His Stories, My Words by Jessica

His Stories, My Words by Jessica - June 2014 Scholarship Essay

A few years ago, I thought I had found the perfect Father’s Day present. Having been curious since day one and a writer since ever I could, I gave it to him with infinite hopes of gaining further insight and knowledge into a past that’s long passed. It was a book of memories, full of lines and generic prompts like ‘Dad, how did you spend your free time before you had kids?’ and ‘What’s the best thing your father taught you, Dad?’

Already I know what my father would answer to those questions. He’d tell me first that he spent his time in New York, socializing with blue bloods and riding around on a yacht - because I got my flair for embellishments from him, there is no doubt of that. I’d give him a roll of my eyes, because between the time he married my mother, relocated to America, and had kids, the closest he’d have gotten to New York’s ‘nobility’ would be them brushing past him during his time as a flight attendant. They’d had a dog before my older brother was born, a dog and a Nintendo 64, but both he and my mother worked as much as they could, so they didn’t have a lot of free time to spend.

As for his father in turn, he’d grow serious and turn to my brother and I - because questions like these usually happen during dinnertime, though if he were writing in the book it wouldn’t be the same. Or perhaps it would - it’s been three years or so, though, and despite it taking the place of honor on his bedside, he has yet to write a word. “MattJessi,” he’d say, because for him conjunctions are for other people - he does it for our dogs, too, CocoaRuby and MattJessi existing as one concept from two beings, just the opposite of how his mixed-race kids are. “My dad taught me a lot of things, but the most important was that you gotta work hard. Look at me, I worked hard and I’m here.”

But there are some questions that he can’t answer, not without bending the question a little bit. ‘Dad, what were your favorite pets, and what made them special?’ When you come from a region in China that is proud that the local delicacy is dog meat, you don’t exactly keep poodles for pets.

When it comes down to it, I’d write a book about my father. I’ve participated in National Novel Writing Month before, and written works for school and fun, but if I were to seriously consider publishing a book, I’d set aside my ideas for shattering gender stereotypes or playing with archetypes in strange ways and craft a biography of my father.

So if I could, I’d sit him down and interview him. Put into words every single one of his anecdotes and struggles from growing up in China - I’d like to share his story of the child who stole food to feed his younger siblings in the winter and spat watermelon seeds in the summer, to the boy in boarding school who drove himself to be the top of the class, to his experiences during the Tiannemen Square Incident. I’d like to have down in writing how he and my mother fell in love, and what it was like to come over to America and marry a white woman with a large family in the time following interracial marriage protests. I’d like to know what it was like, raising half-Chinese kids and striving so that they didn’t forget either of their heritages, balancing obtaining a law degree and a job as well.

Instead of going for sensationalism, with a crime novel that would have a vague title of ‘Red Moon Over Distant Waters’, or something meaningful like a book of poetry, or even a piece of social-commentary written inside of a young adult work, I’d write about my father.

He came out of lean times to have a house, a home, a family, a job and two dogs that he can spoil relentlessly. He achieved the American Dream, and with a biography I would be able to do more than learn his story, as I set out to do with the little book I gave him that’ll probably stay blank forever. I’d be able to share his story of survival and the silver lining of clouds with the world and show them this man who can negotiate the world of legal contracts, single-handedly improve his house with whatever it needs, phone his mother over in China as much as he can, and do so much, even if he came from so little. Beyond inspiring me to work hard, I think he could inspire the world. It would help answer the very last question in the book I gave him: with this book, he’d be remembered in future generations as who he truly was, and never forgotten.