and Words
Carry on my wayward son
There′ll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don’t you cry no more
Ah
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I′m dreaming,
I can hear them say
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
I remember the angst and the anger. As I grew up in Fort Lauderdale, I lacked direction. My dad passed away when I was nine years old, a year before I arrived in Florida. In many ways, that single event sent me into a free fall for the years that followed. Perhaps more accurately, it changed the trajectory of my life. Life before that was not without its complications, but it was considerably simpler.
Though my dad had little to no education, he accomplished a great deal during this modest lifetime. He became an accomplished chef through apprenticeships in Hong Kong. He was skilled enough that they sponsored him twice… First, he moved from Hong Kong to Spain; next, he moved from Spain to Puerto Rico. He learned English and then Spanish on his own, without formal education. He eventually opened his own restaurant in Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico.
My dad adeptly solved problems. He had the heart of an engineer. I never feared anything while he was alive. He exuded a pervasive, quiet wisdom, and it was contagious. In many ways, he was my hero. On the day he died, a family friend pulled me aside to talk to me. He told me, “You’re now the man of the house; take care of your mom and sisters.” Again, I was nine years old.
Years later, I navigated life on my own. No, my family didn’t abandon me; I still lived with my mom and sisters once we moved to Florida. My mom navigated many struggles. She rented my dad’s restaurant in Puerto Rico for a while, though naturally, that wasn’t as profitable as when my dad ran it. Once we moved to Fort Lauderdale, she struggled with both language and culture, but now she did it all on her own, without my father’s help. If my mom were air traffic control, she would be landing fifteen planes at once.
As a dutiful son, I burdened my mom as little as possible. I focused on avoiding complicating her life as much as I could. Though I didn’t know about it at the time, a good rule of thumb was Maslow’s Hierarchy. I would speak up about any needs at the first level, “physiological needs”. I may occasionally mention something that fell into “safety needs”. Anything beyond that was strictly my burden to bear.
Though I won’t say that I feared for my life, the threat of physical injury persisted. In fact, I broke my collarbone during an exchange with other boys on school grounds and wore a brace for weeks. The humiliating attacks on my self-esteem were constant. They bore a perpetual weight on my soul, and much like a familiar backpack’s weight on my shoulder, I could almost forget that it was still there.
While my sisters endured many of the same problems, gaps still existed. The racist bullying among boys was far more physical and confrontational than it was among girls. However, they had each other for support; I had no one. I didn’t persistently talk to male family friends, nor did I ever open up about the racism or the bullying. If anything, they showed signs of wanting to avoid the burden or responsibility of looking after damaged goods like me. Stoicism is a virtue among both men and Chinese people; keeping quiet was a sign of strength.
I felt like I was on a rowboat in the middle of the ocean without an oar. I could see no signs of safe harbor in any direction, not that I could navigate there anyway. The figurative weather was the literal bullies who controlled my fate. My good or bad fortune was subject to their whims.
As I listened to rock music over the radio, I discovered ‘Carry on Wayward Son’. Initially, the song resonated in my ears with the guitars and the drums, but the forceful vocals won me over. I imagine that I first heard it in the late 70s, which meant that I had very little understanding of the words. Yet for years, that’s precisely what carried my fondness for this tune. It wouldn’t be until years later that I added it to my collection as a compilation CD.
I subtly began to see the parallels. I was that wayward son that wandered out with no direction. My instruction manual ended at year number nine. After that, it was the listless searching with no real direction. However, I lived my life eliminating the wrong answers during a multiple-choice exam. Eventually, I realized I lived the life of Thomas Edison, systematically eliminating the 10,000 options that didn’t work. Eventually, the right answers popped off the page.
Life has taken me on an amazing journey. As the years passed, I somehow learned to steer that rowboat without oars. A boy driven by angst and anger learned to channel that energy. And thus I emerged, broken and damaged but somehow better; much like the Japanese repair dishware with gold. As the song suggests, I must carry on. The peace of which he speaks came slowly at first, almost accidentally. My head, indeed weary, but now clear. Those tears filled with anger and frustration have now dissipated.
For a long time, I wondered what my dad would’ve thought of me. He had a subtle wit and a gentle soul. Was he proud of the person I’ve become? Did I do right by him? In a quiet moment of reflection, I crack a smile. This was my life to live; that was the point. I led my life with little affirmation of how I led it; I needed to develop my own value system and moral compass.
Pragmatically, his opinion would weigh no more than any other loved one. I don’t agree on certain issues with my wife, mom, sisters, or friends. However, I wonder if I’d give my dad a bit more leeway than everyone else, because he’s my father. Though, for better or worse, I’ll never know in my lifetime.