April 12, 2010

• My dad is a FOB.

  Just the other week an old xanga friend, Kena (not her xanga name and she is not active anymore), referred me to a website called mydadisafob, which makes light of the cultural divide between FOB (“fresh off the boat”) parents and their 2^nd-generation Asian American children.  While the website certainly entertains, it also had me reminiscing about my father. 

   

  My father, an immigrant from Taiwan, was no uneducated rube.  However, he also reveled in playing the part of the seemingly unaware FOB victim to amuse his children.  I chuckled wistfully as I recalled memories of his FOBness:

  • “Canyon, saaaave me!” his mutilation of Conan the Barbarian which he would utter on occasion, often while wielding backyard tools
  • “Tigger [his hooked on phonics Winnie the Pooh version of the word ‘tired’], use too much brain”
  • His penchant for wearing pomelo peel on his head as a farmer’s hat
  • And his fondness in embarrassing me by yelling out, “my son!” (in half Taiwanese, half English) whenever he spotted me across a room crowded with his friends or coworkers

   

  While memories of him have always been bittersweet since his death, they recently have become all the more poignant as I navigate through the Theener years (thirties + tweener) between the exuberance and ascendance of youth and the burgeoning irrelevance of middle age on the horizon.  Trying to survive as a Theener—married without children, done with school/training but not quite ensconced in a specific career trajectory—it is easy to lose hold of the foundations of who you are while you reach to establish new ones for your family and career.  I guess that it is times like these that I wish my father was still here to both guide me to the future and remind me of the past.  As 2^nd-generation Asian Americans, it is so easy for us to reap the benefits of our parents’ struggles while neglecting to take ownership of those sacrifices as well.

   

  I took my mom to watch the movie Formosa Betrayed tonight, which is a murder mystery that also shines light on the 228 incident in Taiwanese history where native Taiwanese people were massacred by settler Nationalists from mainland China and the ensuing decades of oppression from their hubris.  In that movie (don’t worry, no plot spoilers in this post) there is a scene where protesters have a sign listing victims who were murdered during the 228 incident.  My mom pointed out to me afterward that one of the names on that list on the movie screen was a relative of mine, the cousin of my father’s father.  I have always known that my forebearers fought, bled and died for the right to be called Taiwanese, but to see that blood splashed across the movie screen finally struck a nerve in their descendant, sired in the sterile safety of the United States.  It also reminded me further of the hurt my dad endured to become the man that he was, the father that he was.

   

  I am not sure who The Franksabunch™ will be when he emerges from the Theener years, where my career will be or what my children will be like at that time.  But after tonight I can promise you this:

   

  They will know that their grandfather was a FOB and that their father is a Taiwanese American.
  

   

  Damn straight.

  
  

  
  

  • 9:00 am
  • 12 Comments