My Father's Words

As a child, I often viewed my father as the meanest man alive. An angry scowl was pasted permanently on his face. He cursed at everything that went wrong: dogs that barked too loud, plants that grew in his direct path, and tools that went missing. When I was not the one being yelled at, I often laughed in secret at the myriad of words that exploded from his mouth. My mom or the dictionary could not define what any of his words meant

I did my best to be well-behaved and obedient, but somehow I still found ways to anger him. I learned to suppress my tears after I realized that crying only made the punishment worse. He was a staunch believer in corporal punishment. I seemed to learn the house rules much better and faster when lessons were accompanied by a good spanking. My father's anger always traveled through his firm right hand which was so expansive it was as effective as Mom's bread board. He would yell at me so loud people in the next town knew when I was in trouble. I constantly walked on eggshells when in his presence. I never spoke directly to him and found my mother to be an essential resource whenever I wanted permission to do anything. She was especially useful during my high school years, a time when independence mattered more to me than the skin on my back. Having a boyfriend or being allowed to stay out later than ten p.m. were luxuries I couldn't have. If I dared question his authority, my dad would yell that as long as I was living under his roof, I had to live by his rules.

I knew I had to leave home if I wanted to be free. I couldn't wait to graduate, to fly far away where his anger couldn't touch me. I was tired of being afraid, of hiding my emotions, of proving myself worthy of his love. I was nothing more than a nuisance to him. I was sure he would gladly send me away like he would shoo a fly. It wasn't until the summer after graduation that my dad proved me wrong.

I was working graveyard shifts at the airport, just biding my time until heading off to the University of Utah in the fall. Utah was perfect; it was exactly halfway around the world from Guam, where we lived. That was the longest distance I could put between my dad and me.

I was driving to work late one night. It was raining and the coral reef roads were slicker than a waxed floor. I was running late, I was barely awake from my nap, and the white truck in front of me was going awfully slow on a two-lane road. All I could do was pass it. It was one o'clock in the morning, no other car was around, the cops were probably asleep, and I was a wild and crazy teenager. I sped up way above the speed limit, feeling a little unsure but enjoying the thrill of my defiance. I did not realize what a clueless rebel I was until I saw the intersection ahead and the traffic light that had just turned yellow. I returned to the right lane in hurry, barely passing the truck. I immediately stepped on the brakes. Nothing happened, just the sound of my tires skidding on the sopping wet road. I stepped on the brakes a few more times to no avail as the light turned red. I was approaching the intersection way too fast. I couldn't stop. I could only run the red light and pray that no other car was crossing. Besides, it was one o'clock in the morning. Everyone else should be in bed, right?

A car suddenly slammed into me from my left. Things happened really fast. My car skidded into the dark jungle of bushes and trees. My one remaining headlight lit the way to a very big and very scary-looking coconut tree. I steered the wheel quickly to the right, and my car headed for another giant coconut tree. I yanked the wheel to the left, grinding the right passenger door with the second coconut tree only to find a third straight ahead. I turned to the right again when I realized that the car was finally slowing down, and just in time before a fourth coconut tree met my front bumper and smashed the one remaining headlight. In all this swerving and turning, all I could think of was if the coconut trees were not going to kill me, then my dad surely would.

Suddenly motionless, with my dying engine sputtering in agony and the rain pouring in from the broken windows, I began to cry. "Dad's going to kill me. Dad's going to kill me," I kept repeating into the darkness.

I don't remember when other people arrived, or how I was able to extract myself from the wreckage with nothing more than a sore leg. I don't even remember how fast the police appeared at the scene, or how the other driver fared. But I do remember shaking my head adamantly when one officer asked for my home phone number so he could call my parents.

"Don't call my dad! He'll kill me when he finds out!" I whimpered, rain mixing with my tears. Realizing the gravity of my situation, I crouched down to the ground and sobbed. The cop tried to console me. He said that I was exaggerating, but I only insisted that he did not know my dad.

It wasn't long before they finally phoned my parents. The rain had abated to a soft drizzle. I stayed crouched down, finding comfort in the bright light from the police car. I did not care how I looked to the other drivers passing by. I never wished harder in my life for it all to be nothing but a bad dream, willing myself to wake up in the safety of my bed.

When my parents arrived, I saw my mom first. Her eyes were red and swollen, her white handkerchief twisted in her hands. When she saw me crouched on the ground, she burst into tears. She ran to me, picked me up, held me close, and checked me to make sure I was not damaged anywhere. From the corner of my eyes, I looked at my dad. I expected to see his eyes ready to burn anger into my flesh, his mouth ready to yell at me, his firm right hand ready to strike. But none of these were there. Instead I saw concern and a flicker of relief when he saw I was truly alive and well.

My dad spoke to the cop. He nodded a few times. I kept my eye on him, still waiting for his anger to burst out. After signing some papers, we got into my dad's car and drove home. Throughout the drive, my mom talked about how the phone call woke them up and how shocked and worried they were. I waited for my dad to start yelling at me, but he drove in silence. When we reached home, he finally turned to me.

"You must be tired," he said. "Go to bed and get some rest. Everything will be all right." I stared at him blankly, completely awestruck. Maybe he was saving his anger for the next day when I had more energy.

The next few days, I readied myself for my dad's outburst, but it never came. He neither raised his hand nor his voice. Instead, he made unusual attempts to talk to me. He wanted to know my thoughts on the weather, my ideas for dinner, and my opinions on the day's headlines. It was then that I realized how hard my dad was trying to fix his relationship with me. His eyes had softened. I sensed in the way he spoke and in the words he never said that he was sorry. Sorry for being so angry. Sorry to see me go.

The night before I left for college, my dad sat with me at the kitchen table. "Because you are accident-prone, I don't want you driving," he said. "But I know you will. So when you are driving, just imagine that I am always there right behind you, watching over you." I will never forget those words. I knew he meant more than just my driving. I knew that within those words, he wanted to say how much he loved me. But that was my dad. Words never came easy to him.

To this day I know my dad is behind me, watching over me no matter how far away he is.