry refrigerators and dressers on his back up the narrow staircases of old buildings many times. He had very good spatial judgement. Just as everybody said it was impossible to get something through a tight space, my father would tell them, "Just watch me." He made it happen every single time. It, however, meant that he had to carry these heavy, big objects all by himself while staying as vertical as possible so as to get through that tiny space. I almost cried several times as I watched him. If he saw me, he would give me a very determined look and a big smile. I knew that smile was squeezed out for me because he was clearing panting and sweating profusely as he was exerting himself. It was no fun at all. Therefore, I learnt to hold my tears and squeeze a smile back.
By the time we were done, we both were very dirty and sweaty. "Lo Dau, you smell!" I said to him. He often teased back by saying, "Really? No! I am quite fragrant!!!" He would say, as he sniffed his sweaty shirt, "You are smelling yourself. You smell!" I laughed at that joke every time. When my mother saw us, that look on her face was priceless. I bet we looked pretty awful. But, guess what? I was quite proud of being so dirty and smelly because I worked side by side with my father.
Things changed as I got older. I did not really talk with my father until after I moved to the United States. The night before our departure, at my mother's request, Mike and I stayed at my parents' place. My father asked to talk to me before I went to bed. I remember that he told me he dislike long distance flights. He blamed the trip to Canada for ruining his hearing. Therefore, he would never come to visit me. If I wished to see him, I should go back to Hong Kong to visit. I was a little surprised. I thought he would at least find something warm and nice to say for our farewell. I comforted myself with the fact that, at least, he was being honest. He was who he was. My father was never very good at sugar-coating his words.
On the last day of my last visit to Hong Kong before his death, I had an opportunity to talk with him. I did not really plan for it. It all started with his swollen ankle. I asked him about it, and he just dismissed it. So, I grabbed his ankle and started massaging it. Like most Chinese people, my father was not very comfortable with physical touch. He wanted to pull his foot away. To distract him, I asked him about his history. "Why did your family leave China? How old were you when you came to Hong Kong? How did you come here?" My father took a deep breath and started telling me about his childhood and his youth. As he wandered down memory lane, his language drifted from Cantonese, deeper and deeper, into Chiuchowese. Honestly, I could not understand everything he said because of my lousy level of Chiuchowese and the fact that I was quite sleepy. Yet, I did not interrupt him. I had the feeling that nobody ever let him talk like this and just listen. By that point, he already had settled into enjoying having his ankle rubbed by me. Unfortunately, this session of personal history had to end abruptly when my mother stormed into the living room and pointed at the clock -- It was past 3 am! My father and I scurried away to head to bed. That was the first and last time I had a long talk with my father. It was also the only time I got to rub his ankle for him.
After my father's death, the level of our interactions with my mother changed. That gave us insights into what his life with my mother might have been like. In the past, there were times he would just threw a fit for no apparent reasons. Even when his Number 1 confronted him, the most he would say was "I have anguish and pains that you would never understand." We found that answer very annoying. What do you mean by anguish and pains we would not understand? Tell us then! Explain yourself! What do you have to say? According to our mother, it was always our father's fault. So, to us, he was the villain. Now that he is gone, we have to take over a lot of things that our father used to handle with my mother. We get to experience how difficult our mother can sometimes be. The amazing thing is that, throughout all these years, our father never badmouthed his wife in front of his children. He never made us take his side. He just quietly assumed the role of the villain of the family . . .
When I think of my father, I often wished I knew what I know now. I wished I had talked to him more when he was there. I also wished I had the same wisdom that I have now. I think I finally get to know him better now that he is gone.
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