My father’s name was Au Shui. He was born in Kwong Ning, Guangdong, China. He was not educated. He could not read or write, except that he could write his own name.
He died in 1964 at the age of 48.
I was 18 at the time. My younger brother was 16, and my youngest brother was only 8.
Looking back now, I realize how young 48 really was.
At the time, I was too young to fully understand what his death meant. As the years passed, however, I began to understand my father in a different way. He was a quiet man. He seldom talked. There was very little communication between him and his children.
But he worked.
And he worked very hard.
My father during the war
During World War II, my father served as a soldier. His job was related to catering—looking after the food and meals for the soldiers.
I was too young then to understand what his wartime experience must have been like. My father never talked much about it.
That was typical of him.
He did not tell stories about himself. He simply carried on with life.
Today, I sometimes wonder what he experienced during those difficult years. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to ask him.
There are many questions about my father's life that will now remain unanswered.
The coolie with the bamboo pole
In the late 1940s and early 1950s, when we were living in Wanchai, I remember my father working as a coolie.
He carried a long bamboo pole, with two large boxes hanging from it. The boxes contained Black Cat cigarettes, and his job was to deliver them to different places.
I can still picture him carrying that heavy load.
There was nothing glamorous about the work. It was simply a way to earn a little money to support the family.
He never complained.
He was not a man who came home and talked about how difficult his day had been. He simply went to work and came home.
That was my father.
Life under Lion Rock
Later, our family moved from Wanchai to Kowloon Tsai and eventually to Chuk Yuen, in the resettlement area beneath Lion Rock.
Life there was not easy.
My father began making cotton thread used for gasoline lamps and, later, for gasoline cookers. The work was done at home. After making the products, he would take them outside and sell them to small shops and stores along the streets.
It was hard work, and the money he brought home was very little.
Eventually, my mother joined him.
She helped make the products at home. My younger brother and I also helped.
Later, my mother expanded her role further. She began going out with my father, visiting one small shop after another and trying to sell what they had made.
Together, they somehow made a living.
There was no comfortable office, no regular paycheck and no safety net.
There was simply a family trying to survive.
A quiet father and a talkative mother
My father rarely talked to us.
That was very different from my mother.
Mother talked to us. She told us fairy tales and stories. She sang some of the songs of her time. She was kind and understanding toward her children and also toward our neighbours.
When we were naughty, she would sometimes sit down and talk to us, using stories to teach us something.
But she could also be tough.
Sometimes discipline meant physical punishment.
As children, we did not always understand why our parents behaved the way they did. We simply accepted that this was how our family life was.
Only when we became adults did we begin to understand them better.
My father's pride in his son
Although my father seldom talked to us, there was one thing I remember very clearly.
When I was studying at La Salle College, he was very proud of me.
My father would meet people while he was out selling his products. He would tell them that his son was studying at La Salle College.
I can imagine the pride he must have felt saying those words.
For a man who had received almost no education himself, having a son studying at a well-known school must have meant a great deal.
This memory is particularly precious to me because it showed me something that my father rarely expressed directly.
He was proud of me.
He might not have said it to my face.
He might not have known how to say it.
But he told other people.
And somehow, those words stayed with me.
I understand my father now
For many years, I wondered why my father never talked much to us.
Why didn't he tell us stories like Mother did?
Why didn't he express his feelings?
Why didn't he tell us that he loved us?
As I grew older, I began to see things differently.
Perhaps my father belonged to a generation in which a man's responsibility was not to talk about love, but to work for his family.
His way of saying "I love you" was going to work.
His way of saying "I care about you" was bringing home whatever money he could earn.
His way of being a father was carrying those heavy boxes, making those products, walking from shop to shop and doing whatever work was available.
It was not the kind of communication children might hope for.
But perhaps it was the only language he knew.
The memory that came much later
One of the strongest memories of my father came after he was already gone.
When I started working and received my first salary, I remember thinking about him.
For the first time, I could bring money home myself.
I wished he had been there.
I wished I could put my first salary in his hands and say:
"Dad, I can help now."
But he was already gone.
He had died at only 48.
That was too young.
Much too young.
At 18, I did not have the maturity to understand the sadness of losing a father at that age. Today, looking back at it from the other end of my own life, I understand it much better.
A father I learned to understand
My father was not an educated man.
He could not read books. He could not write letters. He could not explain his feelings with words.
But he knew how to work.
He knew how to endure hardship.
He knew how to bring something home for his family.
And he never complained.
There were things missing in our relationship. There was little conversation between us, and I would have liked to know him better.
But as I grew older, I came to understand something important:
My father did love us. He simply expressed his love in a way that I could not understand when I was a child.
His love was quiet.
His love was tired.
His love carried a bamboo pole.
His love walked from store to store.
His love brought home a little money.
And sometimes, his love was expressed through a simple statement to a stranger:
"My son studies at La Salle College."
He was proud of me.
I miss him.
Especially today, when I think about all the years that have passed and all the things I have experienced since 1964.
I wish I could have had one more conversation with him.
Not a long conversation.
Perhaps just a few words.
Maybe I would simply tell him:
"Dad, I understand now."
No comments:
Post a Comment