=== Song for My Father ===
It is unlike any other book I own. On the cover is a color photograph of my father. In the photograph, taken sometime in the 1960s, my father’s head is turned to his left, his mouth slightly open in a relaxed smile. Even behind heavy-framed glasses, his eyes appear to be seeing something clearly. It seems he might be saying something soon, something thoughtful, or maybe playful. His skin, still smooth and full, tells me he was a young man not that many years before the picture was taken. But his visage—knowing, kind, self-aware—tells me he has already become the man I knew as Baba. That picture is why I keep the paperback at my bedside. It keeps my father close, sets his gaze upon me as I sleep. The book was compiled by several of my father’s childhood friends after he died in 1991. This wasn’t, as far as I know, some sort of Chinese tradition, publishing a memorial book for a departed chum. It was just an act of loyalty; of love, if I may say that. In part, the book is a record of grief, containing the obituary from the Poughkeepsie Journal, my eulogy, an elegiac essay by my mother. But for most of its 198 pages, it is actually a prose reunion, a memoir of the idyllic adolescence of a band of boys in post–World War II Taiwan. There are pieces in the book, written by my father and his brothers and his classmates, about high school life, about a favorite teacher, about camping and fishing trips, about picaresque adventures where nary an adult appears. There are photographs too; in many of them, Dad and his friends are wearing their school uniforms, baggy and vaguely military. One snapshot I remember vividly. Eight or nine of them are walking up a dirt road, jesting and smiling. And there’s my father at the end of this happy phalanx—khaki hat a bit too big, arm pumping jauntily and foot raised in mid-march, singing a song. The face is my father’s, but the stance, so utterly carefree, is hardly recognizable. I stared at that picture for a long time when I first got the book. So it is, I sometimes think, with my father’s life. On the one hand, it’s easy to locate my father and my family in the grand narrative of “the Chinese American experience.” On the other hand, it doesn’t take long for this narrative to seem more like a riddle than a fable. Leafing through the pages of the memorial book, staring dumbly at their blur of ideographs, I realize just how little I know about those years of Baba’s life before he arrived in America, and before I arrived in the world. I sense how difficult it is to be literate in another man’s life, how opaque an inheritance one’s identity truly is. I begin to perceive my own ignorance of self. It’s through these photographs that I’ll read the book every so often, searching the scenes for new revelations. That’s partly because the photographs are so.
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