I always humored my dad and chuckled along in customary admiration whenever he boasted about his hyper-evolved immune system, borne of “5,000 years of Chinese evolution.” He took great pride in never taking a sick day, and availed himself of every opportunity to remind us that this was the true metric of one’s strength and vitality as a human being. Of course this claim had nothing to do with the fact that he was a mere 130 pounds.

My junior year in high school, he got an offer to work overseas. My dad was a traditional bring-home-the-bacon kind of guy, so if being shipped off to Turkey meant more bacon for his family, he did it. Aside from a few summer visits, I essentially progressed from boyhood to manhood without my dad. 

A year after I graduated from college, I traveled alone to Turkey to visit him. We hung out, we drank, we gambled. We were just two guys, having a good time. A few years later, he came to LA to visit me. We went to Vegas, and we hung out, we drank, we gambled. Two guys, having a good time.

He missed my wedding, as well as the birth of Fury. I progressed from manhood to fatherhood without my dad.

In 2003, when Fury was just a year old, my dad asked me to start looking for a house near us. He wanted to retire; to come home and enjoy the fruits of his toil: his family. I could never picture my dad outside the context of his work persona, but as we visited more open houses, I began to picture him sitting on each respective porch, shooting the breeze with me. No fancy dinners, no casinos — just a father and son, Scotches in hand, talking about life and comparing notes on the last 20 years.

In 2004, my dad got sick. I’m sure he took pride in the fact that it took lymphoma to finally knock him off his feet. But getting back up was hard, and my mom and sister flew to Turkey when it was too much to handle on his own. In May of that year, I got the dreaded call. I might want to get there as soon as possible. The next day, I was on a plane to Turkey, accompanied by the 2 year-old grandson my dad had yet to meet.

After 18 hours on a plane and an 8-hour layover in Munich, where a certain little boy would only stay quiet if I walked him around the airport on my shoulders, we stepped off the plane in Ankara. In contrast to the usual reception, my welcome party was somber. I expected that. Instead of the usual jokes about customs agents and Turkish prisons, no one said much. I expected that.

“You missed him by 90 minutes,” my sister said. I expected that, too.

I felt nothing. Or if I did, I couldn’t tell. I held my son on the ride to the hospital and tuned out. When we got there, my mom was waiting for me.

“Want to see dad?” she asked.

I handed Fury over to my sister and rode down the elevator with my mom and the doctor. When the door opened, I saw a gentleman lying on a stainless steel gurney, hair done perfectly, sporting a custom-tailored suit. A gentleman who took cremation as seriously as any meeting with his government contacts, accepting nothing less than being properly attired for the occasion.

I stood over him. My mom put her hand on my shoulder. And I began to cry — the angry kind, where you pound something, like your deceased father’s chest. I wasn’t angry at him. I wasn’t angry at the world. I wasn’t angry at the airline schedule. I was angry for him. I was angry for Scotch conversations with his grown son he would miss out on. I was angry for him not being able to say hi and goodbye to his only grandson. I was angry for him because he never got to teach his son how to be a father. I was angry because this was all so close.

The next day, we visited his office to collect his belongings and say our thank yous and goodbyes. His colleagues entertained us with the usual superlative tales that one reserves for times like these, and we all laughed and remembered.

And then someone said “when Ambassador Lin was too weak from his chemo treatments to walk down the stairs from his office to go home, he’d simply sleep in his office. He never took a sick day.”

Of course, we all expected that.

* * * *

One more birthday. It would have changed the world for him. He could have chided me over being a slacker dad and poured me another. He could have beamed with pride hearing his grandson say the words “am-baa-sa-dore!” He could have left the tie hanging in his closet for once in his life. One more birthday isn’t simply one more birthday.

This is why I want to thank Tiny Prints and the American Cancer Society for including me in their “More Birthdays” campaign. If anyone could appreciate the significance of one birthday, it is me. Support the American Cancer Society by visiting Tiny Prints’ “American Cancer Society Collection” and order a birthday card created by the American Cancer Society’s More Birthdays artists. Every card sold enables the American Cancer Society to help more Americans celebrate another birthday. Plus, the cards are really cool because you can add your own picture and message inside them, like this:

These are Fury and my mom’s next birthday cards, so if this is Fury or mom, don’t look!

If you think one card can’t make much of a difference, just ask someone who celebrated another birthday this year.

Disclosure: I was compensated for this post. But my disdain for cancer is my own.   

But over time, you settled well into being my son, I settled into being your dad, and my brain settled back to full functionality. I remember your first word (Ack, which meant car. Of course.). I remember your first step. Your first bite of non baby food (chocolate cake!), your first day of preschool, your first Lego set (Star Wars V-Wing), your first pair of Converse, your first Christmas, your first plane ride, your first haircut…

Then just the other night, as I was about to go to bed, I stopped by your room to check on you. Only it wasn’t you. It was some kid whose feet could almost touch the end of the bed.

I don’t remember when Bob the Builder stopped being his favorite show…

I don’t remember the last time I used kitchen shears to snip his vegetables into little unchokeable pieces…

I don’t remember when I stopped reflexively hoisting him up to sit on my shoulders wherever we went…

I don’t remember when he stopped yelling “knock knock, dada” into the baby monitor every morning when he woke up…

I don’t remember the last time he called me dada…

I don’t remember when we stopped referring to ourselves as “2 and a baby” whenever we left our names with the restaurant host…

I don’t remember the last time I tied his shoes…

I don’t remember how this:

Turned into this:

I guess it still is too amazing to comprehend.

At least I remembered it’s your birthday, son. Happy Birthday, Fury!

Love,

Dada

Greasy Lee. I didn’t choose that name. It was bestowed by the 5th grade bully elite upon the chubby Asian kid who always happened to suffer bad hair days.

I glanced across the makeshift arena, which was nothing more than a clearing between two boulders and a tree stump in the woods behind the school. Jeff and I locked eyes. Not in aggression, but more in a desperate telepathic attempt to assure the other that we were doing this for our mutual survival.

I don’t remember the fight. But I do remember sitting in math class afterwards, unable to write anything on the worksheet in front of me because my hand was trembling uncontrollably. I also remember the dozens of perfect red dots on Jeff’s white polo shirt, which matched the missing skin on my middle knuckle.

There we were. The only two Asian kids in an otherwise white working class New England town, divided and conquered.

* * * *

When we first moved to the suburbs from the heart of Boston, it was every kid’s dream come true. A sprawling ranch-style house with a huge playroom, a circular driveway for unhindered bike riding, and an immense backyard. Which meant I could get a dog. Summer was everything it was supposed to be.

Fall meant starting a new school, but I wasn’t worried. I had switched schools a couple times before, and it always brought with it new friends. Also, this was the first time I was going to take a bus to school. Just like in the movies!

And the first few moments were just as I had pictured. As we drove up to the corner, I noticed a group of kids laughing, chatting and probably catching up, dressed in their shiny, new back-to-school best.

I said bye to my dad, jumped out of the car and made my way over to my new friends.

“Ching chong!”

“ah sooo!”

“Hey, chink!”

I sat by myself, at the back of the bus.

* * * *

Having grown up in a multi-cultural part of Boston, the only ethnic stereotyping I ever encountered was Bugs Bunny putting on a rice paddy hat every once in a while and bowing at Elmer Fudd. When you’re 7, it’s kind of funny. When it’s not happening to you, it’s kind of funny.

Moving to the suburbs in 4th grade taught me a lot about race. Namely, that it mattered. That when you’re different, or your parents speak to you in a tongue no one else can understand, people are allowed to make fun of you. I mean, if you think about it, it is kind of funny when a girl walks up to you at recess, smiles and asks you:

“what do you call a fat Chinese kid?”

(smiling back) “What.”

“A chunk.”

And you learn to laugh along. With every karate chop, ching chong, buck toothed smile, and slant eye gesture they can throw at you.

You also learn to hate your race.

* * * *

“What’s your middle name?”

“I don’t have one.”

* * * *

Eating by myself in the lunchroom had its advantages. On the occasional day when my mom would pack me a steamed bun, shrimp chips or something equally Asian, I could dine incognito, safe from ridicule.

* * * *

“If you don’t practice your Chinese, you’ll forget it,” mom would remind me.

“If it means people forget I’m Chinese, I’ll take it,” I thought.

* * * *

Jeff didn’t look Asian to me. Maybe it’s because I’d never met anyone who was only half Asian. But he didn’t make fun of me, so there was that. Having someone to sit next to on the school bus and eat lunch with is sometimes all you need to quell the stomachaches that well up before you walk out your front door each morning. Also, he had Atari.

We’d still get picked on, but when you travel in numbers, even if it’s two, you take half the punishment.

* * * *

“Why aren’t you wearing green?”

“I’m not Irish,” I replied.

“Everyone’s Irish on St. Patrick’s Day,” Chris threatened.

“I’m American, so I’m wearing blue,” I countered.

I think the kids savored beating me up that day, more so than usual. American. How dare Greasy Lee say that? He eats shrimp chips.

* * * *

Jeff and I got into an argument one day. I don’t remember about what. Probably something we would have gotten over the next day.

“Hey Greasy, I’m betting all my lunch money you can beat him up.”

“Kick his ass, Greasy. I’m betting two dollars you can.”

“We’re setting up a fight for you at recess tomorrow. Don’t be a pussy, Greasy.”

I went to sleep that night, replaying in my head the right cross that Frankie taught me on the school bus. While sitting next to me.

* * * *

I was riding the school bus home one afternoon and grateful that I might make it through the day free of being teased. Two more stops. As I sat there, not really looking at anything or anyone, my gaze met Lenny’s, one of the only Black kids in my town. We hesitated for a moment.

“What are you looking at, chink?”

“Fuck you, nigger.”

* * * *

My sixth grade teacher, Mr. Cruickshanks was a World War II veteran. He “stormed Iwo Jima and killed Japs.” His war stories were actually quite entertaining. He had a passion for them. Science? Not so much.

One day, we were learning about lighting, and how you’re safest in a car during a lightning storm.

“Does anyone know why?” he asked the class.

“Because of the rubber tires,” he answered for us.

I raised my hand. “Mr. Cruickshanks, that’s actually not true. It’s because electricity in its quest to be grounded travels around the metal frame of the car and into the ground. In order for the rubber to even be a factor in insulating you from electricity, it would have to be 3 miles thick.” [I had actually just learned this at the Museum of Science.]

Mr Cruickshanks stopped writing on the board, turned around slowly and removed his glasses.

“Jim, go back to Shanghai.”

* * * *

I studied hard that year, and worked harder than I ever worked. Because all I wanted was get into private school the next year. I didn’t do it for the academic challenge. I didn’t do it because it would set me up to go to an elite college. I didn’t do it because I could reach my full potential. I did it so the teasing would stop. Turns out you can motivate an 11-year old, after all.

And after I made it in, the teasing did stop. I even took Chinese my junior and senior year.

* * * *

“What’s your middle name?”

“Oh, it’s just my Chinese name. You’ll forget it once I tell you, so I’m not gonna bother.”

* * * *

By the time college rolled around, I had practically forgotten all about 4th, 5th and 6th grade. I mean, I was doing people a favor not telling them my middle name. I didn’t want them to be embarrassed if they mispronounced it, right?

* * * *

Around when Fury was born, I was chatting it up with some guys at work. Someone made a joke about Asians, but quickly apologized to me. A co-worker of mine jumped in.

“Jim? Come on, he’s whiter than any of us white guys!”

That made me proud. Then a little bit disgusted.

* * * *

The other day, I was packing Fury’s lunch.

“Dad, can you pack me some shrimp chips for snack?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I want shrimp chips.”

“Ok, but I don’t want the other ki– Ok, I’ll pack you shrimp chips.”

* * * *

My middle name is Ching-Kuo. And you can pronounce it just fine.

Doing the right thing is often the right thing

When Lisa and I first met, we were different people. We had also been 3 or 4 drinks into it. She was here on business from a foreign land. We clicked. I liked her carefree attitude, she liked my shaved head. We spent a weekend together. Then she went up to Northern CA to visit relatives. I drove up there to hang out with them (I’m weird in that I actually enjoy hanging out with relatives). I cooked dinner for them. Good move. Then she and the relatives went to Vegas. I tagged along. Our first and last dinner date was at Denny’s. Awesome. Then, just like that, she was on a plane and gone. She went her way and I drove back to LA alone. But little Fury had other plans. Namely, he wanted to be born.

We went back to Vegas. We drove back to LA together.

Just the other day, she watched an old video of mine and remarked “ew, you looked ugly with a shaved head.” And then she made me a To-Do list for the next day. 9 years. That’s a whole lotta evolving.

We make smart kids

Did you know that if you teach a kid the average gestation period of a human baby, then teach him basic math, followed by the order of the months of the year, they can somehow take that disparate knowledge and apply it to the real world?

Yesterday, Lisa was telling Fury that our 9th anniversary was coming up. Fury paused for a moment.

“So… you were pregnant when you were married? Cool!”

We make awesome kids

Last night, around 3am, I heard Fury’s alarm go off. He hit the snooze button. 10 minutes later, it went off again. Then I heard shuffling. And papers. Then I saw a figure tiptioe into our bedroom. This morning, on each of our nightstands was a handwritten note from Fury, wishing us a happy anniversary.

Let me be the SECOND person to wish my wife a very happy 9th anniversary! Happy Anniversary, Lisa!

- Love, Jim

(Dinner at Denny’s tonight! woooo!!)

For nearly 20 years, I have kept the porch light on for the best thing McDonalds ever threw into an elongated semi-spherical cardboard container with ejection flaps: the fried apple pie. From the “Caution, Filling May be Hot” warning label to the guide holes that enabled you to gingerly slide the pie out of the box with your kid fingers, the fried apple pie was the manifestation of fast food perfection. Its unapologetically crispy bubbly crust served as a fitting complement to the molten oozy apple-y goodness percolating inside. The first bite was heaven, the last bite, sweet, sweet sorrow. When I was a kid, I used to stick my nose in the empty box afterwards to simply savor whatever aroma was left.

Then in 1992, McDonald’s used my fried apple pie as a pawn in their public relations game, replacing it with a baked version in an effort to appear more health conscious. They even changed the box. My beloved apple pie went from sweet beckoning siren to something more resembling a homicide victim on an autopsy table. It was bloated, grotesque and oozing out of its wounds. Lifeless.

But I didn’t fret. A few months tops, I thought. The public will grow restless, demands will be made, heads will roll and the fried pie will be back. Months turned to years. The internet got invented. And I searched desperately for answers.

Sometime around 1999, I found the Fried Apple Pie Locator. It was like finding an underground reisitance movement. I learned a few things, like the fact that you’ll most likely find fried pies at McDonald’s locations in Walmart stores because their limited space doesn’t accommodate an oven. But more importantly, I had a source for old school apple pies.

Operative word: had. I found out last week that one of the underground resistance Walmarts fell to the hands of the enemy. “Sorry sir, we no longer carry the fried pies.” When I got home, I checked the pie locator. That Walmart location is still a “confirmed” fried pie location, but only because the last update to the site was made in 2008. The resistance movement has moved on.

I probably would have just taken the defeat and let it go under normal circumstances, but today’s news about the McRib woke up the revoltionary in me. McRib? Serious?? If I asked 50 people on the street if they’d rather bring back the McRib or the fried apple pie, I guarantee you more people would say apple pie. Not just a little more — a landslide more. Go ahead try that yourself and prove me wrong. I assure you, I am not. Hell, I’d rather have the McDLT back. I actually liked keeping my hot side hot and my cool side cool. It made sense. The McRib makes no sense! Pork molded to look like baby back ribs? No one puts a slab of ribs in between bread!

I was channeling Mao, Che Guevara, and the Contras all at once. In my revolutionary fervor, I even made a petition to bring back the fried apple pie and put it out on Twitter, which nobody signed. But just as I was getting ready to say “Screw you guys. I’ll do this myself if I have to!” I got a call from d Wife.

“I read your tweets” she said. “Funny, I got you something before I even read those tweets. You’ll see when you get home.”

What did she get me? These:

Those are fried apple pies, folks. From Pizza Hut! I guess they just came out with these because I went to the Pizza Hut website and they are not listed. Even though I am on a strict Paleo Diet right now, I had to try one, in the name of science. Ok, five. But I had to make sure these were the real deal. And they are. Look at the joy in my face. You simply can’t fake this:

Yes, I committed a fashion faux pas by wearing the same shirt, two posts in a row. No, my dog is not eating my apple pies, as he is very well trained, but can still lay a good guilt trip on you. Yes, I am totally going to eat all 10 pies this weekend. No, I guess I won’t go down in history as a famous revolutionary. Yes, the Force is strong with my wife… or I whine way too much about fried apple pies. Either way, I’m gonna be burning my tongue for a long time to come and savoring every minute of it.

A father doesn’t always know the best or the right way to do things himself. In fact, his form is downright embarrasing sometimes. But he’s there to pick you up as you try to figure it out. Because you expect him to.

A father makes the difficult seem easy. He may be on the verge of falling on his ass, but he’ll put on a facial expression that makes it look like a cool Westside Story stage slide. Because you inspire him to.

A father brushes the melting ice off your pants, makes sure the coast is clear, gives you a little push, and lets go. Because you need him to.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there who get the job done, grit their teeth and wait till the kids are asleep to apply the Ben Gay.

That’s why when The Yummy Mummy Club asked me to guest post, I jumped on it. Nobody who reads that site knows who I am. It would give me a chance to write an old school BusyDad post. Sure, it took me like 2 weeks to write, but I loved every minute of it. I could almost smell the transients on the train as I typed away…

Anyway, check it out. This is a post about how the second kid always gets stuck with the jaded parents. If you can comment, that would be great. It’s been up like 3 days with no response. I like going old school, but not THAT old school!

What to Expect When You’re Expecting… Again

I take the iPod out of its cradle on my dashboard and hand it gingerly to Fury in the backseat, careful not to disconnect the cable keeping it plugged into the car stereo.

“Yessss!”

We both know that Dad and Fury car time means one thing: Fury plays DJ. And we crank it to eleven. Mom stayed home today and we’ve got an hour’s drive back home from his lacrosse game. Let’s rock.

The drone of that single descending note, accentuated by the steady metallic clang of a hammer on anvil is my cue.

“I AM IIIIIIRON MAAAAAN”

As Fury plays his Nintendo DS in the back, I’m perfectly happy sitting in slow but steady Sunday traffic working some killer air guitar. Black Sabbath hath charms to soothe the savage road raging beast, or so the saying goes.

The song ends. Then starts over again. The kid’s got good taste.

I resume air guitaring.

The song ends. Then starts over again. Wow, he really likes this song.

I resume air guitaring once again. But this time I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to look. He’s no longer playing Nintendo. He’s decided to help me keep time.

Rock Band. The wii and game disc are optional. They always were.

That was all I could muster. Eight years ago today.

Before I become your dad, I envisioned the day in so many different ways. Sprinting down the hospital corridors, high fiving strangers and passing out cigars; clutching you close to my chest (in black and white, of course) while doing the “I must have allergies” man-weep; hoisting you proudly above my head for the throngs of well wishers to behold, a la Lion King.

But the Beavis and Butthead brain fart? Never. I gotta be real with you, kiddo. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.

But somehow, some way…

Elmo turned into Power Rangers turned into Mythbusters.

SesameStreet.org turned turned into CartoonNetwork.com turned into YouTube (supervised, mind you).

Baby Einstein turned into Wiggles turned into Blink 182 (bypassing Mylie, Justin Beiber and the gang entirely, for which I will gladly buy you ice cream).

Legos sets turned into… more Lego sets… turned into “oh my god expensive!” Lego sets.

Crying turned into whining turned into employing the Socratic method to make dad’s argument implode before his very eyes (qualdruple negatives should be outlawed in parent-child discourse).

Diapers turned into “All done… wipe!” turned into “Can you get me a comic book, this is going to take a while.”

My baby turned into a toddler turned into the beginnings of a young man who will never cease to amaze me.

But you know what? You will also never cease to be this little guy in the video below. No amount of Axe body spray will ever mask that fresh baby smell when I kiss the top of your head, little Simba. Happy Birthday, son.

Sigh.

And again. Sigh.

I didn’t always think this way. My dad and his boyz never met a ping pong table they couldn’t run. And badminton? That was the stuff blood feuds were made of. I couldn’t dribble a basketball or throw a football (still can’t), but if you gave me a racket, you’d better be prepared to bend over. Because you’d be picking birdies off the grass all afternoon. And in my world, that was alpha male.

Unfortunately in the real world, that didn’t even prevent me from being picked dead last in gym class.

It took me until college to muster up the courage to redeem myself, but I did it. And chose the one thing I feared most but knew could validate me as a true man’s man: fighting. I’ve written about it already so I won’t go into details.

Then Fury was born.

As is natural for any parent, all I wanted was for Fury to have it better than I did. And since my childhood social anxiety centered around my incompetence in cool sports, Fury was ringside at kickboxing matches before he could walk. And when I changed his diaper, I would psych him up by chanting “Are YOU ready? Are YOU ready? Let’s get it on, c’mon!!” (UFC referee John McCarthy’s signature way to begin each round). If geektasticness was in his genes, I was sure as hell going to nurture the nature clean out of him.

For his own good, of course.

And while I was careful never to push him to participate in Muay Thai, wrestling, boxing or jiu jitsu, for fear of him feeling pressured and rejecting it, I made damn sure he was always exposed to it.

Major. FAIL.

It became too commonplace. Watching two guys kick and punch each other to a bloody pulp in a ring was “soooo boring, dad!” And when I say that those words broke my heart, I’m not kidding. But the kid knew that, and would watch the important matches with me to humor his old man. He’d offer intelligent commentary on ring strategy, great KOs and such, but I could always tell his heart wasn’t in it. So I stopped hoping.

But I never stopped trying. Last year, we enrolled Fury in lacrosse. While not a fight sport, it incorporates speed, contact, precision, conditioning and is generally an all-around bad ass athletic endeavor (i.e. all the cool kids in high school played it).

While Fury contends that he enjoys it, any parent can tell when their child doesn’t possess true fire for something. I won’t fool myself into thinking otherwise. While other kids fight for the ball like it’s the last cupcake at the birthday party, Fury will take a few whacks at it. If it passes by his nose. And occassionally, he’ll give half a chase. If he knows I’m watching. At least it makes for nice highlight pictures.

I also let him try Crossfit, something I do and love. I figured the “Crossfit Kids” class would make him bigger, faster and stronger.

It did. For a few minutes. Until he got winded from box jumps, at which point he deemed it “no fun, dad.”

I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that my kid simply doesn’t like to exert himself. That the heat of competition generates a mere lukewarm simmer in my boy’s veins. That Science Camp was his destiny.

Then I got a phone call the other day.

“Dad! Mom bought me a badminton set!”

“Badminton? How did you find out about badminton??”

“We play at school. And I can play me vs. five 8th graders and I beat all of them!!”

I don’t remember the exact conversation I had with d wife right afterwards, but it covered such topics and phrases as: “oh great” and “I’ve worked too hard for him to do this to me” and “damn these Asian genes!” and “you can’t fight the power of the dark side.”

But I love my son. And he was too jazzed about this for me to spoil it for him with my childish insecurities. So I took some deep breaths when I got home and commenced with the trash talk.

“Fear me. I can beat anyone at this game. I beat all my dad’s friends when I was in 4th grade. Prepare to go down in flames, boy.”

“You can’t beat me, dad.”

Cold as ice, he was.

I served. He returned. I missed. He snickered.

I served. He returned. I returned. He dove.

“Dad, I was born for this!!”

Oh, Irony. How you taunt me.

Then I noticed it. Barely visible at first, but noticeable if you walked up right to him felt his head in disbelief. He was sweating. And panting. And smiling.

I think Confucius said it well:

“Only when set free against the fiery sunset sky will a Phoenix mirror its striking brilliance. Locked in an octagon, he’ll only pretend to care about the UFC to make you feel better.”

But I think Fury nailed it:

“Hey, Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Are YOU ready? Are YOU ready? Let’s get it on, c’mon!!”

I ask for just one thing. A 2020 Olympics jacket, size M.